No Joy in Dadsville

Every December my son and I sojourn to the hills of Southwestern Virginia in search of baseball magic. Amidst the cattle pastures and hidden stills, sits a baseball/softball warehouse filled with treasures beyond the dreams of a 14 year old baseball fanatic. Attached to this wondrous palace of pitching machines is a retail showroom, stacked with everything baseball. This is my son's favorite spot on the map.

Will is barely able to contain his excitement as we ramble along the highway, giddy with the thought that somewhere in that warehouse lies the excalibur of Easton's, the "Holy Flail" of bats.

The moment we enter the store, employees scatter towards their desks, like some warehouse musical chairs game, hoping that they will not have to be the sorry salesperson who has to wait on us. It is immediately obvious to me that the employees of this establishment recognize my son Will on sight. Will is a high maintenance customer in much the same way, I imagine, as Zsa Zsa Gabor would be when she goes frock shopping in Beverly Hills. These poor people know that they will be wearing out the carpet from the showroom to their warehouse, dragging out every bat, bag and spiked shoe in their massive inventory.

Will decides to start with three bats from three different manufacturers. Like a connoisseur of fine wines he samples each bat, swinging from both side of the dish (his jacket on the floor of the showroom representing home plate). He then holds a bat in each hand weighing them against each other. He repeats the weighing process with all three bats, two at a time.

Will remarks "Dad, those were nice but I need to see some more models before I make my final decision". The salesperson and I exchange sympathetic eye rolls and press on.

In total, fourteen bats were weighed, swung and tested. Our exhausted salesperson remains smiling and helpful throughout. Finally, we were down to the final cut and some of the telemarketing people have emerged from their desk areas to witness this historic sales moment. A crowd of a dozen or more people gather as Will takes his final test cuts. White smoke billows from the ventilation ducts high atop the warehouse. The moment of truth has arrived!

A audible gasp can be heard from the crowd as an Easton Stealth thirty three inch and thirty ounce beauty is trust to the sky in triumph!

'This bat shall be mine" cried Will, and the people smiled with approval.

The salesperson fell to the ground, thankful that the worst was over, only to feel something poking in the small of her back.

'Hey, lady, get up" said Will "I need to look at some catcher's bags too".

Hours later we exited the store with several hundred dollars in merchandise. The showroom closed early that day so that the "I waited on Will" support group could meet and welcome its newest member.

It was not only an exhausting day for me, but an expensive one as well.

Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. A band is playing somewhere and someone's wallet is light. And somewhere my son is laughing and I can hear my junior shout, "There is no joy in Dadsville, that's what Christmas is all about".