Christmas? No. We're nearly to the beginning of baseball season. I am my father's daughter, and no matter how many people disparage the great game of baseball, I still get excited. Do I want to play baseball? Hells no. I am no fool, and small objects flying at my head are cause to flee. But do I want to watch the Red Sox whoop some tail this season? Youbetcha.
While being Russ's daughter does mean an unfortunate draw towards football, I will try to raise her right. Wooden bats--no aluminum crap. Afternoon games in the sun. Hot dogs. Singing during the seventh-inning stretch (to Sweet Caroline, if you're lucky). And patience. Baseball is finesse.
Here she is with her Baseball Snoopy, which I bought when I was three weeks pregnant. Some things, you don't mess around with.
He plays "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" when you press his glove, and she got so excited when this happened that she gave Snoopy a big kiss!
And here she is chewing on her AWESOME Red Sox snack cups. Gracias, Grandpapi! Play ball!
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