Last week, when 24 men, near or beyond the age of 50, returned from their second annual March softball outing in Sarasota, FL, there were two questions on our minds: Why was this only our second annual?; after all, we have been playing together every Sunday, weather permitting, from April through December for almost 15 years and simply put, what could be better than this?

When I told people about our upcoming trip, most would ask, Was this a fantasy camp? or Were we playing a tournament against other men? "No," was my answer, "We are just taking our regular Sunday morning pick-up game on the road." Few fully comprehend our passion for our game (and playing softball games in March is a rare treat, although we are presently on a consecutive month streak of 13 with no end in sight).

Direct from the airport, on a bright 80 degree Thursday afternoon, we arrived for the first of four doubleheaders on a beautifully maintained field located in a residential area of a Sarasota suburb. To any local resident, the sight of 24 men simultaneously emerging from six vans with bats, balls, uniforms and even a home plate umpire's brush must have been surreal. Within minutes, we were dressed and ready to play; with cries of "Play Ball" filling the air.

As the first game ended, the local high school girls varsity softball team began arriving for practice. We had watched the girls play last year and were impressed, and ever since a debate raged amongst us as to whether we could beat the girls if we ever got the chance. Seizing the opportunity, we quickly negotiated the terms of a scrimmage with the girls' coach. Yes, there would be stealing and bunting; their rules, not ours. We would use our ball; not as hard or potentially dangerous as theirs.

Unfortunately, Megan, their All-Star pitcher, would be able to throw her 70 mph rising fast ball at us from a mere 38 feet away (we pitch from 45 feet). We would get six outs per inning. No confidentiality provision.

My best recollection is that 18 of the 24 batters that faced Megan struck out. One of us was daring enough to bunt for a hit, a first for us; as was the stolen base that followed a hard earned walk. While we managed only three hits, the girls' eagerness to beat the "old guys" showed as they made several errors, and when the girls came up for their last at bat, we were up 3-1. Magnanimously, we offered the girls six outs. But the girls continued to have trouble hitting our cagey veteran pitchers and did not score. As the teams lined up to shake hands, discussions began about next year's game.

Three days of ball, fun and sun, with no major injuries, followed, and it was time to go home. What could be better than this?

Was it fate? On the return plane from Tampa to New York, we were seated with the Hofstra University Girls Varsity Softball team, nationally ranked with several All American candidates. We talked softball, and we talked scrimmage.