I played a lot of softball this past weekend, six games to be exact – one league game on Friday night and five tournament games on Saturday.  By the fourth game on Saturday, my legs were painfully sore, partially from fatigue and partially from a thigh strain suffered in the first game of the tournament.  When I told a work friend about that this morning, he scarcely batted an eye as he replied that even his teenage boys would have a hard time playing that many games at once.  That was something I needed to hear.  Up until this morning, I just thought it was because I’m 51 years old.

Shucks.  Who is fooling who?  Being 51 probably didn’t help things.  Of course, I shoot toot my own horn a bit more.  I started the tournament with 21 at bats without an out.  That translates to a lot of base running.  I also played third base for the first time in two months, likely adding to the fatigue factor.   Being an old fart was what led to my inability to play third for two months.  My throwing shoulder takes longer to loosen up now and it finally quit complaining.  Instead it stopped working. I could throw but regretted it every time I tried to throw in a game.

One of the reasons for writing this blog is the continuing attempt to convince myself that I’m not a middle aged man.  Dang it.  Reality bites.  Somehow knowing that I can still play ball at a high level takes away some of that bite.  I also write simply as this is an outlet, as I said above, to “toot my own horn”.  Frankly, what also bites is being married to someone who, as the youngest of an all girl family, has absolutely no appreciation for sports.  Baseball to her (and in her own words) is “a perfect excuse to take a nap”, an assessment I have somewhat earned by my tendency to fall asleep two or three innings into watching a game on TV.  Mir also has never been able to stomach watching me play, goes into her own nap mode if I try to tell her about my game.  For a guy who grew up in a family of baseball fans, it’s been a hard pill to swallow living with a woman who has no appreciation for the game.  She has saving graces, otherwise I would be subjecting her to a quiz like Steve Gutenberg gave his fiancé in the movie Diner.  Just like in the movie, she wouldn’t make the grade.

I capped off the weekend by going to watch the Cubs (ugh, bleah) play at Wrigley on Sunday afternoon.  I’m a Cardinal fan but I make the sacrifice to watch the Cubs when they are playing a team I want them to beat.  They win when I go to watch them at Wrigley.  My mojo is good.  Cub fans should be paying me to go watch the Cubs play.  They would win the World Series.

So, there it is, an account of my weekend in baseball heaven.  It was.