Remember in high school how you'd go to baseball games because you liked a boy on the team? That was often the case for me, but I also went because I liked baseball, and I took stats for the baseball coach. This was because he was my favorite PE teacher, he needed them and I liked to do them. And I did them well. And, truth be told, I also took basketball stats for him. Not football, though- I was a yearbook photographer when I wasn't marching in the band, so I was on those sidelines anyway. I got to go to all the home and away games. And I loved to watch sports up close, and still do.
Well, now in my middle age I've come full circle. I've been attending softball games because I like a boy.
Ok, well, actually, he's a man and we've been dating, and he wants me to go to these games to watch him play, so I go. Having always been a baseball slut, making the leap to softball slut isn't that much of a stretch, even though the games are actually quite different. More men in the outfield, shorter distance between the bases, big ol' softballs instead of baseballs. Funky underhanded pitching. Shorter games, too, only seven innings. The middle-aged men playing the game look a bit different than high-schoolers, or MLB players, but it's still fun to watch them get out there and hit and run and field and talk trash to each other. Sunshine, the crack of a ball against a bat, the thunk of a ball in a glove, really, what can be better?
He introduced me to his teammates, and they seemed like really nice men. Certainly they must be patient men because they put up with him. Let's just say, he's a bit particular about his softball. He's also incredibly particular about his stats so I haven't yet volunteered my services in that arena, as much as I like to do it, because heaven help me if mess up something. I'm sure I would never hear the end of it.
So, the first afternoon I was sitting there after the game, and one of his teammates walked by. "I just have one question," he said. "Why?" Then he laughed and left.
Why? Good question. I thought back to my original list of requirements in a man, after my divorce. In no particular order, it was: Intelligence. Sense of humor. Physically fit. Emotionally fit. Honest. Kind. Willing to travel. Willing to integrate lives. Financially fit. Not full of himself.
I had these words written down on a piece of lined paper, and I carried it around in my Day-Timer for years until the paper was so soft and creased that you couldn't even read the words any more. Every man I met, he had to have at least seven out of the ten qualities. Unfortunately, men lie about many things. And some of the key things, like emotional issues, don't always reveal themselves right away. Intelligence, kindness, a wicked sense of humor and a strong sense of the absurd are paramount for me. Someone trustworthy, not too full of himself. Someone that has bigger balls than me. Some things that weren't even on my original list have become equally important to me, like wanting to drop everything to watch a baseball game together. Having interesting conversation. Sex. Being happy to stay in, wearing pajamas. Being happy to spend quiet evenings together, in pajamas, reading and writing. And here's the most important thing: feeding me. I really like to eat, and I'm not the best cook, so he needs to do most of the cooking. I'll grocery shop, and I will happily do the dishes.
Honestly, there's nothing better than eating a fabulous meal that someone else made, dressed in your pajamas, then settling down to watch a game together. Heaven.
Just call me Ms. Excitement.
So the answer to that "Why" question? Well... why not?
Well, now in my middle age I've come full circle. I've been attending softball games because I like a boy.
Ok, well, actually, he's a man and we've been dating, and he wants me to go to these games to watch him play, so I go. Having always been a baseball slut, making the leap to softball slut isn't that much of a stretch, even though the games are actually quite different. More men in the outfield, shorter distance between the bases, big ol' softballs instead of baseballs. Funky underhanded pitching. Shorter games, too, only seven innings. The middle-aged men playing the game look a bit different than high-schoolers, or MLB players, but it's still fun to watch them get out there and hit and run and field and talk trash to each other. Sunshine, the crack of a ball against a bat, the thunk of a ball in a glove, really, what can be better?
He introduced me to his teammates, and they seemed like really nice men. Certainly they must be patient men because they put up with him. Let's just say, he's a bit particular about his softball. He's also incredibly particular about his stats so I haven't yet volunteered my services in that arena, as much as I like to do it, because heaven help me if mess up something. I'm sure I would never hear the end of it.
So, the first afternoon I was sitting there after the game, and one of his teammates walked by. "I just have one question," he said. "Why?" Then he laughed and left.
Why? Good question. I thought back to my original list of requirements in a man, after my divorce. In no particular order, it was: Intelligence. Sense of humor. Physically fit. Emotionally fit. Honest. Kind. Willing to travel. Willing to integrate lives. Financially fit. Not full of himself.
I had these words written down on a piece of lined paper, and I carried it around in my Day-Timer for years until the paper was so soft and creased that you couldn't even read the words any more. Every man I met, he had to have at least seven out of the ten qualities. Unfortunately, men lie about many things. And some of the key things, like emotional issues, don't always reveal themselves right away. Intelligence, kindness, a wicked sense of humor and a strong sense of the absurd are paramount for me. Someone trustworthy, not too full of himself. Someone that has bigger balls than me. Some things that weren't even on my original list have become equally important to me, like wanting to drop everything to watch a baseball game together. Having interesting conversation. Sex. Being happy to stay in, wearing pajamas. Being happy to spend quiet evenings together, in pajamas, reading and writing. And here's the most important thing: feeding me. I really like to eat, and I'm not the best cook, so he needs to do most of the cooking. I'll grocery shop, and I will happily do the dishes.
Honestly, there's nothing better than eating a fabulous meal that someone else made, dressed in your pajamas, then settling down to watch a game together. Heaven.
Just call me Ms. Excitement.
So the answer to that "Why" question? Well... why not?
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