Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack.

We went out last night.

Oh wait. Have I already used that expression?

Guess I better use it again. It's fitting.

I was out with co-workers last night. Our company sponsored a Minor League's baseball game in Frederick, Maryland. The Frederick Keys were playing the Winston-Salem Dash. Aren't baseball team names great?

Mom and Sis joined us for the game, too! They grabbed their beers and settled into the stands. The co-workers were smitten.

Are you ready for a story?

Last week my manager casually asked me if I could throw out the FIRST PITCH OF THE GAME.

After I fell out of my office chair I told her I hadn't picked up a baseball since 1992.

Then I broke out in hives.

Then I ran home and begged my brothers to practice with me.

Then brother Stephen told me it was a distance of 60 feet from the pitcher's mound to home plate.

Then I cried.

  

Last night I took a deep breath, and walked on to the field (with my manager's two and a half year old daughter tagging along).

Someone handed me a baseball.

Someone with a microphone told me to watch for my cue.

My head began to spin.

Somewhere over a loudspeaker I heard my name announced.

Somehow my feet made it to the end of the red carpet.

I was standing ten feet away from the pitcher's mound.

Ten blessed, beautiful feet closer to home plate.

In the distance the catcher stared at me.

A lone crow flew over the field.

And somewhere a dog barked.

Just kidding. About the crow. And the dog.

Suddenly, my arm was throwing that baseball...

...and it was lobbing over my head...

...and flying perfectly into that leather mitt in the distance.

And somewhere in the stands, Sis heard a group of old men comment to each other, "I think she's been practicing."

 

And somewhere in the dugout, a baseball player groaned, "She throws like a girl."

 
And somewhere on the field, a Maryland girl had a story for the grandkids.