Thirty-four and I'd never played on a team before. Not in school, not anywhere. Too busy helping with the younger ones.
But the furniture yard is slow in winter, and a guy from the loading dock said they needed a body for the beer league. I showed up with a borrowed glove.
The commissioner is Mike. He quit smoking three years ago but still keeps his silver Zippo in his pocket. Flicks it open during arguments, snaps it shut after a good play.
I got a double my second at-bat. The ball skidded past the left fielder and I just kept running. Mike clapped from the dugout, lighter in his palm.
After the game we sat on the tailgate. He pulled out a folded newspaper — a crossword half-filled in blue pen, a few answers in black. 'My wife starts it, I finish it,' he said.
I asked about the lighter. He said it reminds him he can quit something and still keep a piece of who he was. That it's not about the smoking. It's about the choosing.
I'm thirty-four years old. I just learned I like running toward something instead of away. Maybe that's a beginning worth keeping.