A few weeks ago I spotted a fellow perched on the maple tree's highest branch in my back yard. He peered through binoculars into my living room and appeared to be inspecting Uri sucking on a rattle and drooling buckets on his chest. I threw some unripe turnips at the trespasser until he scampered down the tree trunk and hopped onto my neighbor's porch roof, out of sight.
Since, I've spied several more crusty-faced ol' chaps lurking about the vicinity of the baby. They carry clipboards and stopwatches, and sport Tom Landry hats. I began to suspect who these people were.
I put Uri on display in his bouncer on the back deck. Sure enough, two beady eyes poked over the fence. Utilizing my skills learned from my misspent years as a jackalope wrangler I crept behind the unwitting intruder. While he scribbled in a notebook, I struck. He barely twitched when I cracked him in the jowls with a cucumber.
When he came to hours later, I grabbed him by the collar and demanded he explain why he'd been stalking my baby. He began sweating like a death row inmate who'd been informed the guillotine was out of order but the testicle clamps had been charging all night. He reached inside his flannel blazer and retrieved his credentials. He was a scout employed the Tuckersville Blobfish.
"We project your newborn to be a future 5-tool player at the major league level," he said.
"You're out of your gord," I replied. "His skin is too smooth and the whites of his eyes too brilliant. The ink is not even dry."
"No, it's true." Blood trickled from the scout's shriveled nostrils. "Let me show you." He yanked a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket. "My notes."
The paper said:
Hitting For Contact- Exhibits strong hand-eye coordination skills. Easily smacks a suspended nipple at one month. Projected to hit in the low .300's, at least.
Hitting For Power- Devastating infantile power. With conditioning, could squeeze the spuds out of a Mr. Potato Head. Projected as a middle of the line-up presence. 40-50 per year homerun potential.
Speed- Pumps legs incessantly. Illustrates potential speed, or shit in britches. Within 6 months, should be able to move across hardwood floor like a greased waterfowl over a glazed donut.
Arm- Tosses a pacifier three inches. Adjusted for age, a baseball should travel 300 feet.
Fielding- Alert and responsive. Once snatched a floating piece of lint out of air amid an involuntary movement. Should have excellent range and quickness in field.
The scout spoke. "We wish to see your baby in a Blobfish uniform before his first tooth sprouts. The Grapefruit League starts in February. We think your tiny infant has the skills to excel at the highest level. However, due to his squishy little undeveloped brain, we are uncertain if he currently possesses the mental capacity required to compete with athletes 43 times his age. Therefore, our offered signing bonus is adjusted for our fears." He offered a contract with one hand and a pen with the other.
I crumpled up the contract and stuffed it between his rotten teeth. "You filthy parasite! He's never even seen the stars or caught a firefly in a bottle. Be gone." I shooed him out of the front door and into the street. Because he was slow and decrepit he was walloped by a street cleaner going about its rounds.
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