Conquering Vertigo

Batter Up!

With Ricky, this could go either way:
sports blog...
food blog...
cake walk!

You never totally know someone when you marry them, and they never totally know you. There are some conversations you never get around to having until they happen.

Saturday lunch time, we were in the middle of a church retreat in the California wine country (Russian River valley), when one of those unknowns hit the mound.

But first, an anecdote!
Later that day, one woman remarked to several of us during a wine tasting event:
"This is why people hate us."

"Which us," asked a man, swirling his Chardonnay, "Americans? Episcopalians?"

"No," she replied, "Californians. Here we are in the mountains on a beautiful afternoon, swilling wine, discussing the finer points of cilantro pesto vs. red pepper pesto, and none of us know quite where our children are."

But back to lunch. Many options await us (free time is big at our church retreats) and Richard says: "Come on, let's go make fools of ourselves on the softball field."

So we head out to the softball field in the blazing near-summer afternoon heat, where Dan and Sandy have us divided on teams by birth year -- Evens (Skins) versus Odds (Shirts). Which puts me and Ricky on different teams. (We were going to be the Christians and the Lions, but our Rector said that would offend genuine Christians and lions.)

Softball is new to our marriage. We've never discussed it, never discussed playing it, liking it, being good or bad at it. And now we're playing publicly. Are we really going to make fools of ourselves?

Suddenly, Ricky is playing 3rd base on the opposite team, his cap pulled down low, dancing lightly in shorts and hiking boots. More suddenly, my team mate hits a line drive straight down the third base line. Long, tall Ricky jumps and shoots one glove-bearing arm out into the ether, snagging the smoking ball and retiring my side.

Yum. Who knew he could play, and play well? I want to give him many sons.

Now we (the Shirts) are in the outfield, and I'm tapped to pitch. Ricky looks at me sideways, not sure whether to trash talk or be gentle. He doesn't know I can pitch, because we've never discussed softball.

Editor's note: We're talking slow-pitch church league family softball with big soft balls and the implicit connivance of adults that if one of the 6-year-old children hits the ball, they make it to first base. (It's fine to throw them out at second, but let them get to first.)

Three batters later, Ricky realizes he can trash talk, because I can pitch.
Three innings later, we all quit. It's just too darned hot to play any more, particularly when swimming pools, shady cabins and wine tastings stretch before us.

The Shirts took the Skins, 15 to 12. Father Jason said to Ricky, walking up the hill back to the cabins: "So what's it like to go home with the winning pitcher?"

The Man smiled and said, "It makes losing a little easier."

posted by Woman In Love @ 9:02 PM