Summer Where I Live

Brutal. 107 or some insane temp like that yesterday. Crazy heat. Mad heat. The kind of heat where it's OK to say, "Not fit for man or beast." (Only if there's a blizzard is it OK to say that otherwise.)

My eight-year-old girls' softball team rocked last night despite the heat. They spat in heat's eye. They turned a doubleplay in the bottom of the third (flyball to pitcher, force out at first) and then picked up the last out on a force to third. It was a great moment, as I and the guy helping coach the girls have stressed all season getting outsAnd they've really improved. They're about to turn the corner. If they played one more game a week . . . they' d probably be bored ugly.

I could give a flip who wins these games, but sometimes I find myself having to throttle down feelings of wanting to thump somebody. -- It's the way we played games when I was a kid. All or nothing. You didn't whine or cry. That just wasn't OK. I didn't take that stuff too seriously, though. I just wanted to play. -- Last night we thumped someone, and while the girls on the other team certainly didn't deserve the thumping we gave them (ha, we won by a run), the other team's very loud coach and very obnoxious did deserve it. Actually, I don't think he was even the coach. More like the lacky assistant who doesn't want to commit to handling the whole enchilada, but he'll offer up his head coach-quality advice every game and every practice he can make it to until you eventually learn to block him out and he gets the point. If you want to help, cool. Ask me what you can do. Don't tell me what to do. Hell, he was yelling at what I hope was his own kid (although I feel for her) because she was late to the game. She was every-so-slowly trotting along in the 107-degree heat because she was 1) hot, 2) hot, and 3) about to get hotter. "Hustle!! I don't care! Hustle. Come on. You're up next!!!!" Ugh. So then the HEAD coach says (although too softly to my liking), "It's alright," trying to let this guy know in a polite manner that he looks like a fool and everyone knows it. But the ASSISTANT coach doesn't listen. He just bellows on to let everyone know how integral he is to the whole machine.

So anyway, the Royals rocked the field last night. My own child, hovering second base diligently like a hawk out for blood, got whacked in the back of the head on a perfect relay throw from the left fielder. Evidently, there was a better game going on the field over. My pride and joy barely blinked, though, which makes me wonder if she's just tough or has a screw loose and doesn't feel pain. I'm leaning to the latter for now. (By the way, only those who have done it know how difficult it is to explain to an eight-year-old the importance of keeping the force on at second by making the correct throw from the outfield? My girl strung that baby on a rope. Thing of beauty.)