Two hours spent sitting on aluminum bleachers outside an aluminum fence housing eighteen boys wielding aluminum bats is, for me, excruciating.
In spite of a somewhat chilly wind, the sun was blazing today, and I dressed accordingly, offering up as much winter-white skin as decorum allowed. The kind of warmth only God can provide got me through the third inning. As our pitcher walked his fourth batter in succession, I watched an opposing player lope home for an unearned score, and reassembled my limbs for maximum exposure. “You can do this!”, played like a mantra inside my head.
Blessedly, the game ended just as I feared ennui would surely overtake me. As I struggled not to remember that this was just a practice game, and that the regular season still stretched before me, Shane emerged from the dugout. We walked, arm-in-arm, towards the concession stand and lunch, while he rehashed his performance. And, I remembered; the warmth of my skin as it browns is nice, but this is my favorite part of baseball season.
Are We There Yet? 
