Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.

If there were an “I’m wrong” parade, I’d be the grand marshal.

He was no pitcher.

He was a belly itcher, but he’d stymied us.

The game was close. A win or a loss hinged on a single pitch. Our coach, also our teacher, jumped up to yell something at the batter and to mumble at the umpire. When the coach jumped up, he hit his head on the dugout. I’m sure he saw stars because I saw stars and I was sitting down. It took his mind off our miscues.

It would have been wrong to laugh at that time.

I laughed.

I was wrong.

Being wrong is the way I stay in my lane. I’m stupid for my age. I’m not wrong quite often enough to be a member of the Flat Earth Society, but I’m close. There are days when I think I should hang an “Out of order” sign around my neck. When my wife whispers sweet nothings in my ear, she hears an echo.

I’ve read about left brain and right brain, and how thinking differs on those two sides of the gray matter. Men think with both sides of the brain. The problem is that they try thinking on both sides of the brain at the same time. That doesn’t work well. The two sides argue.

I live in Hartland Township. It’s a fine place to live. It’s the perfect place for those who don’t enjoy living around beaches, mountains or perfect weather.

We hear the same things said about us over and over again.

What do they call a man who is never wrong in Hartland Township? Lost.

You can always tell a man from Hartland Township, but you can’t tell him much.

You can tell he’s from Hartland Township, but that’s about all you can tell him.

It’s not that hard to be wrong. Take a shot at answering these three questions.

Is an open-faced sandwich a sandwich?

Is a hotdog a sandwich?

Is a taco a sandwich?

No matter what you answer to these questions, someone will think you are wrong. See how easy it is to be wrong. You don’t even have to try to be wrong. Being wrong is where even lazy people get busy.

I’m used to being wrong. I should be. I’ve been wrong all my life. In the first grade, I thought energy could both be created and destroyed. Sometimes, I knew I was right, but I forgot to notify my brain. I learned that a person didn’t have to be stupid to be wrong. All he or she needs to be is human.

Being constantly wrong changes a man. Men typically think we know far more than we do. I think I know less than I probably do, if that’s possible.

“I’m wrong,” I say. Then my optimistic streak kicks in, “Wait, I may be wrong about that.”

I’ve learned to get by while being wrong. I predict things only after they have already happened. I’m willing to sacrifice being right for the enjoyment of others.

Back in the days when our gas stations were full service, I worked the gas pumps and offered free advice with every fill. It was usually bad.

I stopped at a nursing home to visit some people who are important to me. One of the residents called me George. George was my father. She was wrong. I was flattered.

Another resident asked me, “How long have you been in here?”

She thought I lived there. That was way wrong.

I told her that I’d been there for about an hour. She welcomed me. She still thinks that I’m a fellow resident.

No one is always right, but many claim to be never wrong. There are always people who are willing to help. Many people will gladly correct you when you’re wrong. Many of those will even correct you when they are wrong.

I’m so used to being wrong that it doesn’t bother me near as much as it once did. I can’t get even. There is nothing to get even with. A flea can bother a lion, but a lion cannot bother a flea. I think that applies, but I may be wrong.

Try a little shock therapy with the next guy you talk to. Tell him that he’s right.

Men know things, but we can be a bit fuzzy on the details. I’m like most men. We are good at being wrong. Just don’t expect us to admit it.