As a Tiger fan, I despise Coco Crisp.
And their fans too.
Most have a favorite sport. Mine is baseball. My daughter’s is fast pitch softball. I talk about the two as though they are the same.
No other sport is so North American – even though it’s played seriously and elegantly as far away as Japan.
The smell of the red-clay dirt of the infield as the leather bound and red thread stitched ball bounces through the freshly cut grass of the infield – into the thick padded leather glove – and the throwing hand reaches inside that glove to grasp the ball and hurl it across the infield to first base – mastering the balancing challenges of a bent over runner reaching, clasping, grasping, and then planting and throwing.
And the outstretched gloved hand of the first baseman straining to meet the ball in flight before the runner who hit the ball travels at their fastest sprint up the first baseline to stomp on first base.
Safe? Or Out?
The question answered throughout the course of the game.
Where is the next play to be?
“So Ash, they got a man on second – Coco Crisp - and one out – what does Miguel Cabrera do if they hit the ball to him at third”
Ashley looked at the field as though it were a math problem and solved almost like pretending to write with chalk on a chalkboard.
“You check the runner at second to hold him then you throw it with all you got to first, and you can’t throw a big loopy throw, you gotta throw it hard so it gets there fast Daddy”, replied Ashley-Rae.
I love that hat.
And she was wearing her Justin Verlander fan t-shirt over a sweatshirt.
My girls understand baseball.