I play in a slow-pitch softball Theater league in Chicago, where I have allied myself with The Goodman Alum. No, I've never acted at the Goodman nor have I ever worked at/with the Goodman, but here I am, playing with the best teammates a girl could have. Every year, this group gets together to defend the honor of GAs against those pesky Runamucks or Mud Hens or ::shudder:: Second City; and every year, we never quite defend ourselves into first place. However, we've got more team spirit and support than anybody else, so we consider ourselves #1. The first game of the year is always underwater, which means that this time we played in the outfield and the ball went rolling and bouncing its way past the pitcher, the short center, and sometimes right past center quite frequently. We were there, but obviously not *enough*. That's the magic of the first game; nobody cares. We're there, we're running the bases, we're actually throwing to a target and generally making it, and sometimes the bat meets the ball with a loud *thud* and it arcs into left and after a spectacular dive, both teams cheer the guy who caught it. Because really? That's what the game is about.

We have a variety of skill levels every year, and this year my skills have sent me into short center. That's a good place to play unless you're on a grass diamond. (See above) I spent a lot of time muttering things like "gah!" and "ferfrickle" and words my mother doesn't know I say as I screwed up continually. Of course, I *did* catch a solid line drive which made up for lots of errors (nothing like stopping the fastest runner on the other team) but that's not what I remember about the game. I remember the ball that bounced off my ankle instead of into my glove (they got to third on that); the ball I slowed down with my open palm but didn't actually *catch* and then when I went to throw to the pitcher to end the play, overshot to home and then we gave up another base; the hit I made directly into the pitcher's mitt (I mean, the man didn't even have to move his hand, it was like a homing device); and last but not least, the inability to tag the correct person out. I tagged out my friendly first-baseman, who had run over to cover second as I fumbled my way to the ball, and then TAG! He's...not out. So yeah, practice is in order.

But the smell of fresh grass and damp earth and the thud of the ball into a glove and the sun casting long shadows across home and chatter of the infield and the love of the game makes it the perfect Monday night in May. I look forward to about 12 more.

And I *just might* actually get to second under my own power. I look forward to that game.

~~~~~

8 days until Matrix Reloaded arrives at the big screen. Me? Excited?

Ok, maybe just a little.