I Thought I'd Been Hit By a Budweiser Truck; Pain Flooded My Body Like a Killer Tsunami
Posted: Tuesday, December 06, 2005
by Marty RicKard
She’ll look at you with those powder-blues and smile through two thousand dollars worth of braces and whisper in your ear, but don't do it. Don't ever buy your daughter a ball glove. I made the mistake when my daughter was 11, and I want to save you from a similar fate.
The gloves yawn from the store shelves innocently, but don’t be fooled, the pain they can cause is infinitesimal.
I put some money down, worked out a monthly payment, which included taxes and insurance, and we exited. "Play ball." She shouted in the parking lot, then turned to me. “Thanks, dad. I know it cost a lot, but it'll last forever."
“Unless it’s lost, stolen or run over by a lawn mower," I mumbled.
"I'd never let anything happen to my glove," she smiled and thumped it and thumped it and thumped—.
I nodded and tried to calculate whether the monthly glove payment would fit in with all the others.
“Daddy."
"Yes, dear."
"You always tell me how great you were in sports back in the old days when you weren't so fat and all?"
Funny how you tell a kid one thing and they hear another. What I had said was: When I was in school I was a pretty good athlete. I don't know where she got the fat part.
"Well, would you play catch with me when we get home and show me some tricks?" she purred in that giddy voice kids employ when you've blown way too much money on them.
"Sure, honey. In fact, why don't we put some burgers on the grill and play catch. We’ll have a picnic."
"That’s great," she giggled.
We got home and put on the burgers.
She spit into her glove, thumped it, and then ran down the street.
She wanted to play catch at this distance? There is no way I could throw the ball that far. Maybe I could send it on the UPS truck. I cupped my hands to form a megaphone.
“Aren’t you too far away?"
“I’m an outfielder, I need to practice the long throw."
I drew back and hurled with all my might. The ball went maybe fifty feet. The pain went down to my toe nails. I thought I had been hit by a Budweiser truck.
She ran to the ball and fired it back at "Mach One".
I caught it on the end of my thumb. I looked down. My thumb had moved in with my elbow.
“There’s the phone," I lied.
“I didn't hear anything," she replied.
“Well, I’ve got to go to the bathroom anyway. I'll check the phone on the way by."
“Hurry back," she shouted.
I popped my thumb back into its home and ran cold water over it. I swallowed some aspirin and cursed Abner Doubleday’s parents.
She yelled.
Rather than admit I had been humiliated by an eleven-year-old, female Roger Clemons, I put on a happy face and stepped back out.
“Come here," I said.
She ran to my side.
“If you’re going to be an outfielder you need to learn how to catch the fly ball. So I'll just throw the ball up under-handed and you catch it. OK?" (I left out the part about how my shoulder hurt so bad that I would never throw over-hand again.)
"Great," she said.
I eased the ball into the air. She caught it and lofted it to me.
I went back. She screamed. It was too late. I crashed into the grill. The burgers, charcoal and utensils flew.
Boy those charcoals are hot when you sit on them. I jumped up and wiped the tears on my sleeve.
"Gee, dad, you’ve ruined our burgers," the outfielder said.
The meat sizzled on the grass in a steaming pile of charcoal and grit.
She tried to pick up the burgers with her glove, but only served to burn a hole in the leather.
Her glove was no longer perfect, and her affection for it drained slowly from her soul at that very moment. I saw it in her eyes.
"Let's go inside and discuss this," I whimpered.
My daughter was sympathetic. She hates to see her father cry. We split a can of tomato soup and drank some Kool Aid. Later I put heat on my shoulder, ice on my thumb, and salve on my burns.
It rained all night. I limped out of bed the next morning and looked in the back yard. The legs of the grill were pretzels. Then I saw it, a black, shapeless hunk of leather. No longer was it a glove. A dog had chewed off the fingers. The rain had done the rest.
I called the store and inquired about the insurance. They told me the glove wasn't covered. It was life insurance—in case I passed on to the great ball park in the sky before I paid off the glove mortgage.
My throbbing right shoulder was useless, my thumb looked like a water balloon and I knew I wouldn’t assume the seated position anytime soon. I ached to call in sick, but--well, I had commitments.
Copyright 2006
By Marty RicKard
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard holds a BS degree in journalism from the
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Top-level comments on this article: (5 total)Great! I could tell one about my girl's pony.
I can see a dog munching on a glove smeared in hamburger juice. Do you have any books . who do your write for. Of is a hobby?
I love this story. So true.
this is so good. we all have one of these
I don't have a daughter, but thanks. It was good.
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