You know what? Go.

Because overcoming reasons 1-5 can lead to an evening so light-filled and joyous it’ll make your heart grow two sizes. One you’ll want to seize and bottle for use on the dark days.

Picture it: ten boys take the field, swatting bugs and chomping gum and kicking dirt. It’s on. They get to play the people who are usually the boss of them. But tonight they are equals.

Except the dads have to bat left-handed. So the game begins with a strikeout, when a ten-year old with a wicked fastball sends the first dad back to the bench (picnic table variety) swinging. It seems serious. Outs are made. There are close plays at first and home. The boys score first, then the dads.

It’s the moms who loosen things up, batting in flip flops, jewelry, even a dress. And while we are the source of much hilarity for the boys, we make contact! We dance when we get to first base. The love spreads. A tentative ten year old (hit by too many pitches this year to feel comfortable) takes his time and finally connects; he gets a single and a sideline full of cheers.

And then, Aidan — aged 5 — steps up to the plate. He’s subbing for his father on the parents’ team. The fastest ten-year old in the east pitches him slow and easy, strike after strike. Not a single boy says a word about a strikeout. But when the little boy finally connects and hits it, the pitcher scoops it up and instinctively turns to first base and throws. An easy out.

Except the first baseman is Aidan’s brother. And seeing the five-year old barreling down the first base line, head down, running for his life, the first baseman drops the ball. Aidan keeps going, and the first baseman overthrows to second. And so it goes, and the fans are on their feet, yelling “Go, Aiden, go!” The ball somehow ends up in the outfield, and the throw to home is close, but not close enough, as our best fielders bobble and drop every toss.

And that’s how a group of seasoned ten-year old players come to mob a kindergartener who just got his first home run. A wave of good will ripples across the grassy field, and all the reasons not to do this celebration are forgotten. The coaches and parents savor the moment, knowing that of every lesson taught that season, the most important just played out. And the boys executed it perfectly.

I know this much is true: That I will gladly send and receive 10 or 20 or 30 emails to bear witness to pure joy, framed by the backdrop of a perfect blue sky and air that is thick with baseball and love.

You can never be too busy for that.