"Okay, so, now some people," the young woman sounded a bit nasally because the eyeglasses were pinching the ridge of her nose together but she kept explaining what kind of game this was.  The long and the short of it was American Sports.  And some of the grownups were purposefully (i)failing(i) at the tasks before them.

     The batter stepped up to the plate.  Large man, very tall with a tee-ball red plastic bat.  Sherry was the ballkeeper.  Every kind of ball, big and small, in the laundry basket on the mound next to her.  She had to keep wiping the tears and sweat from her eyes even though she had a cap on that read: (i)The best is yet to come(i).  This she did and wiped her hand on a burping towel, then she sized up the batter.  She put a finger to her chin to think, think like Winnie the pooh bear, tapped her temple, and didn't pick the softball.

     There'd been no airplanes for days so finally I tugged on the Macaroni Man's lumberjack "warmth"/winter coat.  He took his hands out of it's big pockets and turned gently and knelt on one knee.  "What is it princess?" 

     Mad face.  "I'm not the princess!" Shocked face. "Well, who are you?" 

     "I'm PANDA."

     The Bucket Woman blew a dog whistle and all of us kids went to her, even the wounded.