Poor Richard's Scorecard

The 11 Things I Learned Vacationing at Disney World

You don't spend a week in the happiest and most magical place on Earth without learning a few things. Here's what I picked up last week in Walt Disney World:

Y'Know, This Harry Potter Stuff Just Might Find a Following

Oh, so that's what all the fuss was about.

Last night, after a couple of months of bedtime reading, my 8-year-old and I finished Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. It had sat on her bookshelf since we brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, waiting for her to reach an appropriate age. The next book in the series will probably sit for all of a night or a two before we crack that open.

In Which a Former Second Baseman Is Forced to Learn What a Corner Kick Is

Her ponytail bobbing behind her, her jersey rippling in the air as she sprints, her bright red socks pulled up to her knees, her black shin guards gleaming in the sunshine, my 8-year-old looks like a soccer player. More significantly, either dribbling the ball deftly downfield or scooping up a shot while expertly playing goal, she plays like one.

This baseball-lovin' dad is having to come to terms with these facts.

A Newly Minted Second-Grader Asks a Question for Which Her Father Is Not Quite Prepared

She bounded off the bus, wearing her satisfied (but not smug) smile, a buttercup-yellow shirt, and a bohemian-patterned skirt. She looked impossibly grown-up, and why not? Second grade ain't kid stuff, you know, and today was her first day there.

But if I thought that was grown-up, I had a lot to learn.

"Dad," she said in the car as we were running errands after school, "when can I start walking to the bus stop by myself?"

Jamie Jolted and Phils Lollygag Through Loss; At Least the Soft-Serve Tasted Good

They seemed to have a great time, but I wouldn't have blamed my 7-year-old and her friend in the least had they said the best part of last night's outing to Citizens Bank Park was the food. Because, frankly, it was. There simply was nothing else to like in seeing the Phillies fall listlessly to the Rockies, 8-3, with our own eyes. Jamie Moyer just didn't have it, and one has to wonder, given his vast inconsistency this year, whether age and an 81-mile-per-hour fastball are finally catching up to him. Rodrigo Lopez, who relieved him, gave up line drive after thundering line drive to put the game out of reach. With the exception of Jimmy Rollins's two-run tater, which happened, of course, while we were in the ice cream line, the offense took the night off.

There's No Crying in Baseball--Unless They're Tears of Happiness

Nearly five years after her big sister's first major league game, the youngest member of the PRS household made her debut in the Show Friday night. Coincidentally, the opponent was the same, with the Phillies hosting Baltimore. There were other similarities, of course: Food played a major role, with chicken fingers and fries and soft-serve in a Phillies cap occupying plenty of the younger one's time. At one point I counted just six seconds between her placing the water bottle into the cup holder in front of her and plucking it out again to take another small swig. As her sister did in 2004, she clapped when everyone else did, especially when the Phils jumped out to the early lead. Naturally, she exploded with joy at the sight of the Phanatic.

Ah, but there were differences, too.

Here's One Reason for the Inquirer to Be Optimistic

At the breakfast table, she fires questions at me: Did the Phillies win? Did the Mets win? How big is our lead? Who do we play next? When? What time? Who's pitching? Check the paper, I tell her. And so she walks over to the small desk where we put each morning's issue of the Inquirer, pulls out the sports section, and begins spreading it apart next to her bowl of oatmeal. Watching my 7-year-old delve in with such enthusiasm warms this writer's heart, for it is something I did at her age--and something I still do today. She tells me what she sees: who beat whom by inflated scores, where the Phils sit in the standings, how terrific the Dodgers are doing and how awful the Nationals are. I've begun explaining box scores to her. One of these days she'll discover other sections, as I did, and perhaps then her perusal of headlines and bylines and stories and sidebars will evolve from mere information gathering to an anticipated, leisurely, daily ritual. One wonders, of course, what shape the paper will be in if and when that shift happens, but for now I will continue to stoke her interest and pray that print journalism somehow figures it out before it's too late. | PRS

Charlie Manuel's Got Nothing on Me

The look on my daughter's face told me all I needed to know. Playing first base, she had just cleanly fielded a ground ball and stepped on the bag to notch the putout. She looked over at me, pride exploding from every pore, a grin to light the blackest night brightening her face. As a dad and as a coach, I felt the happiness surge through me. Yesterday the softball team I coach, a squad comprising the sweetest grade-school girls you could hope to meet, played its last game, and as they struck liners and snagged grounders and made plays in the field, I got an inkling of why teachers do what they do. Watching your charges learn and apply that knowledge is powerful stuff. As lightning streaked across the sky and rumbling thunder warned that we needed to curtail the last inning by a few batters, various moms and dads came up to thank me for my efforts this year; but it is I who is thankful, for the chance to pass along my love of baseball to their daughters and to witness them develop as ballplayers who took pride in their accomplishments. | PRS

The Next Goal: Eliminating "High School Musical" Chatter During Infield Practice

As you watch your own kids grow up, it's difficult to discern the changes they are experiencing. They grow; their faces change; they obtain new skills; yet these happen so gradually and naturally that you simply cannot see it. It's only when they try doing something they haven't done in a long time that you can tell that advancement has taken place.

Next Time We'll Stick to Flinger's or Chotchkie's

All we wanted was a dinner out with the kids at a nonchain restaurant, a place that didn't have old license plates and pennants of fake teams hanging on the wall, that didn't have 19-year-old college sophomores taking our order, that had something more than burgers and wings on the menu.

Serves us right. From now on, when the girls are in tow, we're a Chili's family. Message received.