A/N: I was watching some kids play catch the other day, and this little scene came to mind. Not my best work, but I hope you enjoy.


Hand/Eye Coordination

Peter was thrilled to finally start teaching his son baseball. The agent had started out in t-ball at age five and worked his way up through the levels of Little League and college ball till he made it to the minors. He sometimes wondered what his life might have been like if he hadn't injured his arm, but in the end those thoughts were irrelevant, since he wouldn't have met El.

But while his lost baseball career was water under the bridge, Peter was excited to start Ender into Little League this coming summer. He'd be seven and old enough to start in the player pitch league, so Peter was determined that his baseball skills would be top notch. After all, he needed to be picked for a decent team.

Peter had gone shopping at the sporting goods store on his way home from work on Friday, and purchased a child's size glove and bat and some new baseballs.

Ender wasn't exactly as thrilled as Peter hoped, but he hadn't refused to play. For the sake of avoiding anymore sibling rivalry, Peter asked Neal to join them. Technically he'd bribed him with a trip to a museum outside his radius, but that was strictly semantics.

It was the perfect Saturday to practice. Sunny and warm, but not so warm it would uncomfortable to run around in.

"The glove goes on your left hand," Peter was trying to get everything set up so they could start a round of catch. "Like a regular glove, you just feed your fingers into each one of the finger holes."

"Neal!" Peter snapped a few seconds later. "Put the glove on your left hand."

Neal was currently staring at the piece of leather with a look of extreme distaste plastered of his face. "Peter that thing is all dirty, and are those sweat stains? You really expect me to put my hand in there?"

"Yes!" The agent hissed at him. "Set a good example for Ender, big brother, and get your freaking hand inside that glove."

"How come he gets a new glove and I get something that looks the a truck ran over it? Should the runt get the hand-me-downs" Neal finally took the glove in-between his thumb and forefinger, holding it away, as if worried it carried the plague or something.

"It's too big for him, it's my old college glove. Meaning I used it when I played college ball. It's a good glove, and already broken in."

"It's more than broken in, it looks dead," Neal still held the glove at arms length.

"Fine, take this one. I used it during my minor league days," Peter held out his other glove, which Neal made a face at as well.

"That one looks just as bad."

Peter threw up his hands. "Then don't play. You're the one who keeps wanting to be included in everything. But if you don't play, I'm giving your museum tickets to someone else."

That threat finally made Neal slip the glove on his hand, cringing as he did so. "Fine, but just so you know this is cruel and unusual punishment, and I'm lodging a complaint with Hughes."

"Be my guest." Peter turned back to where Ender had abandoned his glove on the ground, and was currently turning back handsprings. The agent cringed every time he saw the kid practice because he worried Ender would land on his hand. It had yet to happen, but Peter now knew what is parents must have felt like every time he was on doing some daredevil stunt.

"Kiddo, come here." He picked up the glove where it lay, and Ender stopped and trotted obediently over. "Glove goes on your left hand."

"What if I can't catch the ball?" Ender asked, while Peter helped in slip his fingers in the glove.

"That's why we're practicing." Peter wasn't too concerned considering the kid had great hand eye coordination in everything he did. "But I won't throw anything too hard all right."

Ender just shrugged. "Okay." And then did a back flip with the glove now on his hand. Peter rolled his eyes and then placed his hands on either side of the kids shoulders to keep him from bouncing around like a human spring.

"So you throw to Neal, he'll throw to me, and I'll throw to you. Then we can trade and go the other way. Just stand right there, hold your glove like this and don't move." Peter demonstrated a good ready position with his glove, that the kid carefully mimicked.

Peter then spread himself and Neal out across the yard. Neal was shaking his gloved hand every once in a while, as if that would keep him from contracting any germs, the glove had on it. Peter picked up the ball and underhanded it to Ender. He kept it gentle so it would be an easy catch.

The ball went up, and landed a couple feet in front of the kid who stood still holding his glove like Peter had showed him.

The kid stared at the ball and then at Peter. Neal snickered, and Ender threw him a dirty look.

"You're supposed to catch the ball with your glove," Peter told him.

"You said I wasn't supposed to move. This is how you told me to stand."

"I meant stop turning flips all over the yard. You're acting like a circus monkey." Peter couldn't believe how literal kids took things. "You move around when the ball is thrown at you, so you get into the best place to catch the ball."

Ender stood there with his hands on his hips.

"What now?" Peter asked.

"You called me a circus monkey. Why can you call me names, but I got in trouble last week when I said Hughes was being a jerk."

"Because you called Hughes that to his face," Neal piped in.

Peter shot him a look and Neal looked sufficiently cowed.

