Pam Beesly pulled into a parking space in the lot on the edge of the Scranton Municipal Softball Field and killed the engine. "Here we are," she said.

Jim Halpert looked through the windshield. "Definitely the minor leagues."

The fields were small, cramped. The grass looked worn and tired after a spring and half-summer of constant use and harsh sun. A little breeze kicked up a dust devil at the far edge of the fields.

"Did you remember to bring the bases?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for the door. "They're in the back."

Pam got out, locked the doors and keyed open the trunk of her car. She leaned in to lift out a cardboard box, turned, and found herself practically in Jim's arms. He reached for the box and their arms met.

"Here, I'll get that," he said. The breeze ruffled the hair peeking out from under his Phillies baseball cap. He smiled down at her. He wore track shoes and navy warm-ups over a white T-shirt.

"I think we're in Field Number Three." Pam reached into the back of the car, tugging at a long, heavy canvas bag. "I've got the bats here."

"Let's switch, then," he said. They shifted burdens, arms touching, hands brushing. Two cars pulled in next to Pam's and she heard voices.

"Pammy! Pammy-Bammy!" Michael Scott's cheerful voice sang out. He came around his Sebring, locking it with his remote.

"Hi, Michael," Jim said.

Pam looked past Michael expectantly. "Isn't Jan with you?"

"Um." Michael looked away. "I had to tell her that she can't play on the team because she's not an employee."

Pam and Jim exchanged a look. "Oh, that's too bad," Pam said. "We need all the women we can get."

"Maybe she can come later," Jim said.

Michael perked up. "That's what she ... no, wait. Never mind." He bounced on the balls of his feet, looking from Jim to Pam with a mischievous look. "So, Jimby, are you guys stuck on third base, or have you made it all the way to home plate yet?" He burst out with a self-congratulatory laugh.

Pam's cheeks turned pink, but Jim just raised an eyebrow. "Hey, are those golf shoes?"

Michael looked down at the loafer-style shoes and brought one ankle across his knee. "You said to wear spikes."

"Yeah, on running shoes. Are you going to be able to run in those?" Pam asked. She shut the trunk of the car, hefting a box.

"Hey, Pam. Hi, Jim." Toby Flenderson walked up, carrying an ice chest.

Michael saw Toby and his face fell. "Does he have to be here?"

Toby looked at him patiently. "Michael, as long as the company is sponsoring this team, Corporate requires an HR member be onsite --"

Michael waved his hands as if shooing a fly. "What. Ever. Just... sit in the stands, will you?"

"He can't," Jim said. "Toby's playing centerfield."

"Says who?"

"Says me," said Jim, slinging a large equipment bag over his shoulder. "You made me team manager, remember?"

"Assistant team manager. That doesn't mean you get to say who plays!" Michael protested. His windbreaker flapped open, revealing a Phillies jersey. It looked brand new.

"What did you think a team manager did?" Jim said, amusement flickering in his hazel eyes. His gaze shifted to meet Pam's, then back to Michael. "Toby played centerfield in high school. We need him in the outfield."

Michael opened his mouth to protest. Pam headed him off. "Michael, aren't you going to wear the team jersey? The one you made me order for the entire office?"

Michael looked down. "Oh. This is my lucky jersey."

"It still has the price tag on it," she said, pointing to the white tag dangling out of his coat sleeve.

"Yeah. That's my, uh, lucky tag."

A van roared into the parking lot and screeched to a stop. Loud rock music blared from it before the motor died, dieseling with a hut-hut-hut sound. "Hey!" Meredith called from inside. "Somebody help me with this crap."

Jim and Michael went over to help Meredith and Creed and Kevin unload catcher's mitts and other protective gear. Pam watched Jim as he walked away, his lanky stride outdistancing Michael's easily. The wind tousled his hair.

"Better get this stuff over to the field," Toby said. He was watching her watch Jim.

"Yes," she said. Pam reached into the back seat for her art kit and hurried after Toby. She glanced back, hearing a roar, and saw Darryl and Lonny pull into the lot in Darryl's truck. Lonny waved at her.

Sunken spots dotted the infield, where water from last night's rain had collected. They reflected the serene blue sky as Pam lugged the last of the equipment to the area behind the backstop. The backstop itself sagged, but it wasn't rusty and it did look like it would stop a foul ball, so she couldn't complain. A huge old oak spread its branches over a patch of damp earth and a dilapidated picnic table.

By the time all the equipment had been unloaded and the bases placed more or less where they were supposed to go, Darryl and Lonny were tossing a softball back and forth. Oscar and Creed were lining up bats against the backstop, ready for the players. Andy and Dwight argued over the position of the picnic table behind the backstop, shoving it back and forth. She saw Angela's car arrive in the parking lot. A motorcycle roared into the parking lot and she knew Madge from the warehouse had arrived.

"Hey, Pam," Michael said. He stood behind the backstop doing some exaggerated form of warm-up she'd never seen before. "Don't forget to warm up! Gotta stretch the old thigh muscles. You don't want that caboose of yours to get any fatter. And speaking of which, where's Phyllis? She's late."

"She'll be along later," Jim said from behind Pam. She turned just as he tugged his warmup jacket over his head, leaving him in a tight white T-shirt.

"We can't wait," Michael said. "We'll have to start without her." He started running in place exuberantly, then winced. "Ow! My ankle!" He hobbled off to the picnic bench.

"You haven't told him?" Jim said in a low voice. He leaned close. She saw he hadn't shaved that morning; his jaw was dark with stubble.

"No," she answered. "I'm too chicken. Do you want to tell him about Phyllis?"

"Nah," Jim said, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning. "I should. But I won't." He grinned. "I'm going to take a turn around the outfield. Come with?"

"And give up this nice sunny spot? No way."

"Slacker."

"Jock."

He grinned wider and took off. She watched him as he ran past first base, waving at his teammates, and headed out to the far fences at a loose, easy mile-eating pace. It was a delight to watch him run.