Waving Not Drowning

From a distance her legs look like two savoury plump sausages in technicolour flip flops with thinner links for arms. Long blonde hair cascading from under a baseball cap with a ridiculously oversized brim, neon orange-armed Wayfarer knock offs and an off the shoulder, deliberately distressed tank top with a faded picture of The Velvet Underground and Nico's Andy Warhol album cover, likely bought brand new last week in the market at one of the dozens of vintage shops lining the streets. Sharon catches her breath- it is like walking directly into the  mirror version of her 15 year-old self circa 1987. She wonders if maybe those are her actual cut off high waisted 501's, one of the four pairs she finally Goodwilled last season after coming to terms with the fact that the '80's never worked on her hourglass shaped rubenesque body. She is a 40's girl, bred in her bones, and so is this pretty young thing walking straight at her, oblivious to everything except her smartph...

"Call it! Call it call it! Get on it- yup, yup, yup, you're there- you're there! No! no no no no- it's dropping, it's short! Damn! DAMN." Roger watches helplessly from right field as the pop fly drops mere inches in front of Cary's feet, then bounces and rolls right through Cary's legs and heads toward the ravine. Roger whips his head to the left involuntarily as if to dismiss the image. He clucks his tongue in disgust and frustration and is just short of throwing his glove to the field. A bit of a drama queen. That's why he gets stuck out in right field, especially against teams with  few to no lefties or pull hitters. Just to rile him up. Dennis makes sure to shuffle him around every so often so that he doesn't catch on and threaten to leave. They often come up short fielding a team so that's why the others keep Roger around. But boy is he loud. And cranky. Hostile, even. Physically threatening at times, which is really not appropriate fo...