Playing catcher. Fluky, lightly hit foul floats to my right, far enough to be a problem, but slow-moving enough to make me think I have a chance. We are behind but poised to rally. I give chase.

I so want to win. The team we're playing is made up of some punk-ass. white-trash rocker kids, all looking like they've just done MTV's Becoming doing a Blink-182 video. All except for the Rob Zombie wanna-be in left, the rocker dude with the gelled-up Tommy Lee hair too cool to put on a hat and play, and the geeky first-baseman allowed to play with the cool kids because he looks like he's the only one who knows how to play. The team's manager, a fat swishy kid who is more of the team mascot, is a dead ringer for the character in Boogie Nights with the huge crush on Dirk Diggler. They're the type of team that puts skull and crossbones with on their jersey's, half of whom write numbers like "666" and "420" on their back. Strangely, nobody has "69" on theirs. I guess they couldn't make it. I so want to beat them. I am having such a generation gap issue (and for the record, I have never done anything like that or played on a team like that- neither with fake funny numbers on the back or rocker dudes on the team and I'll deny to my death any photos taken of me with a 0 on my team t-shirt or with a shortstop with dyed black hair).

As I chase after it, realizing perhaps that I'm just a foot or two behind it, a voice calls out to me: "dive for it and it will come." I see it happen in my mind- the dive, the catch, the cheers. And then the rally that comes from my incredible, rally-inspiring play. I see myself never having to play catcher again and given an infield position. This is my big moment, my moment of truth.

And just as the vision of me divining and catching the ball comes to me, so does the vision of me in a similar situation, tearing my knee. And a vision of me in the doctor's office being shown an MRI of my herniated disc.

The ball falls in front of me, a harmless little foul. I pick up the ball, throw it back to the pitcher and go back behind the plate.

I hate getting older.

PS- We went on to get clobbered. Turns out we were the first team the other team had ever beaten. Oy.