Softball Is a Bruising Thing, and It Makes a Purple Ring

Sorry about that, Mr. Cash. But that’s what has been taking up much of my time, lately. Church softball. It’s harder than it used to be — playing, that is. I find that a philosophical approach is helpful when trying to draw meaning from those painful moments in the outfield when the other team adds a run or two at one’s expense. Philosophically, I stand there, breathing usually, the grass being very green and grasslike. And with the clarity of the sage, truths come to me. Truths like, “I’m old,” and “I’m really old.” I was cruising this planet before that grass was even born. Somebody needs to mow it, by the way. Sort-of like I need to shave my beard-thing. I’ve had it for eight whole months, now, longer than standard. It started back in August on the canoe trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness Area in Minnesota. So, that’s what I’ll do tonight while my aches mature and my legs try out new colors: shave my goatee. Or is it a fu manchu? You know, it’s that popular moustache-chin combo that is so horribly trendy I thought I’d never acquiesce. It is no longer the same dark color it was back when this ballfield was still in a seedbag over at Ace Hardware. The gray does make me look old-er. That’s the plan…tonight I pull out the razor and rage against the sage and what might turn out to be half-truths. Tomorrow I’ll look like me again. And if anybody’s taking note, what looks like slowness of movement might really be a measured savoring of whatever’s coming my way.