It’s Baseball Season—Errors Galore and Someone Just Stole First Base

I’d had several weeks of emails from a man whose online photo reminded me of former University of Iowa football coach Hayden Fry. Since he lived over two hours away, I’d dismissed his profile. But evidently two hours from me wasn’t too much for him. He emailed me a few days after my Cheesecake Factory date and wanted to meet me, any place that I chose. There was a little niggling voice in the back of my head that said: What if he got all the way down here and you don’t like him? How would you get rid of him? In an inspired move, I emailed him that I would meet him in a city that was almost halfway between us, and I’d let him know the exact location soon.

I Googled places to go and decided that since a shopping mall had worked for the first two dates, I would pick one in the area that was nice and populated. That way, I could hightail it out of there if the date was going to be a bust.

While I was in the midst of Googling, my next-door neighbor, Joyce, stopped over with her adorable little two-year-old granddaughter. She invited me to come over to her house, and since I love babies and toddlers, I promised I would after I finished setting up the date on the computer.

Then Brooke called. I told her about my plans to visit Joyce and her grandbaby. I also told her the good news that I had a new date.

“Wow, Mom! A date with three different guys in one week?” She was either duly impressed, or truly shocked that her old mom was this busy. I felt a little embarrassed. And a teensy bit proud.

I mentioned to her that I needed to cut the phone call short in order to send an email to this man. She started to say, “Remember . . . ” but I anticipated her instructions and promised her I would get his phone number (lesson learned from the Cheesecake Factory fiasco). I’d give him mine, too. Brooke just laughed, and we hung up.

Keep in mind there are only so many little grey cells in one’s brain. A sixty-one-year-old brain has even fewer, especially if it’s continually bombarded by chemicals from assorted shades of blonde from Miss Clairol. I emailed my date the information of where and when to meet, gave him my phone number, and asked him for his. Then I ran next door for some baby time!

Not too long after I was there, Joyce’s phone rang. It was my daughter calling for me.

Naturally, I thought one of her kids was sick, but she immediately questioned me in a singsong voice: “Guess who I just talked to? Your date for this Saturday.”

I was totally confused. My first thought was: Oh my God, is he stalking me? How did he know to call my daughter? Is he checking up on me? What is going on?

My child was laughing her head off! It seemed her dyed-in-the-brain blonde mother had hastily typed her (my daughter’s) cell number in the email to the guy, and he had called it to give me his phone number. He was certainly as confused as I was!

To cover my embarrassment, I whined to my daughter, “C’mon! Who really knows their own cell phone number?” In reality, I even need to check my cell phone’s menu to dial 9-1-1!

My self-appointed personal dating guru Brooke advised me to give the man a call right away. I ran back home and phoned him. Thank heaven he seemed to have a sense of humor. He just wanted to double-check where this mall was located; he didn’t Google much, he admitted. He was chuckling because he told me my daughter had told him that he needed to notice from my profile picture that I actually was blonde. (I know there are all sorts of terrible “isms” out there, like racism and sexism—is there one against a certain hair color?)

We made a date for mid-morning Saturday at the mall, about an hour away. Crisis averted. And I liked the sound of his voice!

Saturday arrived. I got there first, of course, and did some window shopping before my cell suddenly rang. My date had arrived and was in the parking lot. I stepped outside the mall, and . . . I swore I could hear Jimmy Dean singing the song “Big Bad John.” My grandmother had had that record, and when I was little, I had always tried to picture a guy standing six foot six and weighing 245 pounds! Well, there stood my childhood fantasy in person. I hoped my jaw hadn’t dropped open.

My date was huge! Certifiably six foot six, as the song said, and if not “narrah” at the hip, he certainly wasn’t bad-looking. I was a little nervous and intimidated by his height. As I craned my neck to look up at him, I thought that if this giant called me “Gidget,” I’d punch him in the kneecap! But he was very nice. We shook hams, I mean, hands, and then we wandered into the mall.

