It was almost perfectly scripted. We’re playing softball, and it’s our last turn at bat. We’re down a bit, and there is almost no way of catching up, but we are still in good spirits. The team captain had promised a case of beer to someone if he had hit a home run, so I ask her for the same deal as I prepare to go up to bat. She agrees, and as I walk out to the plate I verify. The first pitch is long and inside, but the second suits me well. I swing a little late, but it ends up for the better; it slices right between the first baseman and the foul line, low and fast. By the time I round first, nobody’s there yet, so I head for second. I usually have no problems making it to second, so this wasn’t unusual for me. But as I make it to the base, I hear yelling, and it’s not the “stay there” kind. I pick up speed and head for third. By the time I hit third I’m thinking about my beer more than whether I can make it home safely, so I don’t even look at where the ball is. I think I hear people saying go home, which only supports my resolution. As I make the final feet I see the ball coming in to home, and a small Asian lady crouched and poised on the plate to catch it. In my final steps I manage to tag the base, but instead of plowing into her I opt to instead roll over her in a move that leaves me very dirty and scratched up, but leaves her in great shape. I stand up, begin to dust myself off, point to the captain, and with a big smile say “You owe me beer!”