(Rockwall) July 30, 2013 – A friend texted a few weeks ago:
“Interested in co-ed softball? We’re putting together a team.”
He was crazy; a decade had passed since my last men’s league game and 41 is a far cry from my spry 30’s. The wake-up-sore-how-the-heck-did-I-hurt-that- feeling greets me each morning so I half-heartedly chuckled the idea to my wife. Of course, she’s always searching for a fun together activity, “Let’s do it! That’ll be a blast!” She beamed.
Later, I received another missive asking if I’d consider playing shortstop because I “probably had the best arm out there.”
Now the guy was talking.
Anybody familiar with baseball knows that shortstop is the cream de la cream of the infield. Quickness, a good glove, and the ability to make long, hard throws from the deepest parts of the infield are a necessity. It must’ve been written all over me since I played both second base and shortstop on my varsity baseball team.
Roger Kahn wrote that, “Baseball skill relates inversely to age. The older a man gets, the better a ball player he was when young, according to the watery eye of memory,” and I think that’s a load of hooey. I know was a good ballplayer, heck they nicknamed me “Hoover” in little league for my penchant to suck up ground balls. So my reasoning was sound: since I was a solid .400 hitter and great fielder on a state contending high school team, then I’ll dominate this co-ed softball league. Oh, my wife was right, this would definitely be a blast. So, a half-hour before our first practice, we purchased some mitts, and I sauntered up to the field ready to impress.
And I duffed my first ground ball (glove’s fault), but at least it didn’t roll right through my legs. My throwing velocity held (must be the working out). I zinged one after another, cracking the leather, well, when I hit leather. My accuracy wasn’t what it was at 18, in fact, it wasn’t what it was at 30. Ok, confession, I drilled a 12 year old base runner on the ankle well after he crossed home plate. I think the little kid thought I was playing dodge ball cause my throw was closer to the dugout opening than the catcher’s mitt.
Nothing compared; however, to the horror of pop flies. In high school, I lost a high infield fly in the lights, and when it succumbed to gravity, it grazed my glove and ricocheted off my left eye. The pain radiated and I sported a patch for two weeks. Young and determined, I faced my fears and went back to playing as soon as I could see.
Now, I’m a flat out coward.
Every pop-up hit, I watched, and commanded the second or third baseman to catch it, or, if it was obviously my ball, I loped to its vicinity, stabbing at it as it bounced on the dirt before me.
Embarrassing. A once all-metro high school infielder, I dressed out with the varsity by the end of my freshman year, appeared in two state tournament “final fours,” and now I needed cutting from a co-ed softball team. Kahn’s quote should be edited; not only does a man’s memory improve upon his youthful abilities but his present delusions grow exponentially as well.
Yet, I will not quit.
I’m gonna take my Friday afternoon nap to charge up for my ridiculously late 9:45pm game. I’ll wash down three ibuprofen with a strong cup of coffee and tie up my second-hand cleats to hobble out on that field. Amidst fears of blowing my ACL, or losing my teeth, I’ll hopefully scoop a few and throw out a limping runner (that forgot his anti-inflammatory). Then, Lord willing, I’ll slap the ball between the slowest two players and loaf around the bases. I’ll be fun, it’ll be humbling, but, one thing’s for sure, it’ll be legendary before the night ends because I’m a writer, and that’s the story that’ll end up in ink.
Blue Ribbon News special contributor Scott Gill of Rockwall is a teacher, coach and author of Goliath Catfish. Follow his blog at scotttgill.com.
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