It's Hell Getting Old, Isn't It?

I took to the softball field again last night, still floating on my success from last week's return from hiatus. The results were not the same as last week. I returned to shortstop, which was a big mistake. To summarize, the word "Hoover" did not come out of Chuck's or anyone else's mouth last night.

Things went fairly well for awhile, although I had one terrible throw to our second baseman early in the game. It was about a ten-foot throw, and yet I still somehow threw it behind him and into the outfield. I later softly tossed an accurate one to him for an out, and an inning or two later, I rocketed one to him from a very short distance, and we got the baserunner out by a hair. I also threw a laser to first base that was on-target. I knew it was a close play, but I thought we got the runner out. The umpire called her safe, though. Our first baseman says she had the ball in her glove before she felt the woman hit the bag, and Chuck, who pitches, says the ball beat her there by a step. But it's rec league softball, and there's only one umpire on the field, so what are you going to do? No use hollering about it.

I got a good reminder about why I wear an athletic cup. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I thank my lucky stars that I'm wearing one. This time, it was a routine grounder, but I took my eyes off the ball, trying to locate the runner. I took that grounder right in the family jewels. Thanks to that cup, though, I was able to quickly recover and throw the runner out. Otherwise, I'd probably still be lying on the field in the fetal position.

After that, though, the wheels came off the wagon. Somewhere around the third inning, I was standing on first base after hitting my second single of the night (I went 2-for-3 again last night, and only a great play by their shortstop kept it from being a 3-for-3 night). The batter behind me put the ball in play, so off to second base I went. Except that about two steps into it, I blew a tire. I could feel my right quadriceps pull, and the other team had no trouble throwing me out at second. That pain in my thigh paled in comparison to what was to come, however.

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth inning, I fielded a grounder, and the baserunner was quick, so I had to put some extra gas on the throw. Just before I released the ball, my elbow came apart. It felt like the whole thing exploded and then went back into place. It was excruciating, and it literally brought me to my knees. My throw wound up somewhere on the other side of town. As I knelt, holding my elbow in my glove, Chuck jokingly asked if I wanted him to pick up my elbow and return it to me. I managed a feeble grin, to which he replied, "It's hell getting old, isn't it?"

We entered the bottom of the 7th (and last) inning in a 6-6 tie. A grounder got past me that I should have gotten. It would have been a difficult play, but I still should have gotten it. That baserunner would eventually end up on third base with one out. A grounder came right to me, and for some asinine reason, I lost all brain function and threw it to first base. There were a couple problems with this decision. First, as soon as I started to release the ball, my elbow made it real clear what an idiot I was. That sensation of a grenade going off in my arm, of course, resulted in my throw missing our first baseman by about a city block. The runner on third could have done the Fox Trot and still crossed the plate with time to spare. Second, even if the throw had been true, our first baseman had no chance to then try to throw the runner out at home, especially since it wouldn't have been a force out. Chuck would have had to tag her out. It was a completely moronic decision to throw. I should have just held on to the ball after fielding it. Game over. We lose, 7-6.

As I hobbled on my throbbing leg to get into line to shake hands with the other team, my elbow felt like it was on fire, and I was vaguely aware of the stinging sensation of raspberries on my knee and elbow from yet another fielding fiasco, just to add more injury to injury.

My pride is still laying in a crumpled heap on the field.

My teammates were gracious about it, but I felt (and still feel) absolutely terrible. I told Chuck that if it wouldn't have hurt so much, I'd have thrown my glove in anger. But I was also acutely aware of the sportsmanship example I needed to set for my daughters, who had both been cheering me on throughout the game. So there would be no glove-throwing.

As I was sitting on the ground after the game, struggling to find the least painful way to get my cleats off, Olivia ran over to me and asked why I was so slow in getting my shoes off.

"Do you have a boo-boo, Daddy?" she asked.

"No, honey," I lied. "Daddy just didn't have a very good game tonight."

"That's okay, Daddy," she said, giving me a hug.

As I soaked up a brief second of physical and mental rejuvenation from my daughter, she pulled away with a disgusted look and said, "Ew, Daddy! Why are you wet?! And you stink!" And then she ran back to the Mrs. and June.

Ahhhh, kids.