When I was about six or seven, my daddy signed me up for T-ball and I was hopeless. They put me way out in the outfield. It was so hot and boring out there. To pass the time, I would practice cheerleader jumps the neighbor girl across the street had taught me. My poor dad would holler, “Don’t do that! Don’t do those jumps!” So, I just lay down and put the mitt over my face. I lay real still and pretended I was dead like a possum. I think my dad realized I was miserable, and he certainly did not want that. So I was relieved of my duties. No more T-ball, thank goodness.
