Anyway, the secretary plays every year on the clerks' team, which is managed by one of my very nice coworkers, so I figured I'd give it a go. Needless to say, after 27 years I am not exactly Mickey Mantle but I apparently still have some feeble brain cell that remembers how to hit grounders, not swing at bad pitches, and use a mitt. And pound the bat on the plate to line up. Thanks Dad. I miss you.
Afterwards I ate some fritos in the 7-11 parking lot while listening to some piano jazz cranked up really loud. I've gotten to like hearing a piano again, as long as it's not playing that sappy emo chick songwriter stuff. Still can't stand that crap.
* * *
Now I need to go down to the Hellhole Otherwise Known As My Basement and look for the mitt I'm pretty sure is down there, although I don't remember buying it. I'm thinking it might be the mitt we won as a prize in some mail-in grocery store All-Star Game contest, where we sent in a little ballot with votes to choose the players and there was an extra space to pick the player who would make the most spectacular play during the game. Daddy picked Reggie Jackson from his favorite team, the Oakland A's, and that was the year Reggie hit the ball clean out of the park and into some tower over the stadium, and consequently we won a bunch of athletic equipment including a regulation bat and ball and a kickball and a jumprope, plus a whole bunch of other stuff that none of us ever used. The good ol' days.