My knees are slightly bent and my feet are comfortably placed a bit wider than the width of my shoulders. I slowly rock my weight between my center of gravity and my right leg. I point the barrel of the invisible bat toward the make-believe pitcher before bringing my left hand around to greet my right. I squint my eyes in concentration and make small circles in the air with my imaginary, maple Louisville Slugger. The non-existent ball kisses the sweet spot of my bat before flying out of sight."Your feet are too far apart and you're pointing your front toes too much."
This really happened. Sometimes at work, I get (Who am I kidding? I'm always) bored. I fight this boredom with song, dance, and obnoxious behavior but occasionally I will enter the throes of my imagination with a game-winning, imaginary walk-off home run.
I don't pantomime the act of swinging a baseball bat for professional critique on my swing. I don't go around asking people to give me advice on my follow through, but today I was treated to a good old-fashioned bullshit coaching session.
Please excuse my language, but this nonsensical belief that someone knows what the hell he is talking about when he clearly doesn't really pisses me off. "Yeah, but how do you know he doesn't know what he's talking about? He was probably just trying to help." How do I know he's full of it? Because A, he's five foot nothing and not David Eckstein; B, because he admitted to not being able to catch a fly ball because of his "faulty depth perception;" and C, because he was coaching my swing with an IMAGINARY bat!
Do me a favor, Coach: shut the hell up. I just won the game with my hitting skills so my stance doesn't need any tinkering. Thank you.
No comments:
Post a Comment