According to www.baseball-reference.com, 224 players with at least 3,000 plate appearances have amassed at least a .300 career batting average. The impressive list includes current Phillie Plácido Polanco and legends Richie Ashburn, Chuck Klein, John Kruk and Pete Rose. Growing up, I heard earning three hits for every ten at-bats was a man’s ticket to immortality, meaning failure was acceptable 70 percent of the time.
Try that rate as a parent! I am only nine days into my newest role, and Lord knows being successful only 30 percent of the time can guarantee only raised voices, piercing cries, wasted formula and head scratches. My son is a bundle of joy and bowel movements who makes me conscious of every atom of my existence.
I know hitters would love to scratch out more hits, but if they were to, games would last far longer than they already do, and nobody would appreciate that except for vendors. In my parenting, I would like to achieve as much success as those hitters covet when they tap their bats to home plate. As a batter, I have always been susceptible to changeups and know life will give me the parenthood equivalent quite often.
Fussiness, limited funds and sleep deprivation will certainly strike me out a few times, but if I can stare them down and let them know I will not fade like so many rookies, my son and I will have woes making calls to the bullpen.
Nicholas is due for a feeding soon. I want the cloth under his chin to be like the hopes of Chicago Cubs’ fans, useless. No swigs and misses from him will keep me in line to bat .1000, if only for one day or at least one hour.