A League Of Our Own

Somewhere between the hot wings and the bananna pudding Stephen determined that a family baseball game should be the order of the evening.



It may have been the hot sauce talking, but we were all "all in" and shortly upon arriving back at the house bats, balls, t's, and make shift bases were strewn across the yard.

Before you could say Micky Mantle , the game was underway.



The teams were a little lopsided to my way of thinking.  Miss A, the G-man and Grammy were taking on the big guns, the family power hitters.  So not fair.

Don't you think for one minute I wasn't dying to wipe that silly grin from his handsome face.



Take that Pappy.  Step away from the plate.



We underdogs soon realized it would take more than traditional baseball skills if we were going to have a fighting chance.  Tackling seemed to work well for Allie.



Soon the devine Ms. M was lured from the safety of her sun room to our back yard field of dreams.  (Ms. M is the next door neighbor who is now officially part of the family.)  I am certain it was the pre-game warm up drill conducted by our very own kindergardener that drew her out of her house.  She thought we were preparing to dance and she didn't want to miss it.



It didn't take long for her to get into the spirit of the game.  With a little encouragement she grabbed the bat and showed us her stuff.  M, thanks for joining us.  You're welcome to play on my team any time!

The G-man soon discovered that if you can't get to the ball in time just sit on the base runner, eventually the ball will make its way to you.

I thought I might give that tactic a try too but the big boys wouldn't hear of it.

Just hit the ball Grammy.  Just hit the ball.

Our bases may have been Uncle C's old school work and our bat a little on the light side, but the smiles and the laughter were the genuine article, the real deal.



And lest you forget, there is one constant in family sports.

Before the fun expires someone will end up in tears.  And that someone is usually the little guy.



Come on now.  Say it with me.  I know you're thinking it.
On the count of three.  One.  Two.  Three

"There's no crying in baseball!"



Ahh, Popcycles.  Band aids for the wounded soul.




Many thanks to B who manned the camera while I participated in the festivities.