Last night was my much anticipated (by me, at least) return to the softball field after a nearly four year layoff. After our short-handed team was demolished last week, 15-4 (thank goodness for the mercy rule), we were facing a team that had narrowly lost their game last week, 21-19.
Some stifling heat and humidity that had blanketed central Indiana for several days blew out of town on Tuesday, leaving yesterday as a perfect night for softball. I was totally jacked up and nervous and anxious to get the game underway. As Chuck and I headed to the park together, he admitted that he, too, had some butterflies in his stomach since this was also his first game back from a multi-year retirement.
Adding to the excitement and anxiety was the fact that the Mrs. brought Olivia and June to the ballpark to watch me play. This was the first time they had ever seen their Daddy play softball, so of course I wanted to put on a good show for them.
We were the visiting team, so we batted first. I was sixth in the batting order, and we had three outs before it was my turn to bat. So in the bottom of the first inning, I ran out on the field to play shortstop--a position I haven't played since college, close to 20 years ago, when I was much younger, slimmer, and faster. Now I was just out there praying that I wouldn't be a disaster at a busy position and lose the game for the team.
My fielding started well. A grounder came pretty much right at me, I fielded it cleanly, and fired it to first base. I have no difficulty making the ball travel at a high velocity. I occasionally have some difficulty, however, hitting the broad side of a barn with the ball when I throw it. So I took a little bit off my throw to first base and delivered it right in the breadbasket for an out. Whew! Glad to have that first one out of the way. (After the inning ended, the first baseman still complained that her hand was throbbing from that throw, even though I made a conscious effort to slow it down. "Oh, yeah," I thought to myself, "I still got it!")
In top of the second inning, I had my first at-bat. For as long as I've played recreational softball, I've had the philosophy that I'm not here to walk. I'm here to hit the ball. If the ball is somewhere in the same zip code as home plate, I'm swinging. So on the first pitch I saw, I drove it just over the infield, right in front of the centerfielders. My trademark shot. I arrived at first base, darn happy to have not struck out. I advanced to second on a hit by the woman batting behind me, and then Chuck came to the plate. He calmly drilled a double that scored two runs, including me.
What a show-off.
As the game progressed, we were in a see-saw battle with the other team. We'd take the lead, then they'd take it back. We'd regain the lead, and they'd take it back. I don't think there was ever more than a two or three run difference in the score at any given time. My fielding continued to be solid, and I even made a couple of plays I was particularly proud of. One was a screaming grounder that I snagged at my shoelaces in a full sprint. My ensuing soft underhanded toss to our second baseman forced out the base runner. The other was a line drive to my right. I had to run, jump, and reach across my body with my glove. I was as surprised as anyone that the ball was in my glove when I came down, robbing the batter of a base hit. And I didn't even pull or dislocate any body parts on the way up or down.
In my second at-bat, the first pitch was once again good enough for me to swing at. I undercut it, though, and it went about seven miles straight up in the air with some sort of wicked backspin on it. I ran it out, because that's what I was always taught to do in youth baseball, and sure enough, my effort paid off. Their second baseman dropped it. I stood on first base, feeling a little guilty for being 2-for-2 (by rec league softball scoring standards) after that wimpy little "hit."
Karma would even things out, though.
In my third at-bat, the first pitch seemed too far inside, and I can't hit it well when it's inside. However, as I watched the ball come in, I realized it was actually right over the plate. I was too far up in the batter's box. A called strike. "Dummy!" I thought to myself. So I took a step back, got myself situated in the proper spot, and the next pitch was in the exact same location as the first one. I crushed it. I nailed it right in the sweet spot of the bat, right in the most powerful part of my swing, right in the center of the ball. Right to their centerfielder. I'm not sure he even had to take two steps to get to it. That made up for the wimpy "hit" that should have been an out, I suppose. So I finished the night batting 2-for-3, which I was mighty pleased with. Three at-bats, and I saw a total of four pitches. That's how I play ball.
We began the seventh (and last) inning in a 7-6 deficit. We scored two runs in the top of the seventh inning to make it 8-7 in our favor. All we had to do was hold them scoreless in the bottom of the seventh, and we'd even up our record for the season. I was pretty darned pleased with myself at shortstop. A few grounders had gotten past me that I probably would have gotten to back in my college days, but I was having such success with the ones I could get my glove on that Chuck was calling me "Hoover," as in the vacuum. I had even fielded a grounder and thrown it to first base with A LOT of mustard on it, dead center in the first baseman's glove. Our second baseman reported hearing the ball hiss as it crossed the infield, just as the Mrs. had reported hearing four years ago when she played first base and had to field my throws. I still had the cannon arm, and all of my throws were on-target. I was invincible!
But karma would humble me again.
With a runner on second base, their batter hit a pop-up a few feet behind second base. I was running for it, trying to track the ball with my horrid depth perception (especially with dimming light as the sun set). It was going to be an over-the-shoulder catch to begin with, but I thought I was under it...until the very last second, when I realized I was not. I corkscrewed myself into the ground trying to recover, but the ball came out of my glove, my cleats lost traction on the dew-covered grass, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my stomach with the ball rolling away from me. Fortunately two of our outfielders were Johnny-on-the-spot with their back-up. One of them retrieved the ball and threw it in to the infield, but it was too late. It was now an 8-8 game. I felt like a complete turd. It only got worse as the other team moved runners to second and third with only one out. My worst fears had come true. I had lost the game for the team. Right in front of my wife and kids, too. I wanted to crawl under a rock.
Through some great fielding by my teammates, however, including a grounder fielded by Chuck, we got the final two outs without any more of their runners scoring. Final score: Us 8, Them 8. By league rule, if the hour time limit is up (and it was), a tie is simply recorded in the standings as a tie. There would be no extra innings. Thank goodness, because I was wiped out!
So we didn't lose. I had a good night at the plate, and with one glaring exception, I had a better night on defense than I could have ever hoped for. I got to hear my kids cheering for me throughout the game, which was REALLY cool. We played an exciting back-and-forth game that came right down to the wire. Chuck pitched, batted, and fielded well, too, and like me, he enjoyed himself immensely. The weather was perfect. And I escaped without injury, aside from some sore thighs today. I had a total blast! I can't wait until next Wednesday night!
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