I have written several times about the feelings that build up in the days before a game. This week is the same, and yet somehow different. This will be the Raptors' last regular season game, possibly our final competitive game as a unit. That is exciting — especially as a win would leave us with a .500 record for the season. But I am also in denial about it. Each time the game bubbles to the surface of my brain, it is quickly buried again as I try to pretend it is not really happening. This will be another year over. Already. It has gone so quickly and has been even more frustrating than usual for me. Even if a win does indeed put us into post-season competition — which would be an extraordinary achievement — I can't take part in the those playoffs because of other commitments.

So if the season really, really, really has to end on Sunday, here's hoping for a great game. Go Raptors!

It's already ten past eleven. The game was due to start at 11. The rain is falling, and we only have seven players. “Welcome to recreational baseball”  says one wag. This is the time of year when it gets harder and harder to muster a team — people go off on holiday, early season enthusiasm wanes, and players drift off. And when we get a rare rainy day, it's even harder to leap out of bed on a Sunday morning to do your thing.

But with a patchwork team we took the field. Paul pitched for the first time — ever — in a competitive game. I took second base for the first time this season. And things didn't start that well, with the visiting Pirates racking up eight runs off us.  I thought Paul did a really good job but we could have backed him up better. For example, one routine infield pop-up fell to earth needlessly. Off the bat it looked like it had some air on it and, being decisive, I gave a loud shout and moved in. But then it started to die, still yards in front of me. And I realised I wasn't going to get there even with a dive. It was falling close behind Paul, and Ilya was coming in from shortstop, but the ball ended up in the grass between us all.  Now, Ilya had the right to call me off, but we are both learning our positions, so that is the sort of situation where you are exposed by lack of practice as a unit.   

Overall, I think I still have a bit of a tendency to get sucked into the centre of the diamond looking for a play to make, as I have not yet developed the innate sense of where I need to be. Watching some Major League action on Monday I saw players move around so smoothly it made you sick. Earlier this season, my positioning cost me a couple of outs which I could have made had I been standing someplace else. On one occasion in this game when I had moved towards third (arguably for good reason — to help guide the cut off from the outfield, precisely because we are novices) the play ended with a tag out at second base made not by me but by Matt, the right fielder, who had astutely come in to cover.

I was pleased to get in one successful tag of my own. A runner made the turn for second — possibly on an overthrow, I can't remember — but our wily manager Marty, playing first base, saw the opportunity and sent a good throw my way. This time I had been able to think quickly enough about where I needed to be — over the bag, so I was out of the runner's way, but could still make the play in front of it. I was able to apply the tag just in front and get the out. I regret to say that I did indulge in a moment of celebration (for which I hereby apologise to the Croydon manager!). I meant no disrespect, but was merely excited to be part of a genuine bang-bang play. I got to make a couple more plays, including one graceless stop of a ground ball threatening to disappear up the middle, which ended with me crawling after the ball on the infield dirt. It's the results that matter, that's what I say!

And it was another week of terrible swings at the plate. Two strikeouts — the first from an at-bat which started 2-0 — and then a walk once I had got myself under enough control to foul off pitches and leave alone the junk! I'll give myself a brownie point for reaching base on a dropped third strike, the first time I remember ever having the presence of mind to do so. We put together a good rally in the final inning and it was a really fun game to play in. Once you get to late July, you have to enjoy the fact that you can keep it together at all. 

It's Thursday. The sun is shining, sporadically. The rain is falling, intermittently. It's the time of the week when you start to get unnaturally nervous about the weather. It's especially true for me this week as I have taken the day off from work on Sunday just so I can play for the Raptors against Southampton. A rainout would be doubly annoying. And in the context of the weather we have had this year, it might even be considered trebly annoying. When I started the blog I joked that there would be a bit about the weather in it, because it normally plays quite a role in any British summer sport. But for the most part this year has been glorious. Even on occasions when we thought it would rain, it didn't, and one game — against Guildford I think — was sunny against all odds.

I don't know what is considered the “perfect weather” for baseball. I remember some absolute scorchers, many of them against Richmond for some reason, but is that really the best? It is certainly good for your suntan, but four hours on a baking field in long pants and a heavy shirt is not ideal.  We got through about four litres of water each at one of those Richmond games. And after one in Essex I had to drive home round the M25 and then go to work and do a night shift. However, don't think I am arguing in favour of the cold and wet option. I may be British to the core, but I'm not that daft.

Whatever happens on Sunday, let's just hope it's playable. Or I might sulk. Again.

At the first baseball training session I ever attended, one of the old salts was moaning about the limited schedule which had been drawn up for that season — “To be any good at this game” he said, “you have to play it a lot.” I have since learned to my cost how right he is. Obviously practice makes perfect at any sport, but baseball above all repays your work — a pitcher needs to be able to repeat his exact mechanics over and over again to deliver success; the infielder needs to take hundreds of ground balls, maybe thousands, before he gets to do it smoothly, with the glove and the ball mere extensions of his very self.

But that level of repetition is simply not available to many of us. I am coming to the end of my first “dry spell” of the year, when work and family keep me away from the game for weeks. I have missed a training session, a game, another training session, and then another game. It'll be a miracle if I remember anything by the time I pull on the glove again!  At the very least, the break means you have to get your eye in when you come back. The fact that we're talking about baseball perhaps makes this problem more acute — for example, I have been kicking a football since I was five years old, and the game is pretty well hard-wired in my head, while the relatively new sport of baseball requires rather more conscious work.

Of course, this situation is not unique to me. It affects lots of us. We have some extraordinarily dedicated people at the club, who have helped create four adult teams and a flourishing little league, and I marvel at how they manage it. I can't even fall back on the simple theory that they don't have the small children who demand my time — because some of them do. Bang goes my best excuse for the weaknesses of my game! Perhaps there is no solution to the problem. How does the lowly amateur make time to satisfy the needs of his game, and yet still satisfy the other needs of his life?

I am torn over the question of whether yesterday's game against Braintree went well for me, or badly. In my first complete game as a shortstop, I made what were far and away my most accomplished plays so far. That is to say, I fielded two ground balls cleanly, and made accurate throws to first — on the second occasion I even added a little extra zip on the throw to make sure I beat the runner. Very satisfying.

And that is probably how I would have remembered the day, if it hadn't been for the manner of my final at-bat. I struck out looking in the seventh inning, with only one out, men on base and the Raptors needing just a couple of runs to keep the game alive. It capped a day of poor swings at the plate, and as we packed up our gear a few moments later, I could only sit and brood about it. Sadly, my young son was not around to offer his famous pick-me-up “Don't be grumpy, Daddy”!

It's often a matter of timing and dumb luck which decides how you feel about your day, and it's the same for a ball game. That strikeout was the cancelled train on the way home, the deal which falls through at the last minute, the text saying “let's be friends” after a hot date. Let's hope the black clouds fade and let the sunshine in.