On Sunday morning, we woke up in a bed in our hometown of Grand Forks, N.D., and discovered we were sore. What was this? What had thrown our muscles for a loop? Sure, we had been up (too) early Saturday morning for a workout on an elliptical machine. Sure, later, we had gone for a fairly long walk with the pug down to a local dog park. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Oh, wait. It was the baseball. See, we have a 9-year-old brother, Ben. Like us at that age, among his primary concerns right now are 1) collecting baseball cards and 2) the act of “playing,” which often includes baseball. We are not that age anymore. We are 32. But still, if a 9-year-old wants to play baseball, you play baseball. When, in your daily life, is a spontaneous game going to break out otherwise? So, about 15 minutes after getting off the elliptical, we headed down to ball fields where, 20-25 years ago, we used to play almost daily. The fences seemed crazily close to home plate these days. In fact, the whole complex seems smaller. Everything in Grand Forks seems closer together than we remember, but that’s a story for another time.

The game would be simple: Ben has a bag of about 12 baseballs (bought them with his own money, he will proudly tell you. He will also tell you, point blank, “I bet I could run faster than Prince Fielder. He’s FAT.”) With those Ben-bought baseballs, we would take turns as the hitter and the pitcher. The ones the batter missed, he would have to collect up at the end; the ones that went into the outfield were the pitcher’s responsibility to gather up. We would end up taking three turns each through the bag of balls, with us providing lobs and encouragement from the mound (again, it was so close!) and trying desperately to hit one out of the park with an 18-ounce bat when at the plate (a couple off the fence on the fly was all we could muster). Ben had some nice hits of his own, ending with a solid smash into the left field grass. Game over, everyone is happy.

Ah, but that was just round one. After visiting our grandmother, and going to the dog park with our mom, we came home around 7:45. There was still daylight to play “hot box.” (Link safe for work). We probably played, in hours, what added up to months of hot box when we were younger, and we were eager to show Ben how to play. In need of a third player — dad’s knee won’t allow it — we bribed the RandBall Better Half with the promise of a stop in Albertville on the way home Sunday. She consented, finally (and, we should point out, probably had just as much fun if not more than the two brothers). Hot box is simple. Two bases, at least one runner. Two players stand at the bases throwing a ball (in this case a tennis ball, and good thing it was) back and forth, while the runner tries to pick spots to dart from one base to the other without being tagged out. A great, fun game for building catching and baserunning skills. But also a game requrining quick throwing, as well as a lot of lateral movement and starts and stops on the bases. We played, again, for about 45 minutes — learning along the way that the RBBH is not above using cheap, Kent Hrbek-esque tactics to our Ron Gant baserunning, in an attempt to oust us from a base and tag us out. Again, a good time was had by all. We went home, fell asleep not too long after, and Sunday morning woke up with what could be described as “general soreness.” Arms, legs, the whole thing.

Soreness is not specific to getting older. We used to get a sore arm sometimes even as a kid from the 8,000 baseball games we played. The worst case of soreness we have ever experienced came after a game of snow football, followed by a 5-hour car ride, when we were maybe 19 and still relatively young and spry. But this soreness Sunday — this was soreness from aging and a different kind of life. This was soreness from using muscles that aren’t exposed to a treadmill or to 8-10 hours a day on a computer. It wasn’t excruciating, but it was there.

Feeling a little creaky and sorry for ourselves, we sauntered upstairs to find out that Tom Watson was still leading the British Open. Amazing. A full generation older than us, and this 59-year-old man was splitting fairways and holing clutch putts. We slowly started to milk the clock, hoping that some foot-dragging would allow us to delay our 11 a.m. estimated departure time to see it through. The RBBH, herself tired from all of the previously described activities, minus the early-morning baseball, obliged by sleeping late. By the time we had eaten, showered and packed, the Open was on hole 16. Remembering our Albertville bargain from the night before, we double-checked their hours (open until 7) and, despite knowing we might be cutting it close, explained that we were watching history. Thus the clock moved to noon (Watson took the lead on 17!) and the scenario became clear: a par on 18 was all Watson needed to win. A bogey meant a playoff. He split the fairway again, and not just with some safe 4-iron. That thing was out there. All he needed was a safe shot into the green and a two-putt. But … as we all know, the second shot came through that fast green plenty hot and nestled just up into the back rough. Employing the RandBall short game method (and also the safe thing to do), Watson putted from there, scooting the ball well past the hole and leaving himself a 50/50 putt. We told the RBBH not to worry: if he missed, we would still leave. We knew it was now or never — that the magic that had lasted, improbably, for 71+ holes would have a hard time extending four more.

And, of course, he missed. We’re not sure if it was age, or nerves, or just a bad hit, but that putt never had a chance. Short and right, a classic hollow push. If you’ve golfed, you know the sick feeling of hitting a putt like that with a birdie on the line. All it meant to Watson was the storybook ending to one of the greatest golf stories ever. But if watching golf teaches us anything, it’s that the finish often imitate life. There might be the ending we all hope for, or someone might rip out the last page of the fairy tale. You just never know.

All we do know is this: Watson is surely glad he played, even if he’ll be thinking about that final sequence for the rest of his life. And we’re surely glad we played — and will keep on playing — even though we woke up sore in the morning.

This entry was posted on Monday, July 20th, 2009 at 9:23 am and is filed under Main. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.