Eventually my dad got home from work and set his briefcase down.'So. How was practice?' he asked'It was good. Why? Did you hear it wasn't?' I said, trying to keep my cool.'Son, no offense, but you play Little League. It's not the Yankees. I don't get daily reports about who's hitting the shit out of the ball
My instructor was a skinny guy in his midtwenties who had a shaved head that was always peeling from sunburns and who could only have smelled more like marijuana if he'd been made of it. The training vehicle was a mid- '80s tan Nissan that had working breaks on the passenger side; He often got his jollies slamming them on for no reason and then between wheezing laughs saying 'You were all like 'I'm in control of the car' and then I hit the brakes and shit and you were all like 'whaaaat?