Going on 20 years ago, in a rough batter’s box in suburban Los Angeles, my youngest reached out to tap the plate. The bat landed with a light thud. He raised his right arm, requesting a moment from an imaginary umpire.
We hadn’t ever talked about this. I hadn’t shown him videos or told him this is how the guy in New York does it. I was just throwing batting practice, hoping I didn’t hit this one in the neck. My oldest still had a welt.
My youngest brought his fists to his right ear, his elbow in line with his shoulder.