"I just meant you were acting silly. I'm sorry all right." Kids were so tit for tat. "Just get the ball and throw it to Neal." Peter tried to remember if it was this difficult when his father taught him how to catch. He didn't want to ask El because she'd take a side and it wouldn't be his.

Peter was pleased to see the kid actually had a pretty good arm, because the ball reached Neal with some force. Neal also wasn't devoid of sports skills because he was easily caught the ball in his glove. Neal tossed it to Peter and after a few more times they got a nice little pattern going, with the ball tossed from person to person.

"Throw like Neal Daddy. I'm not a baby," Ender told him after the seventh or so round.

"Yeah, Peter. I thought you pitched in college. I'm mean seriously, were you on the girl's slow pitch team."

Peter just rolled his eyes. "Fine, here." He tossed the ball over hand and up so it would resemble a pop fly. Ender clearly had the right idea because he turned around since the ball was going behind him, but as the ball came down it caught the top of his glove and bounced off, instead of settling into the pocket.

The next thing Peter saw was a golden blur, and the ball disappearing.

"He stole my baseball," Ender squealed. "Give me back my ball Satchmo." And he took off running after the dog.

The golden Lab had been lying on the back deck watching the game, and clearly waiting for an opportunity to chase the baseball, which finally arrived.

"Give me my ball you mutt," Ender screamed, as Satchmo leapt and danced about, clearly excited that he was finally allowed in on the fun.

"Satchmo," Peter yelled. "Satchmo, give me the…" He started forward as Satchmo came near, but then the dog skidded away clearly unwilling to give up his prize, forcing Peter to put his hands on the ground to keep from falling over completely.

"Satch," Neal shouted. "Come on Satch." He whistled trying to get the dog's attention, but Satchmo wasn't listening as he ducked under the lawn table and chairs, playing keep away.

Peter had to admire Ender's tenacity, because the kid had chased the dog the entire time, crawling under the table as well.

"Satchmo, you're not being a team player." Ender was clearly getting tired because he now stood at one end of the yard watching the dog leap and dodge down at the other end, as he shouted at him.

Suddenly there was an ear-piercing whistle. "Satch, drop the ball." Elizabeth had finally come outside and was standing on the back porch with her arms folded. Satchmo seemed to stop mid leap and suddenly dropped the ball. At Elizabeth's forceful point to the back door, he slid his tail between his legs and slunk across the yard into the house.

"Thanks El," was all Peter could manage to get out as he waved her off. Even the dog wasn't listening to him nowadays. It was kind-of embarrassing.

Ender's face lit up and he ran over to the ball, picking it up and promptly dropped it back on the ground.

"Daddy, there's dog drool on my ball." He cried. "Satchmo messed up my baseball."

Oh for heaven's sake, Peter thought as Ender stood there holding up his right hand that was now all shiny and with pieces of grass on it.

"I'm not playing that," Neal informed him, from off to the left, his arms now folded.

Ender walked back over still holding his hand away from him. "I don't want to play with a drool ball, I might get Ebola."

"Satchmo doesn't have Ebola." Peter didn't know what the big deal was, it was just a little dog slobber.

Ender looked down at his hand then wiped it across Neal's expensive $200 Diesel jeans, causing the other man to yelp and jump away.

"Aack… What you do that for?"

"I don't want it on my hand."

"So, that doesn't mean I want it on me."

"Says the person who keeps telling me how much he loves my dog," Peter was just standing there shaking his head. "Just stay put and I'll get another baseball."

A minute later Peter returned with a brand new baseball, decided the other was a lost cause. Or at least, not worth the fight of getting the other two to play with it.

"Let's practice batting."

He handed Ender the bat, and wrapped his arms around the kid from behind showing him how to grip the handle. "Just swing through," Peter swung the bat with Ender to give him a feel for the movement.

"Okay, I got it." The kid was clearly demonstrating his independence today, because he pulled away to practice swinging on his own.

"All right," Peter directed Neal to play catcher and then tossed the ball forward for Ender to swing at. It was a great swing at air. And four pitches later it was the same thing.

"It's okay," Peter soothed. "Just try again."

"The sun's in my eyes." Ender dropped the bat to the ground in defeat. "I can't see."

"Okay, we'll change positions. Here switch." Peter walked across the yard and directed Ender to stand where he had been, as walked over to where the kid had just been standing.

Neal just stood there for a moment. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea Peter."

"Quit being a prim Dona," Peter was tired of the excess comments. He had a star baseball player to make.

He ensured the next pitch was a perfect strike and the satisfying crack of ball against bat was a glorious sound, followed by the shattering of glass. For a moment all three of them stared at the hole in the living room window, where the ball had made its mark.

"For once you can't blame this on me," Neal told him.