Sending him home

Given a better shortstop, he shouldn't have been on base at all in the top of the first inning of the third game of the wood bat league playoffs. He'd hit the ball well: a low line drive skipping hard off the dirt in front of the infielder. Never field the ball sideways when you can handle it straight on, I tell my spring league softball players. The shortstop sidestepped it though, bouncing the ball off the heel of his glove and into short left field. Our runner stood winded and safe on first.

A clean single to the gap moved our portly yet quick baserunner around second, teasing the outfielder to force a bad throw to third. Instead, the center fielder zipped the ball back to second behind our runner, allowing a nifty headfirst slide underneath the throw. Safe!, the umpire signals. Gotta love a dirty uniform.

Another clean hit up the middle and our runner sprints to third. The third base coach flails both arms wildly signaling a turn for home. The first run, as they say, is the most important, the jump start the team needs to move on in the tournament.

The catcher straddles the baseline, two hands raised high anticipating the throw. Our runner, in that split moment, recognizes that a slide between the catcher's legs leaves him far short of the base. His hips lean ever so slightly to the right. He pivots, carving an angle for a diving approach to the plate. He slices and accelerates to the left. His arm stretches behind the catcher reaching for the dish. The dust flies. The crowd and players all lean in for the call. And....

...and...

...and the walking boot comes off in 6 weeks. It's a simple thing, fortunately. A left ankle that dislocated and broke in a cloud of dust before popping itself back into place amid my cursing and grimacing in the dirt by the backstop. My teammates, their concern focused solely on their fallen comrade of course, drag me and my newly bum ankle across home before the catcher realizes I'd rolled completely past the plate, never coming anywhere close to scoring. The doc tells me I've broken the outer end of my fibula, the smaller of the lower leg bones, and the one, he says, they don't really care about since it doesn't support much weight. I don't even get to take that much time off work.

But the run counted. We went on to win that game and the next one before bowing out and taking home the faux marble plastic third place trophy. The ankle's more annoying than painful, but at least I've got a good story to tell.

Friday morning

I walk north along the beach this morning, the warming yellows of the rising sun on my right, the cool gray fog blowing softly off the ocean to my left. As the sun slowly slides above the tops of the nearby hills, the alchemy of early morning turns the low-lying silvery haze to gold.

Aggressive waves overtopped the spit last night, clearing the sand of yesterday's footprints and gullprints. Steep banks have been carved into the sloping sands by the surf. A solitary line of tracks left by an early rising fox bisects the beach.

At the edge of the estuary, two pairs of Caspian terns each stake out some private space. In each pair, a larger steely-gray backed bird stands alongside a slightly smaller, mottled brown partner. A mating pair perhaps; Caspian terns partner for life. Or maybe a mother and child, or a father and child; these largest of terns continue to provide food for their children for up several months after they're born.

In either case, my presence disturbs them all. The two closest to me squawk off to join the second pair a hundred yards or so further up the beach, safe from this Converse clad intruder. The foursome is then interrupted by an annoyed gull who chases off one of the larger birds. Moments later, the absent tern is joined in its escape by one of the smaller ones.

The estuary waters shimmer in the morning light. Across the estuary, small frogs leap silently skyward, inches above the water's surface, making a meal of low flying insects before splashing awkwardly back into the green pool. The entire estuary simmers with hundreds of tiny splashes.

Like the seals in winter though, the frogs seem to sense my presence and the splashing diminishes wherever I approach the shore. They hide well in the clear water, waiting until I've moved on or turned away before resuming their breakfast.

It feels like fall. The number of people stopping by has suddenly and dramatically diminished. Our summer staff slowly dwindles, one by one heading off to other endeavours. The hectic pace of summer melts into the reflective calm of autumn. And, once again there's time to think. Time to walk. Time to wonder. Again. Thankfully.

Caribou Barbie Reads Good

I got home late last night after a thrilling softball playoff game (losing in our last at-bat, goshdurnit) just in time to catch a replay of Sarah Palin's address to the Republican National Convention. I briefly fantasized that she'd announce, "I'm honored to be nominated, but woefully unprepared for this awesome task," then gracefully withdraw from consideration for the good of the nation.

But no, with a sparkle and a grin, Ms Palin blew us a kiss, denied her sordid past, and turned us all on. I'll admit it, she was good, especially if you enjoy red meat political sarcasm and cynicism wrapped up in a tight bun tossled with a healthy dose of resume fluffery and a few out'n'out lies.

But, then again, give me a professional wordsmith, three days of lockdown practice with a team of political image coaches, and expectations so ridiculously low following five days of embarrassing revelations about my family and (brief) political career, and I think even I could've lit a fire under a few thousand previously passionless partisan white folks with exaggerated tales of my hardscrabble suburban middle class life and limited executive experience.

Sarah Palin's highly touted and subsequently lauded speech was, of course, not of her own creation, but the carefully crafted words of bush aide Matthew Scully, read from the rolling screen of a plexiglass teleprompter. In fact, Palin's speech was originally written for an unknown male VP nominee (Romney perhaps?) and later dolled up to fit the new gender and family fairy tale that is McCain's hail mary choice for a ruling partner.

"Not anticipating that McCain would choose a woman as his running mate, the speech that was prepared in advance was "very masculine," according to campaign manager Rick Davis, and "we had to start from scratch." (Washington Post, 9/03/08).

That modern day political speeches are often ghosted by others more clever with words than the candidates themselves, is certainly no secret. But in the midst of her able recitation of Matthew Scully's script, this self-styled pitbull in lipstick had the cajones to attack Barack Obama for writing two books which thoroughly outline his own life story, his political philosophy, and his vision for the nation. Obama has also written all of his own major speeches that represent, (from Palin's lips and Scully's pen) "the idealism of high-flown speechmaking in which crowds are stirringly summoned to support great things".

I'm a lover of words and what words can do to provoke and inspire. Presidential campaigns are most certainly more than mere words. But I prefer knowing that the words coming from the mouths of those who yearn for my vote and my trust, emanate from their own thoughts, their own experiences, and their own dreams, not wholly created by clever underlings to be poured into the mouths of polished and pressed political mouthpieces.