I've been sitting here pondering this whole thing about Internet hits and statistics and stuff. I probably wouldn't have even thought about it, but Weetabix linked to me in her diary yesterday, very nicely I might add, for an Oscar spoofing Best Design award. As though I had anything to do with it. Webchick, are you out there?
Hits are like the fractal munitions of web use. Coming from a single shot .22 rifle, they kinda ping by you and you barely notice them. But when Weetabix loads her 12 gauge semi-automatic, all hell breaks loose. The browser audibly groaned under the onslaught. It wheezed and clanked and finally spat forth a slew of visitors to this tiny and remote village, where cheap hostelries and thatched roofs abound. If you want a view of the big city, the real pulsating urban life, go visit Weetabix, and tell her I sent you.
Or is it redundant to send you back from whence you came?
Heh. Thanks Weet. Stop by any time.
It was about the only hits I witnessed all day, as it turns out. Eldest daughter Beth started her high school softball season yesterday. Not to be confused with her year round traveling team, which spends copious amounts of bingo generated dollars jetting to California and Colorado to bushwhack unsuspecting and semi-professional club teams.
No, this school team is all about honor and local news write-ups. Unfortunately, there was no news fit to print yesterday. She went 0 for 3 at the plate, which is unusual.
They played one of the top teams in the state, which so happens to be right down the street here in suburbia. And got beat. Not hugely, I mean it was only 1-0, but a defeat at this level hurts, and as a team captain she took it rather personally. And today she gets to play the best team in the state. Hands down, the best.
It's one of those deals where I'm prepared to be hopeful but realistic enough to pack an extra stick or two of her favorite gum for afterwards. My big first baseman might just need a piece of gum and a hug from the old man. I'm doing this sort of thing to remind her that I care, that I will come to all her games, that I suffer the highs and lows with her (gesticulating, albeit silently, on the sidelines). Listen to her anguish about her Ogre Coach, a legend in his own mind, who should have retired five years ago.
It was a lot more fun when she was 12. When I coached her. I'd stand in the third base coaching box, flash the hit signal, watch her pound hell out of the ball and then basically just get out of her way as she punted infielders aside on her way to another run scored. How tough was that? The hardest thing was perfecting our double slap routine as she came past me.
Now I get to watch in a hapless way as she is flashed bunt signals at all the wrong times, handcuffed by high inside pitches when told to swing away. Not unlike throwing the harness on a thoroughbred and directing her to plow. Frustrating.
She sorely needs the hits. Maybe I could send Weetabix around.
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