From Leah, who flips her shades at the kind of man who can slide his way into her heart:
It’s the most wonderful time of the year: the trees are blooming, day trips to Atlantic City are imminent, and best of all, co-ed softball is back. These guys are special. Every weekend, like sweaty t-shirted pilgrims, they gather in our parks to play ball, to socialize, and to look absolutely freaking great. They come from all walks of life: lawyers, bartenders, network techs, and the occasional out-of-work actor. Some are in the best shape of their lives; others peaked in Little League.
They keep wildly different hours, hail from all over the city, and may vehemently demand (or stubbornly refuse) a beer for hydration after hauling ass down the line to be the first to beat out a grounder. (Those in the know refer to this kind of wildly diverse man buffet as “something for everyone,” whether your tastes run short and sweet – looking at you, Anna! – or handsome and emotionally unavailable, like mine.)
They’re supportive teammates, generous with high-fives, and always willing to believe that I’ll get on base next time, even as I sulk out of the batter’s box on a[nother, called, underhand, slow-pitch] third strike. And let’s be honest: fit or fat, there is just no movement on earth so perfectly designed to make a dude's body as desirable as uncorking a blazing throw to beat the runner at first. Don't believe me? Check out noted Goofy Looking Person Raul Ibanez whipping the ball to make the out and tell me you’re not even a little turned-on.
Boys of summer, one and all: welcome back to the field. And if you want a cold one after hustling down the line, I'll be standing there with a Solo cup and a smile.