Take me out -- one last time

So WE’RE HAVING

a wonderful time here in San Diego, on our unlikely quest for world domination. Our little softball team keeps winning. I have the dirt of a dozen different infields under my fingernails and the wobbly gait of Durocher in his later years. Wish you were here.

But since you’re not, let me tell you a little about how things are going down here at the state finals. San Diego is lovely this time of year. Basically, by 9 in the morning, you could fry an omelet on my forehead. You could bake cupcakes in my pockets. I grow quickly woozy out here on the desert dust. I think there are fire ants in my socks. Anyone seen my waitress?

Our players, on the other hand, are doing great. We lost our first game on a technicality -- the other team got more runs than we did -- but have been on a roll ever since.

“This is soooo fun,” the little girl keeps saying.

“What is?” I ask.

“This is,” she says. “This tournament, Dad.”

But it’s not all softball down here. Not by a long shot. Here’s the letter I left at the front desk of our hotel this morning:

Dear hotel manager,

On behalf of my little softball team, I want to apologize for what happened last night in your fine establishment. Somehow they got into the kitchen. Who knew they could cook?

I understand the fire is mostly out and the kids all hugged the firefighters when they left, as if that would make everything all right. Like their mothers, they rely far too much on the occasional empty gesture.

I also want to apologize for all the other things: For the way they ate the croutons and left their salads. For the stacks of empty pizza boxes. For the coyote noises they made at midnight. For the way they huddled around the front desk and tried to order massages.

In short, please understand that today’s girls aren’t like the girls of our youth. They are even worse. And you can quote me. They are aggressive, smart and very loud. Essentially, they are better-looking boys. It’s a draw now, the battle between the sexes. All bets are off. Forget the women’s tees. Don’t bother holding the door. The next generation of girls is already here. Please prepare yourself accordingly.

Sincerely, Walter Alston

Yes, I’m using an alias. Who wouldn’t? I am like the dean of discipline at a clown college. After what happened at the hotel, I’m pretty sure the Hiltons are looking to sue me. Saturday night, the players all had facials. I am not kidding. Lord knows what became of the carpets.

Anyway, we are back outside now, playing a gutsy little team from Mira Mesa Vista del Mar. Or something like that. By now, the names are all running together.

I know the other team will be worthy opponents because their kneepads all match their uniforms. Only the most dedicated, obsessive, nutzoid coaches worry about details like that. There are four coaches on the other side, all built like Coke machines.

Over at third base, meanwhile, my comanager Tim seems to be holding up pretty well. Over at first, Brian is having nicotine fits, but otherwise seems to be in fine shape. At least for Brian.

Me? I’m in the dugout, barking out names of players who are supposed to be “on deck” but aren’t. Abby, Amanda, Jessie, Kate. It’s a challenging job, with a million tiny crises. Alex can’t find her batting glove. Lydia lost a hair clip.

Through all this, they stand and cheer at the dugout rail as if this were the most important game of their lives. They play every game like it’s the game of their lives. To hear them scream is to witness one of the world’s greatest choruses -- loud, then suddenly soft. Then loud. Then maniacal. Then soft again.

It is also, quite possibly, the last game where these girls will be coached by their fathers before moving on to their school teams. Since they were 5, we’ve been coaching them, back when they’d run in circles, then fall to the clover and giggle. They’ve come a long way since then. I mean, they still fall down. But not as much. And they’re far more careful with their hair.

It’s been a fun run for the dads, capped by this great stint at the state finals. But it’s time for the kids to move on. Good luck, Abby, Amanda, Jessie, Kate.

Good luck to their future coaches, too. And watch out for the little redhead. Despite what you’d maybe think, she doesn’t suffer fools.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.