During the next few hours of our date, I called him “Dave” three times. That was not his name. Dave had been the name of my Cheesecake Factory date. I guess I was still impressed with the cheesecake! After the phone number mix-up, I didn’t want “Big Bad John” to think I was a total idiot who couldn’t get his name straight. So I laughed each time and blamed my calling him Dave on the fact that right before he drove into the parking lot, I’d just gotten off the phone with my brother, Dave. And yes, my nose grew each time with that lie. Duh.

Big Bad John was a slow talker, but we covered a variety of topics: from George Washington Carver, to the price of farmland, to, finally, some nitty-gritty stuff. Such as he’d dated some crazy women who immediately tried to shed their clothes when they first met him.

Oohh-kay. I wasn’t quite sure how I was to react to that news. Was I supposed to be impressed? Was he bragging? I really didn’t know. What I started thinking, however, was that he must be a ladies’ man. He always seemed to be looking at other women, even while talking to me, his date. Maybe it was because his eyes were up so high that he could see more. Maybe it was because he was so tall that he attracted the attention of a lot of people, especially women. Whatever, it was a turn-off for me. I decided to go with my gut instinct and figure out how soon I could get away and go home.

Eventually Big Bad John suggested we try one of the mall restaurants. After we were seated, he excused himself for a minute, and I seized the opportunity to call Brooke. I told her to call me in one hour, figuring that would give me time to eat and kind of segue out of there.

But I soon found that when we were seated, all of Big Bad John’s attention was on me. And when the topic of conversation suddenly changed from football teams and farming to me, by golly, the time flew by!

By the time my daughter called, I was only halfway done with my taco salad and my story about why I love Tom Bergeron on Dancing with the Stars. I figured I’d better go, though. I told her in a loud voice, while she giggled on the other end, that I would be glad to help her with the kids, and I could be at her place in an hour and a half or so.

“Well, I’d better get going, Da . . . uh . . . ” I tried to sound halfway remorseful. I didn’t want to hurt this man’s feelings, even though I was sure we’d probably never meet again. He lived too far away, I thought.

He gave me a knowing grin, and asked, “Was that your escape call?”

Busted! Jeepers! Was his hearing range a lot bigger than average, too? Obviously he was a more experienced dater than I and had used that ploy himself, or another date had used it on him before. Of course, I lied and denied it and told him I was so sorry to have to leave. He just grinned.

Well, Big Bad John did have a streak of decency. He was very gentlemanly, and walked me to my car. I was debating how to shake hands—a straight arm thrust across my body to his right hand, a warm clasp with two hands since, after all, he’d just bought me a meal, or just a casual wave and a “Thanks for lunch and drive safely”? Or did I give him a sisterly little hug at the waist, which was as high as I could reach, which meant I’d be eye-to-navel with him? Eeek.

Well, he took care of my indecisiveness. He bent about three of his six and a half feet, wrapped me in a bear hug, and planted a kiss right on my mouth. And it wasn’t just a quick little peck. I stepped back, patted his arm, and said, brilliantly, “Oh.”

I hadn’t seen that coming. What did I do now? Were senior citizens allowed to get to first base? My mind was reeling. I had just been kissed. Should I really leave him with that shocked “Oh?”

As I climbed in my car and he shut my door for me, I racked my brain for a better way to say goodbye than “oh.” I guess part of his earlier conversation had stuck with me, because I blurted out: “Well, you can tell your kids I kept my clothes on.”

Big Bad John just looked down at me and gave me another little grin.

I was desperately wishing someone would please write a manual of “things to say that don’t sound dumb.” I sincerely doubted I’d see him again. I didn’t know how my face got sunburned from being inside the mall, but my cheeks were still burning an hour after I drove home. I decided: I’ve either gotta quit this dating game already, start dating only guys named Dave, or find Mr. Right soon.

When I got home, I opened up Facebook and asked:

Does anybody know a sweet David Cassidy or Hugh Jackman look-alike with a sense of humor (and a big bank account), preferably never-before-married because presumably he’s spent his whole life looking for a sixty-one-year old klutz?

There were no answers.