Look, my child has faults. His 27th birthday was last week, and while I'd like to continue the praise and celebration of the young man, I wouldn't be honest if I didn't acknowledge his flaws.

He's a good man, and I love him dearly. But he “married up.” Now that's to his credit. Not a flaw at all. She just happens to be better than him. He knows it. I know it. He tells her that.

But his flaws? He eats way too fast and complains of acid reflux. It never occurred to me when he was a child that I should teach the imp to chew.

He watches way too much ESPN. I wouldn't swear to this, but I think his first word was “butta,” the word made famous by Stuart Scott.

And when the kid Tweets, he uses abbreviations that old folks like me just can't understand.  That's not right.

But his biggest fault? Well, his mom would say that he spits too much. Frankly, I think that's a problem for her only because I taught him to do it. The kid can spit gallons a day, to be sure.

But I did what I had to do. When he was just a youngster, he and a little girl friend of his, T-bone I call her, wanted to play baseball. We went out on the driveway, and I pitched to them while they each hit. I refused to pitch the ball until they spit.

“You wanna be a baseball player?” I asked them.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Yes, Dave.”

“Then you're gonna have to learn to spit at the plate. That's all there is to it,” I told them.

T-Bone's parents hate me for what I taught their child almost as much as the ex-wife does for what I taught hers. Their little girl spitting. But come on, she wanted to play ball, too! I really never played baseball. But I surely knew that ballplayers spit. And I taught that very well.

I just hope my son learns one day to do it only outdoors.

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