The little signs of my increasing age are hard to miss: something snapping when I bend over to pick up 3B, something else creaking when I lift him up, and nothing being worth leaving the house for after 9 p.m.–especially not something that starts at 9 p.m., as our weekly city league softball game did tonight. But rather than stay at home and knit an afghan while watching Golden Girls reruns and waiting for my AARP card to arrive, I decided to go to the game.
And it was worth every sore muscle–or is that one a tendon? ligament? is that one connected to anything?–that I’m feeling now, and that will stiffen up like cured fiberglass tomorrow.
For once, either we were brilliant, or we were matched against a team that is as desperately bad as we are, because we got our first nonforfeit win of the season. I choose to believe that we were flipping brilliant.
And because this blog is a historic record that 3B can look back on, I’m going to record my brilliance for posterity, or until the lights go out in Blogger’s server farms. This is so that 3B will know that, at one time, Papa wasn’t just that bald guy asleep in the LaZBoy with the reading glasses on his forehead and the remote laying on top of his paunch:
Papa’s Stats for May 5, 2007
- Batting average: 1.000
- Inside the park home runs: 1
- RBIs: too many to count (really, I just don’t have the scorecard with me)
- Putouts: too many to count, but myself (shortstop) and my coeditor (3rd) were a machine, fielding line drives, sizzling grounders, and sky-high popups in a pouring rain
- Assists: see previous
- Errors: 1 (trying to keep it real, people)
- . . . which yields a fielding percentage damn near as pure as Ivory soap, baby.
Added benefit of going out to the game tonight: nothing in my body will snap or creak tomorrow, since nothing in my body will be capable of bending.