Spring is the season for it. At the Los Cerritos field of dreams. Catch the girls in action in the dirt near the dugout, just a visor toss from the Twizzlers and tri-tip sandwiches.

Eat your heart out, Dodger Stadium, because we've got the sluggers of springtime in Thousand Oaks. Their jerseys are red. Their team name is "Stop" but they haven't even begun.

We don't wear no mini skirts We just wear our softball shirts.

We don't drink no lemonade,

We just drink our Gatorade.

For the life of me, I don't know why they call it softball. Because there's nothing about this sport for a softie. The Stop girls toss that beast of a ball around as if it were a marshmallow. Fearlessly. Like Eric the Red flinging rocks from a giant slingshot at the sleeping enemy.

Huge, lumpy and hardly soft, I'd run like heck if that boulder of a ball flew at me. And it doesn't stop there. Check out the gear. The players fling bats crafted by Nanotube Technology and, hey guys, there aren't any Tinkerbell models. Only Sluggers, Stealths, Titans, Tritons and Sock-it-to-'em Sallys swivel over home plate.

We don't play with Barbie dolls, We just play with bats and balls…

Seems the only requirements needed to play are rosy cheeks, pigtails, braces and pluck. And an occasional box of Sponge Bob Band-Aids. You've got to admire these brave souls. These are the girls of spring. These are the girls who take the strikes. These are the girls who step into the pitch. These are the girls who aim for the top shelf where Mom keeps the cookies.

And these are the girls who fling, swing, bunt and bash to a tune that serenades them for the rest of their lives.

There she goes just a walkin' down the line, singin' do wa, do

wa, diddy dum, diddy do. Ball one! Ball two! Ball three!

Ball four! Hey pitcher pitcher, won't you

walk us some more?

I dream about the days when I watched my girls. Oh, sure, they were eager to make the big play, determined to hit a homer. But in truth, happy just to get the snack after the game was over. I can still see the juice box drizzle all over their faces mixed with a little brick dust. Those cute little pink toes wrapped in thick gnarly socks, armored with cleats and colorful shoelaces. Gotta match the shirt, of course.

Beyond athletics, these remarkable souls demonstrate their creativity by choosing team names that rival the best Madison Avenue ad agencies. The girls in red? Stop is their name. The gang in royal blue? The Royal Pain. The lineup in yellow? The Midas Touch.

Watching my girls, freckled and funky, short or spunky, gave me the best moments of my life. And you know, it didn't matter whether on the softball field, the tennis court or the basketball stadium . . . it was dress rehearsal for the playing field of life. Throw 'em a ball. Bounce it. Rally it.

Gosh, just wait 'til you can lay that overhead smash on your boss someday, I thought. I know you'll have the courage to pull it off. I just hope your timing is good.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.