Critical

Dr. Wife is playing softball with her colleagues on a city league team. She loves the game, and was trained by her father at an early age how to do such things as "hustle" and "keep your eye on the ball" and "walk it off." She can hit and throw and catch, though it is possible that after success at each she will jump up and down and squeal gleefully. She can "use your cutoff man" and will "watch the third base coach" when appropriate.

Being new to the city, it was a bit of a struggle finding the fields for the first time. Thankfully, Tom-Tom guided us with the power of GPS geekery (thank you, Skynet). We followed its guidance, dutifully turning right ahead and in 500 yards kept left. Across the train tracks. Past the steel building parts wholesale. Carefully past the strip clubs (Kalamazoo has strip clubs?!). And finally, behind the beer distribution center we found the softball fields and playground.

I'm not a city planner, nor do I pretend to be a civil engineer. I do not have experience in managing softball complexes. But I might suggest that this location is not really conducive to a family atmosphere. The grounds themselves were well kept, though muddy. A few large piles of mulch and sand indicated that the spring parks crew would be improving it even further as the weather continued to warm.

Dr. Wife took her glove and went off to join her team, and I took Miss Neverpoop off to explore the playground. Dozens of dandelions later, we reached the playground beyond the fields. It was in relatively good shape, with no sharp edges or broken glass. A smattering of small children scampered about on scooters and with sticks. All normal things.

I was almost lulled into believing that this was an oasis of safety. I was nearly capable of ignoring the proto-thug graffiti in the small canopy above the slide (U Love Me with the L backwards). I blocked out the fact that three-year-olds were running around for an hour with nary a parent in sight.

But then I found a sign that I could not ignore. A token from my own miscreant past. A piece of paraphernalia that brings to mind stolen cigarettes, knives, and lustful thoughts.

A 20 sided die.

That's right. The park has role-players. Gamers. Dungeons and Dragons obsessed nerds. It isn't fit for decent folk. I felt at home.