It's pushing 80 degrees out there, and people, I'm excited. I washed all Quinnie's teeny-bikini's and stacked them next to her swim diapers. There's bottles of sunscreen in the medicine cabinet. Our summer beach vacation is officially visible on the calendar. But you can't go full-swing into summer without a little spring, which pretty much is just an extension of winter in my neck of the woods. It's crap.
I was feeling a little bluesy about the lack of quality springtime recreation in my life, so leave it to Hero Husband to suggest we go watch his friend play baseball on an especially warm evening last week. We stopped at the greatest restaurant in the world for a quicky-picnic and I drilled Justin with questions about grown men playing amateur baseball.
Brittany: So, it's like grown up Little League, then?
Justin: No babe, it's semi-pro. They pay to play.
Brittany: Where's the field?
Justin: In Thurmont, in the middle of a cornfield. A farmer gave up some of his land to build it.
Brittany: Is there a concession stand?
Justin: No, babe. We have food.
Brittany: But we don't have candy.
So there was no sugar, but if you drive through Thurmont, past the gorgeous Mathwig Estate, you'll happen upon a little white sign that says Thurmont Titans. I think it should be Thurmont Thitans for alliteration's sake, but whatever. There's a gorgeous farm with the American flag blowing in the half-stormy sky, an open field with busybody horses that nudge you through to the other side then boom! - there it is. The Field of Dreams.
And so we enjoyed a sun-soaked evening watching oversized kids continue their childhood pastime, although there were a lot more curse words than I ever remember hearing at a Little League game, and our team got spanked pretty bad, and perhaps that explains the need for all the players to go to confession on Sunday. But it's gravy because I met some really nice ladies, Quinlan got to meet a horse for the first time, and Justin was reminded that he is built like a linebacker and not a first baseman.