None of them have played since junior high school at best, and the first innings are chaotic. Sandy plays shortstop and does pretty well with the grounders, until one bad hop jumps up and smacks him right on the forehead. He grabs the ball in midair and throws out the speedy Abe by a step. His forehead has a red bruise that shows the ball’s stitching perfectly; it looks like some of the surgical work on Frankenstein’s monster. When Sandy’s told this he starts acting the part, which makes for somewhat stiff short-stopping.

Tashi has apparently lidded some Apprehension of Beauty; he watches everything with the dazed wonder of a four-year-old, including, when he comes to bat, the first two pitches from Arthur. Openmouthed awe, bat forgotten—what an arc! Sandy runs up and reminds him of his purpose there, mimes a hit. Tashi nods. “I know—I was just getting the trajectory down.” Next pitch he hits one so far over Humphrey’s head in left field that by the time Humphrey even touches the ball Tashi has crossed the plate and sat down, looking more dazed than before. “Home run, huh? Beautiful.”

Third out and Jim takes left field in a state of rapture. “I love softball!” “Jim, you never play.” “I know, but I love it.” Trotting out onto that pure green diamond time disappears, all the adult concerns of life disappear, and Jim feels like an eight-year-old.

Unfortunately for his team he also plays like an eight-year-old. Arthur is up, and he hits a fly ball toward Jim. The moment it’s hit Jim begins to run forward, because after all the ball is in front of him, right? But while running in a little basic trajectory analysis shows him that in fact the ball is destined to fly far over his head. He tries reversing direction instantaneously and falls on his ass. Scrambles up, oh shoot there goes the ball, running desperately backwards trying to look over his shoulder for the ball, left shoulder, right shoulder, how do you decide? Now the ball’s falling, awful acceleration as it does, Jim running full tilt makes a great leap, the ball hits his outstretched glove then bounces off and out, no, an inch more of leather and it would have been an unbelievable catch! He falls, runs to the ball, throws it wildly past Sandy as cut-off man, watches Angela recover it and fire it in sidearm as Arthur cruises across the plate. Damn! Virginia, on deck, is laughing hard. Jim throws his glove down, shrugs ruefully at his grinning teammates. “Hit another one out here!”

“I’ll be trying,” Virginia calls back.

More hits, more alarming misjudgments, awkward scrambles after the ball, wild throws back in. It’s fun.