11-0

On Saturday we played another team from outside our own league. A debate currently rages between Coach P. and my son as to whether an opposing runner reached first on an error or a bloop single. If an error, our three pitchers threw a combined no-hitter. If not, they threw a one-hitter. Either way, our team gave up the disputed hit/error, a walk, made three plays on weak ground balls, and struck out the other fifteen batters they faced.

Not that I'd know first hand. This weekend was my annual trip to the cabin with four or five other guys, depending on who's able to get away. The overlapping themes of the trip include fishing, drinking, and movies, not in any particular order and not that they're mutually exclusive.

I've known the guy who hosts it since we were both six years old, something that makes my tired bones cry if I dwell on it. The others are people the two of us have met since reaching adulthood. Most of my friends are alike, however, no matter how long I've known them; emotionally stunted twelve year olds with more money than sense. This applies regardless of how much or how little money any particular friend may have.

Anyway, the friend who hosts it has some money. I don't begrudge him that. He may be the single hardest working individual I've ever met. He bought his cabin for a relative song some years ago, a cozy, old fashioned place on a beautiful lot on the a nice bay that belongs to a chain of lakes that hosts the summer cabins of movie stars and CEOs in addition to people like my friend who got in just in time.

But, as I said, he has some money now and this spring he tore down the old place and put up a new one. It's where he and his wife hope to retire some day and it's spectacular; high, arching windows and custom furniture inside, landscaping in front and back. Most important, it has a well stocked bar, something of special utility during the thunderstorms that rolled through over the weekend.

I didn't sleep much while I was there. We arrived at midnight on Thursday and stayed up until 3 a.m. I was up Friday morning by 7 a.m., for no good reason, and then there was fishing and cooking and drinking and Saturday was early again and then Sunday and then I got home just in time for baseball practice.

It was hot today. It hasn't been that way much and the kids were antsy and bored.

"Scrimmage," shouted Coach P. about halfway through. He broke out the Wiffle balls.

"God, no," I said.

Wiffle balls mean I have to play instead of standing around barking orders. I'm not exactly a triathlete under the best of circumstances and I was in no shape to go chugging around the bases after this weekend.

At my first at bat, I hobbled to the plate using my bat as a crutch, to the great amusement of the moms who'd gathered on the bleachers to watch. Hilarious.

On the first pitch, the kid on the mound threw at my head. I ducked, using muscles that had tried to slough away years ago. On the second pitch, I made contact and hobbled, this time for real, to first just in time to have one of the kids grab the base and run toward the outfield.

"See how you enjoy sitting on the bench the next couple games," I yelled.

Mercifully, the scrimmage finally ended. It was a 63-63 tie according to the official scorer, who happened to be Coach P. Then we gathered to sing "Happy Birthday" to one of the players as he blushed furiously and happily.

For dinner Coach P. and I and our sons had cheeseburgers at one of the local fields so he could scout out some potential all star candidates. Coach P.'s been selected as one of the two head coaches for this year's all star season, which includes a district and then a state tournament. Try outs are in a couple weeks and my kid's desperately hoping to make the team. He's got a decent shot.

"How was your weekend?" Coach P. asked.

"Good," I said.

"You missed a great game."

"I know. It was still fun."

"Got any pictures?"

"Sure. Got one of me holding a smallmouth bass."





















"Nice."