This weekend I took a business trip up to Maryland to get my birthday money from my Dad, and as usual, it did not fail to disappoint. I met up with them at McCormick and Schmick's in Bethesda for my step-sister's birthday dinner, and luckily my little sister Tiff wasn't there. Tiff and I have a bad history of birthday dinners, ever since we almost got in a fist fight at one of DC's premier steakhouses, all over the translation of the phrase, "We're done" into Spanish. Wouldn't you know it, the one time in the history of food service where there wasn't a single Spanish waiter to settle the matter. So we rose to our feet, screaming and preparing for battle as my Dad calmly sat waiting to see which of his children was the more dominant. I was asked to leave shortly after saying something about knocking some fucking teeth in, and Tiff and I didn't speak for like three years. In our family, that's called therapy.

After dinner we got back to Dad's house and I found myself instinctively casing the joint for painkillers and anything valuable not bolted down. My little sister Natalie forced me to watch Eragon: King of the Dragon Homos with her, and I was shown to the Chesapeake Suite to retire for the evening. Sleeping in a bed feels weird after sleeping on a couch for like 8 months. I liked it.

The next morning my Dad and I went to Natalie's softball game. Little league softball games are the perfect place to pick up women, if you are a woman. My Dad had a great time pointing at the coaches and elbowing me in the ribs, telling me he'd set me up with 'whichever gentleman I thought was cuter' until I offered to tell the nice short-haired ladies with bats that he was a Republican. Then, the horde of gangly 10 year old girls took to the field. Most of them chose a base to stand on, while others chased each other around in the outfield. The lesbian coaches were of little help, and due to the fact that there are like four girls named Natalie on her team, my shouting just added to the confusion.

My Dad and I were working up a gale from our armchairs, flailing for Nat stop standing on second and fill the gap. "The Nationals" were in the field donning actual uniforms, against "Team Unity," as someone's wife so definitely chose, looking like they lived with cats under an overpass. The pitching started and it was on. You see, there isn't just one coach. As soon as a ball is thrown or hit every mother, father, and brother becomes a coach. The children short circuit trying to pick their parent's voice out of the ruckus, and the result is tiny high pitched chaos.

Natalie, Giant among 10 year olds, blasts one up the middle past the lesbian.

While my sister hit like she was in the wrong league, most of the girls needed work on their batting mechanics. If you didn't see a softball, you would think tiny lumberjacks were chopping wood on home plate. Those who did connect would totter down the baseline and then meander into foul territory as their huge helmet jiggled itself sideways and blocked their vision as they ran. They had all the time in the world though as the infield would kick the ball around and while they screamed and pulled each other's hair. They could make a fortune selling beer at these things.

Each pitch was a lesson in positive reinforcement:

Girl stands there and doesn't swing....pitch is a ball. "Good Eye" / "Wait for your Pitch"

Girl stands there and doesn't swing....pitch is a strike. "Good Eye" / "Wait for your Pitch"

Girl swings and misses. "Nice Swing" / "Good Cut"

In the end, what the game really came down to was which team had more chubby girls. And me, looking out at all the children, smiling and writing these notes, like I was making a pedophile wishlist.