Pam picked up Jim's discarded warmup jacket and folded it. It smelled of him. She hugged it to herself as she sat on the picnic table, her feet on the bench. She noticed that no one except Dwight was wearing the team jersey. She thought the logo -- a stick figure with a Dunder Mifflin logo box for a head, designed by Michael himself -- had something to do with that. She herself wore a pink sweatshirt and olive drab warm-up pants. She was amused by the wild variety of outfits: Meredith's no-nonsense gray sweat pants and hoodie, Oscar's green pants and yellow polo shirt. 

Pam counted in her head; almost the whole team was here. She knew that Stanley had refused to join the team, so she wasn't surprised at his absence. Of course Ryan wasn't really part of the office team now that he was in New York. Then again, Pam was surprised this many had showed up anyway. Maybe everyone just needed an excuse to get out of the house as summer ripened. She watched Darryl, Oscar and Lonny tossing softballs around; their easy expertise spoke of hours on a ball field together. She remembered sitting on the bleachers in high school during spring practice, watching Roy throw home from the outfield and hit line drives that put the fear of God into pitchers. That was a long time ago, she reminded herself. She wondered where Roy was today, what he was doing, and felt a little sad.

Toby ambled over and joined in. Soon the men were throwing the ball around, laughing as Lonny snagged one out of the air. She envied the automatic camaraderie of men playing sports. No matter what other issues men might have, everything dissolved in the spirit of the game. But then she remembered a hard-fought basketball game a few years ago and thought maybe that wasn't always true.

Jim jogged back to the backstop and took his seat beside Pam on the table, feet on the bench. He was breathing a little heavier, but wasn't winded. Good heart condition, Pam thought. Good heart.

Michael called for a team meeting, but no one paid any attention until Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "DunderHeads! Team meeting!"

Everyone gathered at the picnic table. Angela was setting up her first aid kit and lining up paper cups filled with ice. Kevin stood beside her sneaking potato chips out of a big bowl. Beside him, his grill and a huge grocery bag full of hot dogs and buns cluttered the ground.

"Okay," Michael said. "Remember, the whole point here is to have fun. And to win. Mostly to win." He frowned. "Especially against Vance Refrigeration. Those guys are pussies. Oh, sorry, ladies," he said, glancing at Pam. Meredith glared at the back of his head.

"Michael, we need to get the batting order straightened out," Oscar said.

"I should referee," Dwight said fiercely.

"I agree," said Angela. "I'm sure he'd play by the rules."

"It's not about rules, Angela," Dwight snarled at her. "It's about winning. Weren't you listening to Michael? If I'm the referee, I'll make sure we win."

Angela glared back at him. Pam looked from Angela to Dwight and wondered what the hell was going on. Because there was more there than met the eye. Were they breaking up?

There had been too much conflict. Too much ill feeling. Dwight's resignation and return, Andy's meltdown, the whole Roy thing, and then Karen and Ryan leaving -- no one had been more pleased than she was when Michael decided to form a softball team. But now she wondered if this bickering bunch could play together.

She looked up and met Jim's eyes and he lifted an eyebrow at her. Look at this bunch of losers, it said.

She lifted an eyebrow back. As usual, he'd read her mind.

"Kevin should be umpire," Michael said.

Jim shook his head. "Can't do that," he said. He looked at Toby. "Tobe?"

Toby spoke up in his soft voice. "The City League rules say we have to have one of their umpires. I called them Friday and they said he'd be here at eleven."

"That's just ... unfair," Michael said angrily. "How can an outsider call our game?"

"Uh, that's the whole point, Michael," Toby explained. "And if we want this game to count in League play -- "

"No! I will not have some stranger butting in--"

"Look, we don't need an umpire for batting practice," Jim said. "Michael, could you just lead the warm-ups while I figure out the lineup? Maybe show the others some batting tips?"

Andy stood. "Michael, didn't you tell me you hit .250 in the Y League?"

Dwight perked up. "You were in a league, Michael?"

