Quite the catch!

Have you ever known someone who has zero hand-eye coordination, can't aim to save there life and ducks when someone tosses them a ball? That would be me. On the other hand, have you ever known someone who was raised playing catch, is somehow good at anything and everything involving a ball and can juggle in their sleep? That would be my husband.

 I grew up with almost no exposure to sports of any kind. Not even PE dodge ball. During mutual nights the young men thought it was funny to throw a basket ball at one of the Whitaker girls and watch her cover her head and scream. Yes, I'm afraid it was that bad.

It's been said opposites attract, but I highly doubt my pathetic attempt at baseball that one night for a single adult activity is what attracted Blair to me. In fact, I'm sure if there were ever any doubts in his mind about our compatibility, my sporting retardation would have been the cause. I knew enough to know that I should be embarrassed by my inabilities, but the more I learned of his family and the intensely athletic and competitive people he was raised with, the more humiliating my condition became. I remember his six-year-old brother begging to play ping pong with me, only to realize I wasn't even good enough for him to have fun. He'd say, "No, you're supposed to hit the ball with the paddle!" As far as sports are concerned, Blair's and my upbringings could not have been more contrasting.

Well, last summer I decided to face my fears and have Blair cure me of my illness. We bought me a baseball mitt, headed to the park and got to work. The lesson began with the first analysis. In other words, have me throw something so he could laugh and know just how bad the situation really is. The conclusion of his first analysis: I throw like a girl. No surprise there.

I knew I married a patient man, but it wasn't until the evening of throwing the baseball over and over as I fumbled and gesticulated uselessly that I realized the extent of his endurance. He would gently toss the ball in perfect range for me to catch, and I would miss it... incredibly. I would pick it up and awkwardly chuck it towards Blair... at least I always intended for it to go towards Blair. I felt better about my girly tosses since Blair was usually able to somehow catch them... incredibly. He acted as if I was totally capable and never laughed at me, just gave me subtle suggestions and tips. Slowly my confidence started to build.

You couldn't quite call it a game of catch in the beginning, but by the end of our first lesson, we were able to throw and catch the ball back and forth rather successfully, I thought. I was actually having fun! So much so, that all throughout  the winter I thought of the night we played catch and I suggested we do it again this summer.

That's just what we did last Saturday while Paul slept at grandma and grandpa's house. I was extremely rusty, but again, by the end of our time at the park, I was able to play catch again. If I keep this up, I'll soon be ready to raise a little boy. And it's about time too! ;)