A Double-Header and a Hammie

3:00am - alarm goes off, try to ignore it
3:10am - dogs insist on getting up
4:00am - arrive at work
9:00am - still doing work stuff
12:00pm - leave work
12:40pm - arrive at dance practice 40 minutes late
2:00pm - still dancing, polishing routine
2:35pm - warning from choreographer not to get hurt before competition
3:45pm - first game of softball double-header
5:00pm - second game of softball double-header
5:02pm - base hit
5:02pm - blow out a hamstring

We lost the first game 11 to 6. Hey, at least it wasn't a shut out. We (sort of) held our own against "Orange Crush." We were pleased to at least have a few runs on the board.

As the second game (against "Chix -n- Stix") began, I was the first in the lineup. I hit a low ball just past the second baseman and took off for first base.


Then I heard it.

Pop!

There was second or two between the sound and the first shooting pain. The sound itself was probably more disconcerting than the pain. Your body just isn't supposed to make those kinds of noises. Nothing good can come from a sound like that.

Geeeeeez, it hurts!

They offered a sub. I thought I might be able to make it to second. As the next batter nailed the ball (and was caught out), I started for second base... dragging my right leg, hobbling and shouting expletives. That was it. They sent in a sub. I was finished.

Benched. First inning. On the DL.

Hopefully, the Mydol will help with the ouchies. Damn, it hurts. A lot!

Little concerned about dance competition on Saturday.......

It's Really Not This Hard

All I needed was a pair of softball cleats.

That really shouldn't be difficult.

Nothing at Target. Not at the shoe store next door. The sporting goods store wants the equivalent of a tank of gasoline for them (roughly $327). But some friends found cleats (super-cheap) at the World's Largest Retailer.

Now, you have to understand, I am not a fan of the World's Largest Retailer. I have been known to use the word "evil" to describe WLR and what I think it has done to our economy. I blame WLR for the death of three grocery stores, a sporting goods store, a hardware store, a computer store and at least one clothing store in my hometown. And I doubt my little hometown is different from dozens of others across the country. WLR did not absorb all those full-time jobs, benefits for families or salaries. Hundreds of people (in a very small, economically-challenged town) were forced to look for work out of town. The local economy has been decimated.

But, today, I needed cleats. And I decided to suck it up, put my morals and my bitterness aside for a few minutes and go to WLR for its cost-effectiveness.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I found myself in the very heart of Middle America. Big hair. Pot bellies. Fords and Chevys as far as the eye could see. (My Volkswagen with the top down was definitely a one-of-a-kind addition to the scene.) This is exactly what the world imagines America to be. Welcome to the stereotype.

The Greeter was less than enthused to see anyone coming in the door. She grunted out some kind of nearly-audible salutation. I smiled and turned to say hello... but she had already buried her face with some kind of pretending-to-sort-a-stack-of-sale-flyers maneuver.

The Store is enormous.

4,365,782 acres of fluorescent-lit merchandise... and hundreds of people scurrying about trying to stock it, arrange it, price it, stand-and-stare-at it and even buy some of it. It's overwhelming.

I needed a map. Or at least a compass. And bread crumbs to leave a trail for escape.

There were bikes hanging from the ceiling in the distance. Two miles to the southwest. That must be Sporting Goods. I began hiking.

At the culmination of my trek, I found a woman rearranging something on a shelf. I still needed a map. She didn't have one. But she knew the terrain. She instantly became my trusted Sherpa.

Cleats aren't here. They're in the Shoe Department. Follow me. Three miles west. 

We missed the 12:35pm shuttle. So we were on foot.

After a few minutes of searching for the person who actually knew the local terrain in the Shoe Department, we recruited the help of two more WLR associates. No one knows where softball cleats might be. Eventually, though, we assembled a group of five associates debating where to find the elusive cleats (Sporting Goods or Shoes) and how to dig up the Great Shoe Representative. It never occurred to anyone that the store might have a paging system.

Someone from Electronics, two states over, knew the answer. And led us directly to a small stack of orange boxes hidden in the farthest corner of the Shoe region. In the meantime, the Sherpa who had briefly disappeared and actually met the Great Shoe Representative face to face, came back with directions. Better late than never.

