The other night, we were flipping through the channels, wondering what was on for our viewing pleasure before we watched the Alabama/UMass game. It seems, however, that there was plenty on for the viewing pleasures of others, but nothing quite right for ours. So we settled in for what the rest of you were likely watching: a local access channel that was broadcasting a t-ball game between two teams (the Yankees and the Devil Rays) of what looked like 5 to 6 year olds.

We took as much delight in watching this game as you. We squealed along with the announcer each time a batter actually made contact with the stationary ball, and jumped from our seats when the ball flew so far from the tee that it actually left the batter’s box. Imagine our reaction when CODY! actually hit it all the way to the pitcher’s mound! (No, seriously, I swear…I saw it with my own eyes!)

Unfortunately for the ever-devoted but hoarse-voiced coaches and parents of the Devil Rays, their team was chock full of butterfly chasers, those kids who were far too busy with chasing after the bugs in the field than being bothered with some baseball that came bouncing their way. Thus, the Yankees were up 18-11 and had batted around when the crowd rose to its feet when CODY! arrived in the batter’s box again.

There was a chant from the stands, a soft, rhythmic CO-DY, CO-DY, audible over the first baseman’s screams of “LOOK! MOM! I found a worm!”

Cody hitched his pants up slightly below his armpits, pulled down his batting helmet so that he had to shake it from his line of vision, then paused momentarily to look for his parents in the crowd so that he could confirm that yes, they were still going to McDonald’s after the game and that no, he didn’t have to share his French fries with nobody. Then he put his bat next to the ball, sized up his swing, then reared back and knocked the ball off the tee. It flew from the batter’s box, rocketed to the left of the pitcher’s mound, and soared over the head of the shortstop who was squatting, filling his pockets with the rocks he’d found.

“A Texas leaguer for CODY!” the announcer’s voice boomed, and my son and I were on our feet, fists punching the air above our heads, as the baserunners scrambled to the next base, our excitement almost deafened by the sound of the coaches and parents screaming “Yes, Katy, run! Run! No, Katy, no! Run the other way, Katy, the other way!”

Cody, however, was storming around the bases like a freight train, running past Katy, then circling back behind her, joining in with the chant, pointing her in the right direction. She crossed homeplate just ahead of Cody, who stopped just shy of scoring, then jumped, landing forcefully with both feet squarely in the middle of the plate. There, his feet still planted on home plate, he heroically raised both arms in the air as his coaches and teammates ran to him for the celebrations. “An inside-the-park HOMERUN for CODY!” the announcer boomed.

My son and I were still on our feet, drenched with the excitement of the moment, when Dylan pointed at the television and said, “That Cody kid—I got one word for him—steroids.”

That’s right--he’s younger than I am and therefore he's more atuned to this generation than am I--and he's read enough and heard enough to know that yes, according to Dylan, t-ball is juiced.