The text from Bob our coach said the weather was clearing up a bit for the Monday night game. That was indeed good news because at the end of practice the previous Thursday, we had been told to expect a monsoon.
I left work to shop for a softball glove. It had to be left handed and inexpensive. After coming up empty in the aisles of Wal-Mart, Meijer, and Target, I finally hit a home run at Dick’s Sporting Goods. At least it was left-handed.
While warming up for the first game of the season, I heard a “pop.” The yellow softball roared into the webbing of my brand-spanking new Louisville Slugger mitt and came to an abrupt halt. This was good news because at the previous practice, a fly ball had hit my glove, broken through the old webbing, and smote me on the right thigh. I left the field gloveless and bruised.
As usual before a game, the opening prayer consisted mostly of “having fun” and keeping both teams “safe from injury.” Then our starting lineup and batting order was announced. In listening to the batting order, I couldn’t help but notice that I wasn’t batting leadoff, or cleanup, or second leadoff or second cleanup. At this rate, I figured I’d be swinging for the fences when the snow started to fly.
I found myself platooning at first base with Jake. Jake and I had quite a bit in common, except for his youth, athleticism, and the fact that he sported a full head of hair. Other than those few minor differences, we could’ve passed for identical twins.
The first few innings passed, and you couldn’t even tell I hadn’t played competitively in several years, maybe because I hadn’t batted or played in the field yet. But at least my heckling of teammates wasn’t rusty.
I was having fun.
The third inning appeared and it was finally my turn to hit. A lot had changed since the last time I strode to the plate. Uh, make that home plate. After years of softball inactivity, I was more like, ” Mighty Casey at the Buffet.”
“Lefty! hollered the opposing pitcher.
I love hearing those words. It means the defense shifts players from left field toward right and moves their right fielder over to the line in right. Little did they realize that in all my years of playing softball, I think I hit it to right only twice. For some reason, I couldn’t pull the ball to right, but I could slap it silly down the third base line and that was my intention.
Ball one.
“Don’t be too eager, Ehm. Wait for your pitch and let it come to you,” I thought to myself.
I swung at the very next pitch and actually made contact. The ball narrowly found its way between the third baseman and shortstop; before I knew it, I was standing at first. The batter after me flew out, putting the damper on a possible rally.
In between innings, it’s normal to see a ball whizzing around the infield as a last gasp at zeroing in on the target: an old, out-of-practice first sacker who was busy trying to break in a new glove. Funny, the tag on the Louisville Slugger read, “Ready to play right off the shelf.” The force of the initial throw from the third baseman almost took the glove off my hand and buried it in the poison ivy-filled woods.
Three up and not three down, as our competitors staged a mini rally and plated two—cutting their deficit to a manageable five runs. It is also noteworthy that I had nary a bobble nor error in the top half of the inning.
Before long, the lady keeping our book informed me that I was due up fifth in the inning. One batter, two batters, three batters, four—oh gosh, it was my turn to swing the aluminum lumber again. I looked toward right field as I made my way to the plate.
“He hit it to short last time up,” bellowed the big-mouthed pitcher. Great, I was kind of hoping no one had noticed. “Hug the third base line,” continued Billy Blabbermouth.
While settling in at the plate, I looked at the infield and noticed an opposite shift was on for this left-hander. Everyone was in his normal position except the third baseman who was indeed hugging the line.
“Ball one!” hollered the umpire. “The pitch was a little bit deep.” By the time the pitcher had swung his arm in reverse in order to send the ball forward toward the plate, I had already made up my mind that if the pitch were anywhere near the outer third of home, I would swing. When the second pitch crossed the plate, I noticed it was right where I hoped it would be.
“Crack!”
I swung and hit the ball to the left of the shortstop and on through to the outfield. I chugged into first. Well, I suppose one man’ s “chug” is another man’s “mosey,” but I prefer to think that I definitely chugged safely into first.
Roger was up next, and he absolutely crushed it to centerfield. My eyes grew as big as saucers thinking this might be the time I actually make it to third base. I shifted into high gear. As I reached second, I gently tapped the bag in an effort to keep myself from breaking stride. Breaking stride? Who was I kidding? I had never, ever broken stride before—wind maybe—but never my stride.
As I tapped the bag, my feet immediately informed my brain that they noticed the bag was not secured to the ground. “Hello! Second base is not secured to the ground!” But my brain was having none of it and instead urged my feet to pick up the pace. My feet, however, decided at this point in time to take a break. So they did. Instead of hitting the ground one after another, they went airborne. And them going airborne meant every other part of me was going parallel to the ground.
“Thud!”
I splatted near second.
After the game, nearby witnesses were interviewed and gave their version of the event.
Witness #1, Celeste Ehm, wife of accident victim: “Oh, no. He’s going to be embarrassed. It’s going to be bad if he falls. He’s going to hate it. I think he’s going to fall. Oh, no! I think he’s going to recover! I thought he was going to recover. And then ‘boom’, he fell after all. Then I thought, ‘Well, if he can at least get back to second, he might not be quite as embarrassed’.”
Witness #2, Taylor Fish, girlfriend of victim’s son Ryan: “I watched him like, stumbling, and I was like ‘Please don’t fall, please don’t fall.’ First I thought he was going to like, recover. I was like, ‘He’s going to be okay’, and then I was like, ‘Oh no! He’s going down!’ And when he went down it was hilarious! I had faith in him, I was like, ‘He’s gonna make it,’ and then there was the point of no return.”
Witness #3, Ryan Ehm, son and teammate of accident victim: Laughing hysterically, “On him going to second? Yes, I knew he was biting it before he got to second. Looking over his shoulder as he was running (laughter in the background provided by that Fish woman) is usually not a good sign. Then he hit the bag, and I knew he was down. But I was laughing more. And then everyone in the stands thought he was going to make it, but I knew he wasn’t. But I’ll give him kudos for getting back to second after he wiped out. They didn’t tag him out.”
It felt great to get the kinks out after years of not playing in a softball game.
After the game as I reflected on the evening’s events and my base running blunder, I wished more time had been spent on the “safe from injury” part of the opening prayer; after all, it was a church softball game.
