Ward on the street: romance and gym socks

"Just a warning: wear something cute today...we're going to dodgeball tonight."

It's 8:16 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I've woken up to a text concerning my wardrobe.

My best girlfriend's new man is in a Dodegeball4Ever league and on selected Mondays, she takes a seat on the bleachers in a gym that smells like urine and Old Spice as dozens of grown men—and some scattered ladies—assault each other with their balls.

There's something to be said for watching on the sidelines, perched from above, evaluating the evolutionary ruggednesss of a potential mate. And if an un-ironic sweatband and the odor of a musk ox appeal to you, it may be a go.

(Looking for love...and man musk?)

I'm still not sold though. No one looks good under the buzz of 100,000 collective watts of gymnasium lights, and one blow to the side of the face can destroy a man’s mojo in an instant. Summer romances are supposed to play out like black and white snapshots from an Estée Lauder ad: picnics in the tall grass, a lustful glance in a field of heather. New love isn't supposed to smell like socks.

But once the herds of ball lobbers are tired and bruised, a whistle is blown and the league heads over to El Cid, which hosts a post-game special of half-priced sangria to keep things drunk flirty in much lower light. So at 9:04 a.m. I text her back: "Mini dress, leggings and boots. No?" 

With one eyebrow dubiously raised,

Ward