Take Me Out To The Ball Game

As the summer draws to a close and all the little tykes reach for their three-packs of Kleenex and new Blue's Clues lunchboxes, so too does the city baseball (or softball, in this case) league play out its final games.

My husband has been playing for the all-male softball team with some of his coworkers, usually about nine other accountants. At first I thought this an odd extra-curricular activity for one who enjoys playing with his tenkey or balancing the checkbook on Quicken, but he wanted to show that he was "involved outside of the office" since it looked good on his CPA evaluation. So every Thursday night for about eight weeks, he'd don his bright blue jersey and we'd head to Arlington for his game.

As if watching ten grown men who specialize in reconciling numbers try to throw around a softball for 55 minutes weren't entertaining enough, here are a few highlights from the season, if you will...
During one of the very first games, the other team's members alternated wearing a sombrero every time they came out onto the field. (They had tried wearing it while at bat, but discovered it wasn't very easy to run while keeping one hand on your head.) This same game coincided with the Mavs in the playoffs, and the catcher had brought his radio so everyone could hear the play-by-plays. Every so often one of the other team's members (usually the catcher) would yell, "What's the score?" And we knew he wasn't talking about the game at hand.
One particular game, the opposite team was especially talented in hitting foul balls, the kind that arc up and over the chain-link fencing (you know, the kind that supposedly protects the fans from those stray little boogers). Inevitably, one of said foul balls flew into the stands where all the wives (myself included) were chatting away. As soon as we realized what was headed straight toward us, everyone scrambled to move out of harm's way, which mostly amounted to curling up into a ball in the lap of the person next to you while screaming bloody murder. The ball bounced safely over our heads, and all the players thought it was pretty funny how frightened we were. But really, it was a close call.
During the second inning of one of the later games, a fly ball was hit towards left field over the foul line. As the scrawny left fielder sprinted to catch the ball, the crowd (and team) was riveted to this figure barrelling towards the fence. We continued to watch, dumbfounded, as he slowed his pace, reaching the fence and sticking his glove across it just as the softball fell right into place, as though he had done it a thousand times.
The second to last game was quite an exciting one, as the third baseman from the opposite team caught a line drive right in the face - in his mouth, to be exact. He held cheap paper towels and a baggie of ice to his bloodied lip as he rushed to his car to drive to the ER for stitches. And who says softball isn't a contact sport?

One win, two forfeits, and five losses later, his season concluded. I don't know about you, but something about those numbers just doesn't seem quite right.

But then again, if you're out on the field, it's hard to audit the scoreboard.