Help Save Second Base

The bar to which we repair after Friday golf has a shaded, misted patio that subjects its inhabitants to about ninety percent less cigarette smoke than being indoors.  We played Thursday and Friday this week, but Thursday, afterwards, went for our repast of an adult beverage and some hot wings, and for me, at least, to again regale the others over my spectacular shot making skills, which sometimes even result in the ball staying inbounds.

As we came through the doors to the patio we were met with the specter of pink balloons bobbing above each table, pink flowers in vases on the tables and little bowls of pink Hershey kisses on the tables.  Something wasn't right.  Lots of wimmens in T shirts that said "Every step makes a difference".  A sallow complected yoot with an acoustic guitar, frowning in the corner.  A table with pink teddy bears.  I know we weren't expected until tomorrow, but what the hey?  This is our bar and there be wimmens at our table.  Like any heterosexual men in the same situation, we turned to beat a hasty retreat.

"Wait!!  Don't go!"  Three, maybe four of them, I don't know, I was frightened as they swarmed at us, waving pink bras that had been ingeniously sewn into little - a couple of them not so little - purses.  "This is for people who have breasts, who used to have breasts, who know people who have breasts, and for people who like people with breasts!  Don't you guys fall into one of those categories?" 

We confessed that we were, in fact, big fans. 

"Well come on in, join the raffle, sponsor me (no, me!  no, me!!!) in the big walkathon!!"  What else could we do?  G's sister-in-law had just the week earlier had a double mastectomy, and that's not usually elective surgery.  So we sat, had a couple laughs, sponsored a few miles, and left, glad for people like these, and for the people we get to go home to.