With the crisis averted, our merry band of part-time-with-no-benefits associates began wandering back to their previous tasks. And I was left to stare at the $15 cleats.

None of which were my size.

Dime-a-Dog Night Rocks!

Bailey suggested it this afternoon (she's on the far right in the picture... with Don, Marcus and Mikaela). She and a band of merrymakers from work were heading out to see the Columbus Clippers play the Rochester somebodies. But, more importantly, it's Dime-a-Dog Night! Every hot dog is only 10 cents! It's like an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord for less than a dollar!

It's a whole new twist on "dinner and a show."

Don and I got to Cooper Stadium shortly after the game began... and immediately jumped in line for dogs. The lines were long enough that I was able to go to the ATM and grab a couple of beers before he was anywhere near the counter. But when we finally ordered, sure enough, five dogs, fifty cents. Sweet! We gorged.

The Clippers were down 5-1 until the eighth inning. They pulled out a spectacular, come-from-behind win, scoring six runs in the bottom of the eighth then holding off Rochester's attempts in the ninth.

It was a blast! And now we can say we've seen the Clippers play at The Coop. It's going to be great when they move to the new stadium in the Arena District next year!

An Incomplete Team Photo

Q's Bottoms of the Ninth:

Mark - "Breeder"
Josh - "Butchie"
Justin - "Cider"
Becca - "Wild Thing"
Chase - "Baby Huey"
Dana - "Shorty"
Shaun - "Kitty"
Michael - "Dutchess"
Marshall - "Radar"

This is the End of the World As We Know It

Oh. My. God.

Every muscle in my body hurts.

They hurt before we hit the field this afternoon. Now, every fiber of my being is telling me how much it hates me. There aren't enough Icy-Hot patches in the world to help me turn my head to the right. Or help me lift either leg higher than a few inches. Or un-stove my thumb.

Yeah. This was a good idea. This was fun.

At least we won!

"Q's Bottoms of the Ninth" beat the Chase bank team 12 to 11. In the third inning, we scored nine runs and the umpire called the inning (he forgot which division we were playing and thought the nine-run-limit was in effect).

I batted three times. (1) Out at first. (2) Single to center. (3) Walk.

Otherwise, I was in right field... thankfully. It's quiet out there. Except when a couple of lefties decide to bash the ball 834 yards into the back of the park.

We actually did pretty well today. Especially for a team that met some of its members on the field. The past couple of days' practice really helped Shaun and Josh put people in positions appropriate to their skills. (Again, this is why I'm in right field.) Everyone worked together pretty well. Sure, there were errors... it's a recreational league for goodness sake. But we all had a pretty good time.

What Part of "Come In Out of the Rain....?"

When you were little, your mother taught you to come in out of the rain. It's wet. It's cold. It's miserable. It's better to be warm and dry.

This is not the mantra of my new softball team. We spent our afternoon at the park, in the grass, throwing and batting. We couldn't use the empty diamonds because they were sloppy mud pits. At least we had the entire park to ourselves -- no one else was crazy enough to be out there.

After the first hour, the rain began to let up and we even had a few breaks of sunshine. The sun itself took pity on us by the end of the second hour.

After throwing enough that my arms began to feel that 39-year-old soreness, we began to get into a groove. The batting is okay. Need some serious work on grounders.

Oh, and by the way, we're playing our first game tomorrow. Excuse me? Yeah. Surprise! Tomorrow. We play the team from Chase bank. That explains the sudden, urgent need for all this practice!

What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

With a few drinks in me, it sounded like a good idea. "Sure. Let's do it!"

And I filled out the forms... signed them... handed them over.

Apparently, I'm an idiot.

I have signed up to play softball this summer. Every Sunday. And there seem to be practices to go along with it. Who knew?

We spent a good chunk of Friday afternoon at Berliner Park tossing around a ball and re-learning what it feels like to throw. Then we headed off to the batting cages in Westerville (the Berliner cages were closed).

I haven't played ball since I was 8 years old, running around a minor-league diamond in Bucyrus with a t-shirt emblazoned with the V.F.W. logo. It wasn't the game that I despised so much... it was the running. As Colleen would say, "Mama don't run!"

But here we go. This might actually be fun.

I'm a little surprised at how it all kind of comes back. Keep your eye on the ball. Keep that elbow up. I might remember how to do this after all.