We went to the batting cages. There was a crowd of men there, maybe four or five, with two or three women. 
The guys were wearing ball pants, t-shirts, and two batting gloves each. The women cheered them on as they swatted the balls, or swatted at the balls. They hit maybe half of the pitches, in the slowest cage. I’m sure if they spent less time primping and putting on all their gear, they would have more time to practice.
When they finally finished, my youngest daughter, wearing flip flops, a beach skirt and a bright purple leotard from gymnastics class, took her turn, and like always, hit about half of the pitches.
I’m not ripping these men because they weren’t having fun. I’m not criticizing them because they couldn’t out-hit a little girl 25 years younger than them. I’m just telling them not to take themselves so seriously. It’s batting cages, for Pete’s sake, not the National League play-offs. Lose the batting gloves, lose the ball pants. Quit hiding behind the paraphernalia and just be yourself for a few minutes. There are kids watching you.
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