Meet Lefty-Brained ... and answer some questions

Some of the greatest memories of my childhood were playing catch (and taking flyballs and grounders) with my dad, who, BTW, is a lefty. One summer, though, he had broken his left hand, so he just threw catch right-handed until he healed up.

What is the precentage of lefties, in general? Two of the six Pallister siblings are southpaws, and, as mentioned, my dad.

 

That's interesting, pall. My dad, also a lefty, had (has) a talent for putting on a right-hander's glove backward and catching that way. He used to do it a lot when I started pitching, because he would use a regular catcher's mitt to warm me up so as not to hurt his hand.

He passed the skill on to me, which I had to use a lot during middle-school gym class when the only gloves available for the co-ed softball games were for righties. But I'd put it on my right hand anyway, and had no trouble catching the ball.

 

My dad, younger-older sister and little brother and I are left-handed, and my mom and oldest sister are right-handed. We've got them in numbers, but they school us in brains.

 

That's why you bring your own glove to school, Buck. Sure, you might be the butt of jokes, but you'll never have to share your mitt or wait in line for the last ones left in the pile.

 

My mother's third husband is a lefty. His saying is, "Lefties are the only ones in their right minds."

 

That really isn't very funny.

 

Funnier than anything Missougrad96 has said on this board.

 

Twofold.

 

What the heck is going on around here?

 

I honestly don't remember who I first played catch with, but I'm sure it was either my one-year-older brother or my dad. What I do remember most vividly was that Dad would use a bat and hit fly balls to us. And for what seemed like a really long time I would always misjudge it and it would fall just behind me.

Then, one day we were out in the street in Burnsville, Minn. We had driven the 300-some miles to visit my aunt (mom's sister), uncle and three cousins. Dad was hitting the fly balls to me and the older brother. And this time I stuck my glove up and caught one. I think it had to be early summer of 67, making me just short of 7 by about a month. Maybe it was 68, making me just short of 8.

But it was on the street in front of my aunt and uncle's house in Burnsville, Minn. That much I'm sure of. And the look on Dad's face is still a fond memory 40 or 41 years later.

 

Good question. I'm clueless--which I guess isn't all that unusual.

 

At least some things are on the norm.