When Dad was up, I stood eagerly behind the backstop. We all knew that he could kick it out of the park. The outfielders pushed back. And when the pitcher rolled the red rubber ball, there was a hush.
But Dad missed the ball entirely, a dreaded strike, and instead kicked the packed-down dirt. His mighty body then gave way and crumbled. The other Brownie Dads rushed over. Smiling stoically as he limped off the kickball field, he dismissed his injury as just a rolled ankle.
I felt little compassion for the old weekend warrior. Thoroughly disgraced, we boarded the station wagon and left early. My whole day was ruined!
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