On this first weekend of the Major League Baseball season, I think back to when I was a kid. I spent several summers at a summer camp for kids with various types of (dis)abilities. Of course, there was baseball. I was a living argument for the designated hitter. I was, honestly, a great hitter: great hand-eye coordination, and a powerful swing. I batted third and almost always made a hit, usually a home run; even though I couldn't walk very well, I "hit'em where they ain't." When I didn't hit a homer, I even stole a few bases standing up, because no one paid any attention to me on the basepath because I was no running threat. Eventually I became a problem because I kept hitting the ball into the creek beyond the outfield.
But, due to my physical disability, I couldn't really play defense. With an extremely weird setup, I could (and did) catch, which is cool, because I always have had kind of the march-to-my-own-drummer mindset of a catcher.
Except for one game, when the coach of my team decided to put me at third base. The VERY FIRST batter BUNTED the ball down the third-base line straight at me. I fell flat on my face fielding the ball, then threw it wildly way over the first baseman's head and down the right field line. As of the next batter, I was back behind the plate.
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