There was a time, long ago, when I was physically active. I wrote this back then.
I like playing
softball. The only problem is that I’m
not that good at it. I’m a better
observer than player. This is not a good
thing, especially on the field.
Grounders go through my legs and strikes loft into the catcher’s glove
undisturbed.
I heard that our
church had a coed softball team in a local city league, and was looking for
participants. “You’ve been excellent at
warming the bench for years at the little league”, my mother told me. “Why don’t you go warm the bench for the
church team?”
It
seemed a good idea, but I’ll admit I was a little skeptical at first. Our team would be defending the city league
championship for the second time. We
would be playing many challenging teams from large corporations around
town. What if they were too overbearing
and talented for us? What if I messed
up? Would I be ostracized and humiliated
by my fellow Lutherans? Could I play up
to par? The city’s deputy police chief
was on the team. He was a brute. He had muscles in places that I haven’t even
got places for. When he hit the ball,
the ground shook. We should have
nicknamed him Casey.
Regardless
of the obvious pressure, I signed up, knowing that I would thoroughly enjoy it
and that it would provide an obvious opportunity for me to go buy a new pair of
cleats. New cleats are vital to the
success of a ball player. If the
shortstop misses a sharply hit ground ball, take a look at his shoes. If they’re old and worn, that shortstop has
no excuse for not stopping that ball because he’s a veteran. He’s been marked and doomed by his cleats for
all to see. If, however, the second
baseman misses a slow dribble, and he’s wearing new cleats, no one holds it
against him. He’s obviously new at
this. Boy, did I ever need those cleats.
My
troubles began right with the first practice.
Softballs carry differently than baseballs. This was a lesson I learned the hard way…as I
ran…long distances…after the balls I missed.
Softballs are also harder to throw in a straight line. When I throw them, they tend to float down
like snowflakes. This gives the opposing
team plenty of time to calmly waltz around the bases and score many runs
against us while the catcher has a nap waiting for the ball I’ve thrown to
land.
Hitting
was only slightly better. You’d think
that after having baseballs whipped at me by gorillas on the pitching mound in
little league, slow-pitch softball would be a breeze. It was.
I could feel several breezes each pitch.
First came the breeze made by the ball floating by me. Then came the breeze made by my bat hitting
air. Then came the breeze from the coach
as he exhaled deeply in an effort to remain calm. The balls came in at an angle I’d never had
to deal with before when hitting: straight down. It was as if it was hailing softballs the
size of…softballs.
To
top it all off, they told me I had to learn a whole new set of rules. Some, such as the ten run, sixth inning mercy
rule, were meant to shorten the game to its strict timeframe of an hour. Another was the pitching count. You went up to bat with a ball and a strike already on you. I thought they were joking. Then I heard “Striiiiike two-yerrrrr
out!” Seeing as how this was a coed
team, other rules had been changed to “even the playing field” (everything but
the pitcher’s mound). The batting order
had to alternate between the sexes.
Women got to hit a smaller softball.
It carried farther and was easier to throw. Men got the regulation-sized one with
dimensions roughly the same as an Oldsmobile.
If a man got walked, he advanced directly to second, and the woman
batter behind him got the choice of taking her chances at the plate or taking
the easy way out and going straight to first.
Other rules simply were made to throw a loop in things. For instance, if you hit a ball out of the
park, it wasn’t a home run. It was an
automatic out. Luckily, I never had that
happen to me. I was worried, though, and
tried my best not to hit the ball hard.
It’s the only reason my season batting average was 2.75, honest.
Despite
my best efforts, we still won the championship that season. In a weird turn of events, I even came off
the bench to hit in the winning run, which happened to be our deputy police
chief. He landed on home plate with only
a minor earthquake. I had tapped a
little dribbler to the left side of the shortstop, and the second baseman
bobbled the ball off her chin. I made
sure to thank her afterwards.
What do you not excel at?
.
