Posted by Big Daddy Paul in Malcolm Stories

For those of you from Amy’s past hoping this post would be chock full of stories about Amy in high school, this post will disappoint you. Yes, her nickname was, “Psycho,” back then but she told me in no uncertain language that I shouldn’t mention anything about that here because of the damage it would do to her reputation. Honey, your secret is safe with me!

This post is about our adorable little psychopath, Malcolm. Why do I think he’s a psychopath? Glad you asked. The boy is psycho about baseball. Not psycho in the fact the he likes watching baseball, likes playing baseball when outside, likes playing pretend baseball while inside, like calculating intricate statistics about how players are doing (“Daddy, what battering average is 14 for 23?”) or even can impersonate most of the Giants’ various batting/pitching motions.

What makes him a psycho is that he does all these things every day during his free time, and nothing else. I swear, he really does nothing else! We can cajole him into eating, occasionally taking a bath or eventually going to sleep each night, but if left to his own devices, he would not stop participating in baseball-related activities. Ever. He is the rain man of the diamond.

While all the other kids were playing grabass and begging for cotton candy, Malcom was scoring the game. He recorded every at bat for the game!

At first I thought it was cute that he liked baseball. Actually, I didn’t think he liked baseball as much as he just wanted to please me by showing me that he liked my favorite pastime, a weird daddy-child version of the Stockholm Syndrome. Even so, it was cute to hear him say things like “Pablo Sandoballs” and “Dude, the Giants are killing me.”

Now, baseball is everywhere and everything to him. He mutters in the back seat, “And after a big inning, the Giants take a 13-12 lead.” Yesterday, after 7 hours of baseball summer camp, Malcolm came home and asked if we could go to the park to play baseball. We did. When we finally came home, he waited for dinner by, you guessed it, playing pretend baseball. One night, after kissing him good night, I swear I thought I heard him say, “Three run homer. Definitely a three run homer.”

As obsessions go, of course, baseball has to be pretty sweet. I would be pretty bummed if Malcolm spent all of his attentions focused on ice skating or the Obama administration. As a matter of fact, if he were into the smurfs, I mean,  really into the smurfs such that he used the word, “Smurf” as a noun, verb, AND adjective, I would probably just drop him off at the IVF clinic we used with a note attached that read: “YOU made this mess. Clean it up.”

And yet, I complain. I use the baseball part of my brain with Malcolm right now, but everything else lays fallow. Although there are conflicting reports as to just what the rest of my brain has to offer, I would like to find out. With the exception of a permanent nacho fountain and boobs, too much of a good thing becomes un-good. When Malcolm is president of the chess club or won’t put down the X-Box, I will look back on these with nostalgia. Until then, you may actually here me say, “Aww, Malcolm, do we have to play baseball again?”


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