Le Softball

Smoothies and salads today. Yesterday evening we played softball, as mentioned.. yesterday. I had so much fun and felt a resurgence of my childhood anger that I might be wise to diffuse through other physical means with fewer witnesses. I take sports too seriously. Which is a good thing, because that brings the grand total of things I care about to: One. Later, I laugh at this fact. Anyway. I was first at bat in the lineup. You know, there to get us started and to set a good example, get the momentum going (umm...). So we're all pumped, talking dirty to the other team -- like not sexy dirty but just being all talk and no walk -- and half our team roster is dancing as I move toward the plate with great purpose, holding Purple Rain as awkwardly as possible to throw-off the other team and to convince them to move in. The other team's catcher is smiling at me as I approach home plate. This smiling thing throws me off a little, so, like a good Canadian, I smile back and make friends with the enemy. Just to throw them off, too. All equals!

She says, "Hello, Sonya!"

I say, "Hey! What's your name?" I feel a little weird saying that line. Each time I say it, I am back in kindergarten, where I feel okay with hugging people I don't know well, and showing spontaneous affection because I'm just so full of love I need to get it out of me or I'll die. Most people aren't kindergarteners, though. Judging by their reactions.

"I'm Angela. I don't know you, but your team is saying, 'Go, Sonya!' so I gathered that Sonya is your name." She seems a little embarrassed but not really. So to balance out the slight weird factor, I say something stupid. Yes, I say something weird purely as a selfless act of mercy. Right:

"Well, I was going to say, you do look familiar." Good one! Both predictably lame and forgettable.

"Oh, really?" She scrunches up her face and asks this seriously, trying to think of where we'd possibly met before, but at the same time afraid to mention anything incriminating. I'm projecting.

"No." I say this quickly and with a half laugh, before this gets out of hand. Then she totally dives in:

"Haa, well maybe you've seen me before -- looking in your window..." OOoHH she's taking it to the next level of WTF! Usually that's my role. I like the way this exchange is going. It's familiar, as though I'm having this conversation with myself in my head. So I tell her.

"I like that you said something weird like that; it reminds me of something I'd say. Now I feel comfortable. Thank you."

"Really? Well, good then." And I don't remember what else she said because right after this exchange, Aaron is on the mound ready to pitch. I step up to the plate and assume something like a stance. A strong, in between stance, unsure of whether to appear competent and then bat weakly, or to look weak and then hit it over their heads. Must choose one strategy and stick with it; right. Conviction is the defining quality of a stance; got it. I think too much. Then I hit a ground ball straight to the shortstop who throws me out at first. Awesome.

22-7 for the Killer Crew. But that's not the whole story. I'm going to go for a walk now before I write a novel about one game.