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Fido & Me - Play Ball

April 8, 2013

 

“I’m not sure I was cut out to be a center fielder,” Fido panted.

“But you’re a dog!” I said. “It seems like you’d be a natural.”

“Not really. My legs don’t work that way. I’m mostly a chow-chow. Ever hear of a Hall-of-Fame chow in center field?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“It’s because we have a stilted running motion,” Fido said, “and it doesn’t lend itself to center field. What you want is a big, fast, ball-catcher, like Bear.”

“Yeah, Bear is a chocolate Labrador. He can get to almost anything. But that doesn’t mean you want to drop baseball, do you?”

“Not on your life! But I need a position, and DH doesn’t count.”

“That’s been a raging debate for 40 years.”

“I was thinking about first base,” Fido said. “But there’s just something wrong with playing first base.”

“I can’t imagine that. What’s wrong with first base?”

“Remember Sally the Golden? Lived down the street?”

“Yes I do! I’m not sure what ever happened to her. Maybe she was a second doghouse owner or something, because I haven’t seen her around here lately.”

“It doesn’t matter, because I only made it to first base with her, and that hurt. I thought we had something going.”

“Fido, I think you’re mixing your metaphors again. Getting to first base doesn’t have anything to do with baseball.”

“Whatever. I struck out, that’s all I know, and I struck out trying to get past first base with Sally.”

“Let’s move on, Fido. You’re stepping on your tongue.”

“How about I play second base?”

“To tell you the truth, Fido, I don’t think so. Second basemen cannot be trusted.”

“All right, then, I’ll catch.”

“That’ll be the day, Big Boy. You have trouble catching popcorn from two feet away, much less trying to wrangle a slider or curveball. I think you’d be a disaster behind the plate.”

“But I am most comfortable when I’m behind the plate,” Fido said. “You can find me behind the plate, every day at 5 o’clock.”

“Wrong kind of plate, Mr. Beeg. I’m not sure we’re getting anywhere with this. Sadly, I think we may be running out of positions for you, Fido. But don’t be glum. Baseball is really a hard game.”

“Maybe I could pitch?”

“I’ve never ever seen a hard-throwing dog. Usually it’s the other way around. Honestly, I’m not trying to discourage you, but why don’t you lie down for a bit, close your eyes, take a couple of deep breaths and V-I-S-U-A-L-I-Z-E. Maybe that would work.”

“I’ve GOT IT!” Fido cried. “You were right. All I had to do was lie on the floor, close my eyes and visualize where I’d be most comfortable. Before I knew it, I was looking up into a high sky and yelling, ‘Yo lo tengo!’”

“Atta boy. And what did you see?”

“Left field!” Fido yelped. “I’d be a perfect left fielder! People tell me that all the time!”

“They tell you that you’re coming out of left field?”

“Exactly.”

“Well then, let’s play ball.”

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