That time again

Springtime, that is -- when baseball returns to make all things right in the world.

Now, let's be clear; I'm not talking about *watching* baseball. My Giants are so bad this year there are fans on the message board saying we should trade our best young pitcher Matt Cain out of compassion for the poor guy. He's 23 years old and if he goes 7-16 with a great ERA again it could scar him for life.

No, what I'm talking about is *playing* baseball. And it's funny to be saying that, because I was never more than decent in Little League and didn't play at all in high school or college. In those days I was mostly just a fan. But after college I started playing softball with a group from the office I was working in and it just stuck. I moved across the country not long after and was back on the diamond with a new neighborhood softball team as soon as I could find one.

That team celebrated the start of its 19th season last night.

It was a typical Tuesday night at the ballfield down the street at our local park. Twelve guys who mostly hadn't seen much of each other since last September showed up and greeted each other like long-lost cousins. The youngest guy's wife came by with his two little kids; one of the older guys was showing off a mug shot of his new grandbaby. Spring training lasted 15 minutes and consisted mostly of goodnatured grousing about sore knees and elbows and scar tissue popping as we threw.

And then we went out and played -- mostly -- as well as we ever do and won 9-6. Afterwards we sat on the grass for a round of cold beverages and ribbing. There was absolutely nothing unusual about the evening, and I loved every minute of it. So never mind the Giants for today; today I'm just going to ride on the good feelings of playing the game itself, and paying for the privilege. It's spring again.