We have a ball-chucking device with a long handle that holds a durable ball at one end. A flick of the wrist will send the ball flying. Far. Watson would coil up like a sprinter in the blocks, waiting for the ball to fly. Instantly, he’d lunge away at a dead-run, monitoring the ball’s flight as he roared after it. When the timing was right—and he had an uncanny talent for making it right—he’d leap high to snag the brightly colored ball out of the air. His natural ability for running at full speed (dazzling as that was), while precisely gauging the trajectory of a flying rubber ball, was matched only by his consistency at leaping into the air to catch the ball, midflight.
When Watson had spent his full complement of energy in this happy pursuit and collapsed, exhausted and grinning, his tongue grew to the length of a beach towel. Happy Watson!
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