On a recent afternoon at the playground near Bickerdike Park, two 12-year-old boys saw Scout and me and a bat and gloves and asked if we wanted to play ball.
"I'm Gabriel," the scrawny one said, and pointed to his friend. "This is Anthony."
Sure, I said: us against you.
"I'm a lefty," Gabriel added.
The boys readily agreed to lenient rules for Scout and when she got a base hit, they gave her a fist-bump and called her by name and told me conspiratorially, "Man, she's fast!"
The first game, the boys beat us 24-11 in nine innings, and Scout cried a few times.
The next game was called after six because Gabriel had to go home for dinner.
So we won, 7-6, and Scout was thrilled.
Gabriel and Anthony congratulated her generously and said they hoped we'd have a chance to play again.
"We're here pretty much every day," Gabriel said.
"Okay, see you again soon, Man!" I said.
As we picked up the bases, Scout asked, "Why do you keep calling them 'Man'?"
Because I'm happy.
Love this.
Your happiness is compelling, my friend. Reading your story made me happy, too.
Maybe you and Scout will do this with Parker someday?
(All, Parker is Cristie’s sister’s new baby, my new niece, Scout’s new cousin and, as soon as she can hold up her head by herself, our new shortstop.)
Can I play?
Yeah! Get your glove!