This one’s tough because I respect plate discipline. I really do. So kudos to my guy Charles or whatever the fuck his name is for laying off the high stuff. Know your strike zone. At the same time we’re doing gender reveals here Chuck not working a 9th inning World Series AB in Yankee fucking stadium. Take the batt off your shoulder for me one time and use the whole field.
Which reminds me. Everyone hated this guy growing up because the pitches in “lob” or whatever you called backyard baseball were never good enough. Bat mounted to his shoulder. And you don’t give out walks because it’s backyard baseball. So you just end up watching pitch after pitch bounce perfectly behind home plate, burying your face in your glove because you can’t watch your buddy Jimmy suck any longer. 13 pitches in he finally connects on a hard ground ball to the right side of the field where he’s automatically ruled out because opposite field outs are the best thing ever created in backyard sports. That’s what we’re working with here. The kid who has no other purpose than to even everything out 5-on-5. This is the man he becomes, looking for his pitch on a gender reveal.
As an amateur-amateur scout, I’m compelled to say there’s no potential for anyone in his family. My 20-80 grades are uniformly at 20 across the board. 20 to Mom who can’t command her fastball. 20 to Dad for taking strike 3 down broadway. And then obviously 20 to the unborn baby boy because pedigree. Scouts love a family tree and I’m no different. One look at his old man holding the bat is all I need to sell this baby down the river like Moses.