It has been nine years since I last participated in a slo-pitch softball practice when I was the ripe, young age of 42. Well, nine years and 325 Little Debbies. Nine years and three pairs of junk sweats used as baseball pants. Nine years and nine World Series Champions not named the Los Angeles Dodgers. Nine years later, and I am a creaky 51.
My son and I arrived at the church softball field early to loosen up our arms since it was a balmy 37 degrees in Michigan. Spring training in Florida is so overrated. Who needs the sun and the beach when you can warm up instead by shoveling your drive on the way to the old ballpark? In Michigan, some say there are four seasons: winter, still winter, winter’s almost over, and construction. I’ve lived in the state for 25 years, and not once have I ever heard, “It’s softball season.”
“Hey, you want to loosen up?” asked Ryan. “I already did,” I thought. I had bent over and tied my shoes before leaving the house, and that’s about as flexible as I was going to get.
We played catch for about five minutes as other players began to arrive for practice. I casually spun my head around on a swivel while checking out my soon-to-be new teammates. My much younger teammates. Oh, boy. I looked around and noticed I had t-shirts at home older than the 2nd baseman, 3rd baseman, shortstop, catcher, and the entire outfield—except for the clown in right. He was outfitted in old basketball shoes, gray sweats cinched tighter than Scarlett O’Hara’s corset, and a winter cap. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have said he looked just like me. It was me! Don’t be a hater. At least I was warm.
“Okay, everyone go to the position you’d like to play and have fun!” exhorted one of the team’s coaches. “Remember, this is only a practice, and I want to see how you perform at the positions you choose.” I glanced to my right, and someone was already on the mound. Crud. I took a gander at 1st base, and a guy was taking grounders. I turned my attention to the one position in slo-pitch that hardly ever sees any action—the one position where good teams hide their most unathletic players: right field. The empty position was calling my name. “C’mere, Kraig. I’ve missed you and your corset.”
Five batters had taken their turns at the plate, and I was bored. Bored, I tell you. Nobody had come even close with a drive to right. Every shot was hit to center field and on over to left. If there were dandelions in that stupid outfield, I would’ve had them plucked by the time another four batters had taken their cuts.
Wait, what was that? The 1st baseman was on his way to the bench to grab a bat and take some practice swings? Before anyone could say, “Excuse me, sir, but you need to go back to your position,” I was kicking the bag, slapping my glove, and pulling my ski hat tighter around my ears.
The second batter was a fellow lefty, so I moved closer to the 1st base line in an attempt to discourage an extra base hit. While discouraging the extra base hit, I was encouraging the hitter to slap grounders between the 2nd baseman and me.
Pitch, swing, wham, and a liner screamed five feet to my right. “Oof,” came out of my mouth as I bent at the waist. “Ugh,” quickly followed as I reached down and gloved the softball. As I stood up, I glanced over at our shortstop whose glove was covering his face in an attempt to hide his laughter.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Actually, I thought my fielding at first wasn’t half bad. Not half bad until the dude smoked a pitch to my left. I had scooted just a wee bit too much toward second, a move that showed over confidence in my quickness, agility, and overall twinkle-toeness.
This time, the sounds heard were: “Ack,” “Oof,” “Ugh,” “Heh,” “Oof,” and then “Ow.”
Translated:
“Ack”. I quickly discerned Smoky the Batter had scorched one down the first base line, perfectly placed between the bag and me.
“Oof”. I bent at the waist.
“Ugh”. I had to lunge in an attempt to stop the ball from entering the outfield at warp factor nine.
“Pop”. The sound made as the softball nestled into my glove.
“Heh”. The word used when I realized the softball had indeed nestled into my glove.
“Oof”. A repeated word, yet owning a different meaning than what was defined previously. Earlier in the dialogue, “oof” meant a “bending at the waist.” Here, “oof” connotated not only a bending of the waist, but also a fall to mother earth.
There was no way to look graceful on that one. Once the 325 Little Debbies and I lurched forward, there was no way on God’s green earth to stop this party train from crashing. With my right arm extended eastward and my feet tangled, I began a slow roll toward the chain link fence separating the infield from the cornfield.
One revolution, two revolutions, and then mercifully my engine ran out of steam and I came to a full and complete stop. Dragging myself upright, I heard a few query, “Hey, are you okay?”
“Ow,” I grabbed my right arm and squeezed it a little, checking for an abrasion or contusion. Unfortunately, I could only diagnose a bruised ego.
I looked over to the left side of the infield and saw that now both the 2nd and 3rd basemen had their gloves over their faces trying hard to stifle a laugh. It didn’t work. Between the webbing of the Wilsons I heard the snickering.
Later in the practice, after everyone else had taken their swings, I grabbed Old Betsy and strode to the plate. I wondered if a 3,285-day lay-off from practice would affect my ability to drive one deep.
Nope, Not at all. Not if your definition of “deep” is deep in the hole at short, that is.
To be fair, I could not honestly blame Old Betsy for my power outage. Old Betsy is my two-ton wood bat, and we’ve been friends for a long time now. Back when we first became acquainted, her weight made it easy for me to clout one to deep left-center. But the years and desserts have caught up to me, and I think it might be time to retire the old girl.
Nine years have flown by in between slo-pitch practices. By the time another nine spin off the calendar, I will be eligible not only to represent the “denture club,” but also to receive some nifty Metamucil discounts.
