There is something so un-American about not being able to throw a baseball.

That being said (written), I must exile myself. Papua New Guinea, here I come.

See, as a youth, I loved to throw the old hardball around. As I got older and didn’t grow, all the other kids got bigger and threw harder and, frankly, I hated having those missiles thrown at me.

I took up softball — and that’s relatively non-competitive softball at that — in my late teens and hardly ever threw a baseball again.

This Fourth of July, my brother-in-law and his son were tossing a few in the backyard and I tried my hand at throwing a baseball again. It was an unmitigated disaster. Fortunately I didn’t hit anyone or lose a ball, but it wasn’t much better.

My nephew Taylor is a righteously good southpaw with a solid repertoire of pitches. It was fun to toss a bit with him and his dad Jim.

My dad even broke out his radar gun. I topped out at 37 miles per hour or something, about 5 miles per hour faster than my pregnant sister. Ahem.

Anywho, here are a couple of pics my father took, pre-fireworks. Hope you all had a great holiday.


Chloe, my niece, shows off an impressive array of pitches.


My sister bringing the heat.


Brother-in-law Jim catches Taylor's fastball with my wife Patsene checking his speed on the radar gun.


Look out! I'm ready to hurl a fastball. Yeah, that's a Texas Rangers cap. Ichiro, please forgive me.