My boys love playing baseball.
Especially if their Dad is willing to hit them a few after a long day’s work.
This summer, they couldn’t get enough of the pop flies.
Also sometimes referred to as “chicken pops” by my middle child. (And now, consequently, the entire family.) I will never again be able to call them pop flies.
They are now chicken pops.
And if you think about it. If you really sit back, real late at night, like when you are writing a blog post and trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense…
You may find that chicken pops actually is a more appropriate term considering the baseball player has the option to
1. Be brave and position himself under a hard ball that may or may not land in it’s intended location
2. Be chicken, in which case he will abandon all projected destinations of the ball.
The intense expression on my boys’ faces as they strive to catch the chicken pops.
And the complete disinterest of the horses nearby.