I'm not saying we're the Sedentaries, but it was definitely weird to see all three of in exercise gear at 8 am on a Saturday morning - Jenny going for a run, and Quinn and I heading off to baseball practice.
(I was slightly surprised to find that there isn't a band called the Sedentaries - I'm thinking some kind of slacker band along the lines of Cake or Soul Coughing. There does seem to be a lonely Facebook page, though.)
Of the three of us, I'll definitely be getting the least exercise, standing around while Quinn practices his batting and fielding. I'm no athlete: I haven't regularly exercised since high school, and the only sweatpants I had served as pajamas. Now, at least, I think I at least blend in with the other dads at the ballpark, or at least they're polite enough not to snicker.
Watching Quinn catch and throw, you may think that he's got a chance to overcome both heredity and environment. But when he bats, he can't seem to keep his feet planted: when the ball comes, he pivots and steps forward, as if swinging a sword at the knees of an invisible assailant. Sometimes he connects, and sometimes, like this morning, the ball rolls up the bat and into his face.
Frank, the coach, got to him first. "You OK?"
"Yeah," Quinn sniffed, between tears.
"You ever been hit in the face before?"
"Yeah, the other day my dad threw a ball at my face."
I look up into the faces of the other dads, most of whom look back with understanding nods. But there's one dad who regards me through narrowed eyes. I suspect he's going to tell his kid to stay away from the grownup with the new sweatpants.
(After a minute, Quinn regained his composure and was back in the game, and even wanted to stay after practice to work on his swing. The ball didn't even leave a bruise.)
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