The girls of summer.

Years ago I told a friend of mine who was serving a stint as the rock music critic at The Hollywood Reporter about a group of friends from my camp counselor days at UCLA who loved to get together to play guitars and sing. One weekend we were gathered at my house for an evening of dinner and informal music-making when my critic friend dropped by. For hours she sat in the comer listening with a rapt expression. And in the next issue of the Reporter, her column was devoted to the phenomenon, which she supposed to be widespread, of just for-the-helluvit jam sessions, which she dubbed "living room music."

I was reminded of her story a few weekends ago by an invitation from my friend Linda to join an "aging jocks softball game" in honor of her birthday. Dykes and softball on a summer's day on a local diamond: not a team, not a league, not organized sports--all of which are fine, of course--just friends who have to dig out or borrow the gloves, kids running circles around the bases the wrong way, family, friends, big bowls of fruit and salad, ice chests, sunblock, Ace bandages, and lots of yelling. It was glorious.

Everybody played. Two other friends, Patti and Ellen, are parenting a determined little 3-year-old athlete named Ruby, who--dykes being the most democratic folks on earth--was chosen as a regular player on my team. We set up her T-ball each time she was at bat and pitched smaller balls to the other kids who played.

Linda's partner, Barrie, also has grown children, and one of her daughters was there with her husband, who played with our team. The game was dyke culture at its best--homegrown softball, a game for all ages and races, not too competitive, a crush (gaggle? pride?) of lesbians groaning with aches that we didn't have when we started playing 25 years ago but glorying in the freedom and the joy of it.

What is it about dykes and softball? Or any sport for that matter? For years Linda had also put together a pickup football game every Sunday. What is it about dykes and sports? My guess: These sports are our declaration of freedom from the constraints of gender-appropriate behavior, and Linda is our organizer.

I wonder from time to time whether the need for these joyfully disorganized backyard games is lessened now that women are allowed to be athletes, but I have only to read the story in this issue about lesbians and basketball to see that we are still the shibboleth waved in front of girls to keep them from their own athleticism. Don't play sports, little darling: Someone will think you're a dyke. But if girls are more in touch with their physical abilities, perhaps they need even more to play at home.

I believe at the very least that these gatherings of friends, taking to the fields to nm and play with glorious abandon, are one of the freedom cries of our community. We girls had been told to hide our abilities---not to nm or throw or even walk like a boy. Oh, but that day when we first understood the sheer joy of catching (and holding on to) a pop fly or connecting solidly with a no-so-perfect pitch or rising and rising, as if in slo-mo, into the air and snagging that pass--that was a transformation day. We are returned to our true selves in these gatherings, and they are further enhanced by the sweaty embrace of the folks we love best, our extended families, our friends.

Are my brothers shut out of this joy?. I'm not really sure. I do know that they are made to feel shame all through school if they lack athletic ability. Eventually sports becomes an important thing to avoid, not only because, of the shame but also because participating becomes a stand-in for phony masculinity. I remember how adamantly many lesbians of my generation forswore having children because that was the expected--one might even say required--role for women. Now we are recovering from that reaction and becoming mothers as fast as adoption agencies and turkey basters can manage it. Perhaps gay men will reclaim their sports too.

But it is the girls of summer of whom I sing. The aging jocks, the baby dykes, the friends rushing to stop the bleeding when one of us foolishly tries to slide into second, the way we hold our breath to see if the left fielder will catch the fly. You want culture? This is it.