Source http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/tinybuddha/~3/NnDDt-BkvdM/
One of my dad’s favorite stories to tell about me when I was a kid is when I played catcher in Little League. I was probably around seven years old, but I had (and still do have) an intensity that wasn’t matched.
I would squat behind home plate, the catcher’s gear a little too big for me, and punch my fist into my catcher’s mitt, just like my favorite player Mike Piazza. And like Bruce Lee, I’d point my index finger at the pitcher and signal him to “bring it.”
One time, a foul ball was hit into the air. I took off sprinting with all the desire my little seven-year-old heart could muster. That ball, that out, was mine.
The ball hit the protective netting at the top of the fence, and I laid my body out and caught it. Because it hit the net, it was a foul ball. That didn’t stop the p…
Source http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/tinybuddha/~3/NnDDt-BkvdM/
One of my dad’s favorite stories to tell about me when I was a kid is when I played catcher in Little League. I was probably around seven years old, but I had (and still do have) an intensity that wasn’t matched.
I would squat behind home plate, the catcher’s gear a little too big for me, and punch my fist into my catcher’s mitt, just like my favorite player Mike Piazza. And like Bruce Lee, I’d point my index finger at the pitcher and signal him to “bring it.”
One time, a foul ball was hit into the air. I took off sprinting with all the desire my little seven-year-old heart could muster. That ball, that out, was mine.
The ball hit the protective netting at the top of the fence, and I laid my body out and caught it. Because it hit the net, it was a foul ball. That didn’t stop the p…
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