I was the new coach of a Little League baseball team and had not yet learned the names of my players. At our first game I called each boy by the number on his uniform. When I yelled, "Number 5, your time to bat," Jeff Smith came to the plate. When I called for "Number 7," Steve Heinz jumped up. Then I yelled for "Number 1," but no one emerged from the dugout. Again I called for Number 1. Still no one came forward.
As the umpire looked on, annoyed at this delay of the game, I shouted; "Who's Number 1?"
That's when the whole team yelled, "We are, Coach! We are!"
One night a teenage girl brought her new boyfriend home to meet her parents, and they were appalled by his appearance: leather jacket, motorcycle boots, tattoos and pierced nose.
When my wife quit work to take care of our new baby daughter, countless hours of peekaboo and other games slowly took their toll. One evening she smacked her bare toes on the corner of a dresser and, grabbing her foot, sank to the floor.