Softball

I started softball practice today. I was a little nervous. I've never really played, and no amount of playing catch with Tim really equals a game. Luckily, 9- to 12-year-olds aren't really that great either. They sure do have a lot of attitude, though.

(I did go to one or two theatre softball games in Alabama, but I got heatsick pretty quickly from all the exertion. I hope it's not too bad in Chicago this summer, though I think I was even more out of shape that usual down south.)

It was fun. I was glad I'm good at catching already because then the girls didn't question why I was there. And I've been around Tim long enough to pick up a few things, so I was able to give them some pointers. (Um, mostly the ones I've heard him give me, like "watch the ball go into your mitt.") Most of the girls seemed to accept me pretty quickly; a few of them kept wanting to practice their throwing and catching with me, even during the water break.

I think after a few practices, I'll feel more confident with them so I can do more coaching. I'm still not sure what kind of dynamic S wants. She's the head coach, and has been doing it for seven years, so she knows all of the old girls, the rules of the game, and how to run practices. She mostly recruited me and a few other classmates because she needs bodies at the practices and games. I'm sure that will all get worked out soon.

It feels good run around in the sun and shake the grey winter off.

Basketball

Tim still tells the story about the day he realized I was the one for him. We were at his best friend's childhood home, helping his parents move back in after the house had been destroyed by fire then rebuilt. In between loads, or perhaps to stay out of the way of the real movers, we cut the bottom out of an old plastic bucket and nailed it to the garage. Andrew or Tim produced a basketball, and we started playing. I don't know why I was the only other one playing--probably I was feeling shy and didn't want to stay in the kitchen with everyone else that I didn't know too well yet. But I also love basketball.

Tim had the ball and was heading towards the basket. It will forever remain an argument between us because I contend that I was firmly planted and he charged me, while he thinks I wasn't, and his move was a perfectly legal offensive attack. Regardless of who is right (I protest publicly that it's me, though don't tell him I might concede not both of my feet were on solid ground when he hit), I ended up on the ground, and then in the kitchen, washing the blood away; I still have a scar on my elbow to showcase whenever this story is told.

He realized he wanted someone who could take what he dished out, and I realized I wanted someone who would go the basket ruthlessly, then argue the technicalities later, not treat me delicately just because I wasn't as good a player, or because I was a girl.

At our wedding, we passed around cards for everyone to write on. Most people gave their best wishes. My favorite one comes from a boy who was 8 or 10, and was at the house that day we played basketball. His says, "I remember when I first 'met' you as a couple. We were at the house soon after they moved back in after the fire. I heard people commenting about Tim, 'she's the one.' I must say they could not have been more right."

Amazing insight for such a young boy. Reading it always reminds me of that day, and the joy of a basketball under, and leaving, my hands, and happily loving someone with all my heart, and sharing simple, easy joy with him.