That Is Two Strikes He Says

Max is five and bossy beyond compare. Stand there, he orders me. No. There! Right there! I am his grandma, so I comply. He gets to be the batter as usual. I am the pitcher and the outfield. No surprise. Every time he misses one he growls at me. And blames me. Sometimes he throws the bat or screams at me. Grandmas are not good at being coaches I guess. “That is TWO strikes for you!” he yells at me. “I cannot have strikes, I am the pitcher,” I tell him. “Two X’s,” he says. “Two X’s for making me miss.” I start laughing. Forgetting that he gets mad when I do this.