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.