This week I went to my girl’s varsity softball match-up interestingly. It was a late evening game on a wonderful 78° day.

Unexpectedly, the game was at a secondary school I endured four years educating at twenty years prior.

For the existence of me, I was unable to recall where the damn softball field was. My kid eyes recognized a few outfits on a field and I traveled that way not understanding those were the young men.

I approached the field and it equaled the spring preparing office for the Arizona Diamondbacks. Posts with banners and standards advancing the group and different nearby organizations. Perfect perspectives on North Scottsdale filled in as the setting.

This is baseball in Arizona. Not football in Texas.

“Where do the young ladies play?” I asked a sweet looking understudy monitoring a product and bite table and perusing Conundrum.

“Goodness. Way on the opposite side of the track only south of the center school parking garage.”

Stand by. What?

I got in my vehicle and rolled around there. Indeed, I needed to get in my vehicle and drive to the center school and park in their parking garage. There could be no standard lined entrance. I just found the entry to the field through a little opening in a steel wall.

I might have driven nearer to the Salam123. I didn’t understand that the back road past the door took you out to the field.

There was no bite stand. There is no honest teens selling stock.

There was no concealed show off. The young men had a stuffed house. There were five of us sitting in cheap seats watching these young ladies give it all that they had.

It irritated me where it counts into my center.

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