Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, yes, the "Franklin Sports MLB Electronic Baseball Pitching Machine." A rather grandiose name for what is, essentially, an automated prey-launcher designed for the clumsy small human. While its primary function is to teach the bipedal kitten how to swing a stick, I see its true potential. A flashing red light telegraphs the launch, and a new projectile emerges every seven seconds with a whirring, mechanical precision that appeals to my sense of order. This offers a certain rhythmic satisfaction for a hunter of my caliber. The adjustable angles could provide a delightful variety of ground-skittering and aerial-flitting targets. My only concern is the quality of the "aero strike" balls—if they are too flimsy or get lost under the credenza, this entire spectacle could quickly become a colossal waste of my exquisitely soft fur and valuable napping energy.
Key Features
- 7 SECOND PITCHES: This electronic pitching machine is a great way to practice batting skills; The ball pitches every 7 seconds for improved accuracy and precision on the field; Assembled height 7.75 x 9.5 x 9.875 inches
- FLASHING LIGHT INDICATOR: A flashing red indicator light shows when the ball pitches, making it easy to prepare in your baseball stance; You get all the fun of a batting cage right in the comfort of your own backyard
- ANGLE ADJUSTMENTS: The angle of your pitch is adjustable, making it a perfect training tool for developing young athletes; Perfect for practicing multiple batting angles and pitch styles.
- SIX BALLS INCLUDED: This batting machine includes six white aero strike baseballs; You should not use regulation baseballs or tee balls with this baseball machine – only use the balls included; The ball shoot can hold up to 9 balls
- IMPROVE BATTING PERFORMANCE: Your child should ideally use a plastic baseball bat with this pitching machine; There’s no better baseball pitching machine to help grow and improve your batting skills.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Human brought the strange, angular contraption into the living room, a place normally reserved for my lounging and their glowing rectangles. He called it a "pitching machine," a term that meant nothing to me. He loaded its vertical chute with six pale, hollow spheres, which I immediately identified as inferior substitutes for my preferred wool mice. I watched from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation, as he aimed it across the hardwood floor—my primary hunting ground. My initial assessment: a noisy, plastic intrusion. Then, it began. A low hum, followed by the blink of a single, malevolent red eye. Seven seconds. I counted them instinctively. *Whir-CLACK*. The first sphere shot out, skittering across the floor in a low, straight line. An insultingly simple trajectory. I didn't even deign to move. The small human swung his plastic club and missed spectacularly. This continued for three more spheres, a tedious cycle of whirring, blinking, and whiffing. I was about to close my eyes and commence a nap when the Human, muttering about "adjustments," tilted the machine upwards. The next cycle began. The red eye blinked. *Whir-CLACK*. But this time, the sphere didn't scuttle. It flew. It arced through the air, a perfect, white parabola against the beige wall, before landing with a soft bounce near the ficus plant. Now, this was different. This was not a scurrying mouse; this was a fledgling bird, clumsy and startled from its nest. My hunter's calculus shifted. The predictable seven-second rhythm was the parent bird’s feeding schedule. The red light was the twitch in the branch just before the takeoff. It was a puzzle. A simulation. I slipped from the chair, a gray and white shadow against the floorboards. I ignored the small human and his stick entirely. My focus was on the machine, my new, inanimate adversary. As the red eye began to blink again, I crouched, my body a coiled spring. I watched the arc of the previous launch, calculated the probable trajectory, and as the sphere took flight, I exploded upwards. My leap was a thing of beauty, a fluid motion of muscle and grace. I intercepted the plastic bird mid-flight, batting it down with a satisfying *thwack* of my paw before it could even begin its descent. I pinned it to the floor, triumphant. The small human stared, jaw agape. Let him have his stick. I had found a far more sophisticated game. This machine, I concluded, was not a toy. It was a worthy training partner.
