Co-Ed Recreation Softball
Where former ball players fade away.

2006 marks the final year of competitive sports for this writer. Where once stood a gap hitting, slick fielding third sacker now stands a weak kneed, immobile first baseman with forty pounds of mac and cheese hanging over his belt. Gone are the days when legging out a triple ended in a Pete Rose-like swan dive into the bag. These days I just try to find a hole in the outfield and ramble down the first base line like a beer truck with four flat tires.

My company fields a co-ed softball team every fall and this year I have been elected coach of that team. We have twenty seven people on our roster, yet we rarely have more than ten players available for each game, due to varying schedules. This season I made my body a promise not to actually play in any of the games. My body appreciated the sentiment, but down deep knew that it wouldn't be long until I heard the echoes of bygone days calling my name.

"Hey number 28, you still got it. That's it, slip those cleats on and step over that white line. You know that you want to"

Sure enough, I was pressed into action for the second game of the season when only nine of my co-workers dressed for the contest.

I would be anchoring down first base that evening (if you could see me in my uniform you would understand why "anchor" is an appropriate description), and batting in the tenth slot in the lineup. My top priority was to bat a slow runner in the lead-off spot, one that would not light a fire under me if I should happen to get on base. My secondary thought was not to get on base at all. Therefore eliminating all running completely.

My first at bat came in the second inning. I dug my cleats into the battery's box, struck my stance and stared down the pitcher. As the ball arched towards me I thought "This is a perfect pitch to hit right at the shortstop for a quick out." My hands released and the bat solid contact with the ball which flew over the shortstop head and through the leftfielder's legs. It felt great to hit the ball so squarely, however there was that running thing that always follows such a clout. Off I waddled, stiffed-legged like Forrest Gump in his "magic shoes." Rounding first base I noticed that no one had backed up the leftfielder and the ball was rolling towards the fence. The ballplayer inside of me thought "Wow, this looks like an inside-the-park home run", while the practical side of me wondered if any of my suits still fit me well enough in case I needed to be buried tomorrow. No one likes a sloppy corpse with buttons popping out, do they?

With every base that I turned I could hear my heart thumping a little louder. When I finally reached home plate my ticker sounded like the sound track from "Drum Line." My teammates greeted me warmly and I, in turn, tried not to throw up on them.

I got three more at bats in that game and reached base every time. I could not this other team to field the ball! I considered striking out intentionally in my last at bat, but my baseball soul would not let me whiff in slow pitch softball.

We pounded the opposing team for 23 runs on countless errors. Their team put me in mind of a girls high school softball team that I had coached years before. The school was one of those small private institutions that catered to the upper crust of the area. The team consisted of twelve lovely young ladies with no discernible athletic talent. Along with a lack of talent came a lack of interest in learning the game of softball. My team thought the uniforms were cute and that it might be fun to hang out together and travel on the bus to games.

Our practice schedule was as follows......

Monday-Still recovering from the weekend
Tuesday-Practice followed by shopping
Wednesday- Nails followed by shopping
Thursday- Spa day followed by shopping
Friday- "Practice, as if!"

My pitcher, Sherry would always start the game by batting her eyes at the umpire and asking him if she could pitch from the front of the mound because home plate was "too far." We lost our opening game 54-0, when the contest was called on account of darkness in the bottom of the first inning.

Softball is over for me now. My knees have hidden my glove and my pulmonary system has put me on final notice. Maybe a day at the spa isn't such a bad idea.

"Flightwear" is the answer

Anyone who has recently flown on a commerical airliner knows that security checks have taken a turn towards the ridiculous. Don't get me wrong, I am a nervous flyer and I feel that all suspicious looking passengers should be stripped, searched, subjected to hours of interegation and possibly beaten, however, confiscating a person's sample-sized tube of toothpaste is just going a bit too far.

Last week I traveled by plane and packed nothing liquid. Following the scare in England, the Feds have made it clear that air passengers cannot carry liquid materials on board any plane. No shampoo, no mouthwash, no shaving cream, just a small sample sized tube of toothpaste and nothing more.

Prior to the flight, I noticed one of my fellow passengers guzzling down bottled water like he was preparing to cross the Sahara on foot. At $3.00 a bottle, I suppose he didn't want to leave his investment behind.

When the flight began to board, gloved security people began to select passengers for a "random baggage check." I rarely fly and I never win any kind of contest, however, I have been a multiple winner in the "random baggage" sweepstakes, and this time was no exception.

I am led to a counter area with a small wall partition. The security person dons a fresh pair of latex gloves and begins rummaging through my bag. All is well until the airport fuzz stumbles upon my toothpaste.

'What is this"? he asks holding up the offending tube.

"It's Colgate Tartar Control with the fresh minty taste" I replied with a bright Colgate smile.

"Well, it ain't going on the plane" said the security guard, tossing my Colgate in the trash can.

"Congratualtions" I said "You have just struck a blow against terrorism and promoted tooth decay all in one simple movement."

This whole incident got me thinking about airport security in general. Here are a few bullet points that I feel should rate some serious consideration.

. All passengers must surrender the clothes they are wearing to airport security, upon checkin.

. Passengers will be issued a colorful jumpsuit (Each airline will have a designated color) to wear during the flight.

. Passengers will also receive "temporary" footwear to replace their shoes. Shoes will be distributed at the ticket counter "bowling alley" style, with sizes prominently displayed above the heal of the shoe.

. Passenger clothes and footwear will be scanned, searched, bagged and stored in the cargo hold of the airplane. Clothes will be returned at the passenger's final destination.

This uniform approach has always worked well at the parochial school level, why not here? If a passenger is lost in the terminal, they need only follow fellow customers with like clothing to find their way to gate area. No more of this tying and untying of shoes everytime you pass through the x-ray machine, your temp shoes with carry you from take-off to landing.

The simple genius of this plan is bound to be somehow marred by greed and opportunism. I envision a Taiwanese clothing manufacturer owned by Dick Cheney receiving a government bid for this "flightwear" spurring a rise in Republican campaign donations from the clothing production sector.