I was tuckered out.  It was sunny.  It was windy.  It was hot.  Looking back, I really didn’t stand a chance.

As the afternoon sun beat down, I plopped my chair behind first base.  My family placed themselves on either side of me.  I relaxed and prepared to watch my son’s ballgame.

After about an hour of sunshine and sunflower seeds, I started to drift.  Drift off to a pleasant place.  A place full of naptime and zzzzzz’s.

I suppose I was asleep for a while, since I had entered one of those quality heavy sleeps.  The kind where waking up is disorienting.  The kind from which your body is reluctant to return.

There I was in that deep regenerative sleep, surrounded by baseball, family, and sunshine, when I was jolted awake.

Something had slammed into my folding chair.  Or did it slam into me?  Had I been shot?  Tased?

My body jumped from under my slouched baseball cap.  Drool escaping from the side of my mouth.

A young ballplayer stood before me.  “Sorry,” he said, as he grabbed a baseball and sprinted off.  I had almost been thumbed by an errant throw.  Mere inches from being plunked.  A bad bounce from being felled for my lack of wearing a cup, as a spectator.

My family soon received a groggy lecture.  They needed to save me next time.  The sun had forced me to sleep.  I needed protection.  Something like SPF 50, but for a drowsy dad, always at risk of an errant bounce toward the netherlands.