Quiet weekend. The perfect kind of quiet. Friday night I went out, Saturday night I mostly stayed in. Brother and mother in town. We watched Firefly, and drank wine from a box, and it was comfortable, blissful, to sink into the couch cushions and not do anything.
Did a lot of reading -- I'm two-thirds through The Golden Compass and The Pulse 5 was pretty good. It was awesome, to see Jessica Jones actually do stuff again. I love it when she does stuff.
Did some writing, too. Went to the comic book store last night, to buy bags and boards and see what was on sale, and came back with two trade paperbacks and some notions for the Hearttaker minicomic I'm writing. I flopped on my bed and sketched out panels, writing the words within, doodling the images I imagined there, as the light drained out of my room.
And then I knit a little bit and watched White Men Can't Jump. I'm trying to figure out how to write basketball. My expertise lies not in sports.
Except, of course, when it came to last Saturday afternoon. Unnamed Hit Sitcom vs. Unnamed Bad Drama. The battleground? The softball field.
Half-blind from the sun, vision even more obscured by the sunglasses and hat I wore, I strode up to the plate, dragging alongside me the lightest bat available. I had the faintest recollection of P.E. games and X-Files episodes, the resonating visual of Barry Bonds at the plate, tapping it with the bat before bracing those powerful arms for the swing.
I stepped up, bent my knees, tapped the plate twice, waiting for the slow parabola of the underhanded pitch...
At first, I couldn't even see the ball hit the bat, bounce toward third. It took me a moment to realize that it was good, that no one had caught it, and that I had only moments to make it to first.
And after that first base came second, and third, and home. Base hits driving me on. The Unnamed Bad Drama Chargers unable to touch me.
I crossed the plate grinning. I'd never scored a run, even in those playground games.