It was 93 degrees here in San Diego today. After getting up at 4:00 AM to go into the office and continue work on the largest proposal effort I'll touch in 2009, I came home to spend time with my son, Jalen.
He and I watched the A's/Rays game, a little bit of the Padres/Giants tilt (San Diego got a hit, Vig! I think they won the game!) and then, after a father and son road trip to 7-11 for a nutritious Wild Cherry Slurpee and a Nestle's chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich, we went outside and actually played some baseball.
Jalen likes to pretend he's the Oakland A's. He'll hit right-handed like Matt Holliday or left-handed like Jack Cust and he even strikes out like everyone else in our goddam lineup. Meanwhile, I have to be whatever team pops into his head. Today, for example, he insisted I play the role of the National League All-Star team. I am not making this up.
The point, again, is that is was 93 DEGREES outside. We were out there for 90 minutes as I tried to remember my imaginary National League All-Star team batting order by the third or fourth "inning". But, whatever…I indulge his fantasy because it's baseball and we've been doing this every Sunday for several months. Even though, he NEVER lets ME be the A's.
I was feeling pretty proud of myself – mostly for the 10 pounds I sweated away this afternoon – but, partially in appreciation of being a parent. I looked forward to settling in for the evening, when I walked in on Jalen watching the below commercial:
When it ended, Jalen turned towards me, cackled manically and punched me in the stomach as hard as he could while
Homer Simpson (calling into the nuclear plant): "You heard me, I won't be in for the rest of the week. I told you! My baby beat me up! No, it is NOT the worst excuse I ever thought up."