“Hey kids… can I join you in a game?” I asked, walking out through the French windows.

About seven faces turned to me in utter amazement.

“But you don’t know how to play!” exclaimed my eldest grandson, a ten-year old with a mischievous grin.

“Well then, teach me … show me what’s so great about the game!” I challenged.

A series of nervous giggles went around the faces of the children at the thought of sedate Grandma crossing the boundary lines which separated her world from theirs. Grandma was supposed to provide the after-game drinks and eats, along with any bandages if required, and cheer the winners and sympathise with the losers – this was an invasion of territory. On the other hand, I could see the thought of actually teaching a grown-up something and being in control was winning the upper hand in their minds.     

In a few minutes, amidst much laughter and argument, I was being taught how to hold the bat, the basic rules of the game, the outfield and the infield, the bases and initiated into the mysterious world of body language communication between the pitcher and the catcher.

I’ll never forget the moment I stood at the home plate and faced my first ball – I missed.

“C’mon Grandma, you can do it, give it all you’ve got!” shouted a grandson. Well of course, I couldn’t let the team down after that. 

The next ball was dispatched with all the strength I had in me and I nearly fell over.

“Run grandma, run!” screamed several voices and run I did.

As I stood out there with them, screaming and sweating away, I never felt so close, so a part of their lives as I did then. And I never felt more like a delighted child – the thrilling exhilaration of my first home run! And seeing my grandchildren cheering away to glory at the sight of grandma hot and dusty landing on home plate had to be seen to be believed. It was like getting back a lost part of my own childhood.

When it was my turn to pitch at the change of innings, I’m afraid I didn’t do as good a job – my second ball neatly evaded the batter and made its way right through a French window accompanied by the musical twinkling of breaking glass!

“What on earth is going on here?” bellowed my husband’s voice as he came out on the lawn, his hands on his hips.

“Joyce!” he gaped in disbelieving amazement and I’m sure I looked a sight standing there dishevelled and panting. “Was that you??”

The thing I’ll always remember about that summer morning was my eldest grandson stepping up in my defense. He gripped my hand and said, “Grandpa, we’ve been teaching Grandma to play ball and you won’t believe the natural swing she’s got! She is so cool!”

And that was when I felt like I was batting a thousand…