I’m supposed to be eating complimentary hotel-breakfast, but I’m in line behind a girl’s softball team.
The dining room is nothing but long-hair, red ribbons, glitter makeup, and striped softball socks.
“They're here for softball camp,” says one mother. “And they're having TOO much fun.”
They are breathtaking, these girls.
One girl is nearly six-two. Her mother is braiding her hair while she eats eggs and plays with her phone.
“Hold still,” her mother says.
“Gah, Mom,” the girl points out.
I had a friend who played softball. I won’t use her real name—she knows who she is.
Most of her life, boys poked fun at her because she was taller than they were.
She was one hell of an athlete. A catcher. To watch her handle a second-base steal attempt was poetry.
Her right arm was a shotgun. Her bat was the Eighth Wonder of the World.
The boys called her Fat Ass. She cried for two decades.
I wish she wouldn’t have. Because she is one
of the prettiest girls I ever met.
Today, she's married to a high-school football coach. Sometimes she helps him on the field. She and her husband have three daughters.
They are the all-American family. They go to Disney World twice per year.
They are happy.
Well, I don’t mind telling you that I like women. Real women. Every single one.
I like the shy, the outspoken, the well-behaved. I like the kind who can cuss the hair off your neck.
I like those who admire what they see in a mirror. And I have a softspot for the sort who don’t think much of themselves.
I like those who make poundcakes by…