"Yes, I was. I was the best hitter," Michael said brightly.

"Wasn't that Little League?" Darryl asked. Lonny snickered.

"Then I would be honored if you would show me your secrets," Andy said smoothly.

"Of course," Michael said, beaming. "Come on, Dwight. You can pitch."

"I can hit, too, Michael," Dwight said. "I once hit a five pound beet over the barn."

Michael waved him silent. "Pitch, Dwight. And try to get it over the plate, okay?"

The three walked off toward home plate. Jim turned to the rest of the group, letting out a sigh of relief.

"Okay, I want first base. Anyone object?"

Kevin stopped munching. Crumbs were scattered across his chest. "I wanna play right field."

Darryl looked at him. "Are you kidding me? Can you even run that fast?"

Kevin reached for more chips. "I might surprise you."

Jim turned to Creed. "What position do you want to play?"

"Wide receiver," Creed said.

"Just don't let the girls pitch," Lonny spoke up. "I didn't give up my Saturday to spend the day in the outfield watching the girls play catch."

Darryl snorted. "Yeah, we ain't here to play pussy ball."

"Fuck you," Madge said genially. She slammed a softball into her well-used glove. Her T-shirt had had the sleeves ripped off and her biceps looked almost as big as a man's. "I'll play short, Jim."

Darryl and Lonny groaned.

"The women are supposed to alternate batting with the men," Angela put in. "Those are the rules."

Jim ran his hand through his hair. "Okay, guys, settle down. I'll figure it out. Who has the form?" Toby silently passed him the official form. "Anybody got a pencil?" Jim asked.

Pam dug a pencil out of her art kit and silently handed it to him. He shot her a grateful look, put his leg up on the picnic bench and balanced it on his knee. The movement drew his sweatpants taut against his thigh and Pam saw long muscle flexing under the fabric. She watched him as he hastily wrote up the batting order.

1. Michael, right field

2. Madge, short stop

3. Lonny, 2nd base

4. Pam, catcher

5. Jim, 1st base

6. Meredith, pitcher

7. Darryl, 3rd base

8. Kelly, left field

9. Toby, centerfield

"Okay," he said to the group. "Everyone got equipment?"

"I thought I called right field," Creed said.

"I have to put Michael in the lineup," Jim explained patiently. "And he'll do the least damage in right field. The farther out, the better."

"I don't even want to play," Kelly said. "Can't I just stay by the table?"

"We're a co-ed team. Rules say we need four women in the lineup," Jim said. "Come on, I know you can do it."

"What the hell, Jim? You put me after Meredith?" Darryl said. "I should be leadoff."

"We'll switch later," Jim said wearily. "This is just preliminary. Let's get some practice in before the other team gets here. Remember to rotate your positions after someone bats."

The others drifted away, still arguing, spreading out around the infield for batting practice. Jim looked around. He and Pam were alone. "Hey," he said.

"I notice that you kept Dwight off that lineup," Pam said.

He grinned at her. "Hell, yes. Listen, are you sure your knees are up to this? Catchers spend most of the game squatting."

"I can handle it," she said. "Roy and I used to play a lot of catch."

Jim looked away. "Um. Okay. Let me know if you need Oscar to step in."

"Okay."

He dug into a pocket. "Oh, hey. I got these for you. You know, for when it's your turn to bat." He pulled out a pair of fingerless batter's gloves. "You don't want to ruin your hands. Might make it hard for you to draw."

"Thanks," she said. She pulled them on; they fit perfectly. "How did you know what size to get?"

He looked away from her, reached for a bat among the half dozen lined up along the bench. "I know what your hands feel like," he said in a low voice. Before she could reply, he handed her a bat. "Here. I think you can handle a thirty ounce."

She took the bat and he walked away, swinging two bats easily in one hand. She hefted the bat, took a tentative swing or two. He was right; thirty ounces was perfect. It was heavy enough to put some power into her swing, light enough she could get some speed on it. He knows me so well, she thought.