I was peacefully watching my son Jacob’s Little League baseball game.  As he warmed up to pitch, I sat behind the dugout absorbing the warm summer sun.  The sky was blue, baseball was being played, my son was also warming up behind the dugout, not more than 60 feet away, what was there not to enjoy?

Life was nearly perfect.  I was a man at peace.

Skid!  Something rapidly bounded across the grass.  It was coming toward me!  No time to react!  Whack!  Impact on my ankle.  Direct hit!

Then a sudden realization that I had been struck by a wayward warm-up pitch…  from my own son.  Some would say it got away from the catcher.  I say it was my 12-year-old son’s first attempt and hopefully a subconscious one at taking his claim to being man of the house.

Well, I certainly did not expect such an early attempt on the Paulsen family crown and I certainly did not expect that baseball.  Patriarch, it’s not all fun and games.

My assailant and me.  Hold up, son.  I’ve still got a few good years left in me.