The boys of summer

I spent the better part of Sunday on a baseball diamond playing a modified version of wiffle ball with nine other guys. (The primary differences: a tennis ball and wiffle ball bats sliced and crammed into another bat to give it sufficient heft.) Including the warm-up/batting practice, we were out there for four hours and ten innings running around like kids playing a game.

I haven't put on the cleats, swung a bat, or shagged flies for three years, I think, but stepping onto the field again seemed like a familiar place. I was a bit surprised to find myself tracking down fly balls with more (relative) speed and accuracy than I anticipated. The ball made a satisfying thunk in the webbing as I raced into positions to make catches.

Connecting the slender yellow bat with the small ball was more of a challenge, although I can take pride in not striking out. I hit respectably during the game, although I was miffed that the best contact I made--a solid drive to the left field warning track--resulted in an out.

It was a fairly warm day, and the length of the game took its toll, although I didn't notice the time or aches and pains in the midst of the action. After the extra inning affair most of the players and their families went to get something to eat. It was after getting up from my chair that revealed the cost of all that running, throwing, and swinging. Sore feet, sore legs, and sore back. The arm feels all right, which is a surprise considering one throw I blazed--and felt immediately thereafter--trying to gun down a runner at the plate.

I expect I'll be sorer when I arise in the morning, but the pain was well-earned and justified. Having a long afternoon to play and rub some skin off your hands and trash talk and spit and get dirty doesn't come along to often as an adult, but every once in awhile it's nice to be reminded of what it can be like to be like a kid and do what you did then.