Softball
By H.G. Miller
I knew as I started to swing the bat that it was a bad idea. The trajectory of the ball was way to low. All I could hope for was to somehow “scoop” it out over the infield. Unfortunately, this was my first swing of the new softball season and just moving the bat off of my shoulder was a lot harder than I had remembered, and controlling it to such minute detail was even harder.
So, I just grunted and prayed for contact.
I got the contact… sort of. A soft roller past the pitcher towards the shortstop. Defeat washed through me.
Of course, I’d been brought up to play hard, so I ran as fast as I could towards first base. The girl manning the bag for the other team had obviously been put there because she was tall and not because she was a good athlete. I’m pretty sure she’d never had a softball thrown at her, which was problematic, because the shortstop was now in the process of winging one at her about as hard as he could.
To compensate for her fear of the ball, she ducked low to the ground, closer her eyes and stuck her glove into the air.
Having closed her eyes, she didn’t see that the throw from the shortstop was in the dirt, and as it squirted past the bag and into foul territory, I began to have visions of myself standing on second base, the veteran base runner taking advantage of a defensive error to advance and help his team.
Unfortunately, first base had other ideas. As I stepped on the bag, the loose gravel that kept it attached to the dirt slipped away, sending the bag sailing down the right field line, whilst my ankle and knee argued about which way my leg should go, hyper-extending tendons that hadn’t been extended in any way since the last softball game some six months earlier, causing me to tumble comically to the ground, as well as make a sort of whinnying sound… similar to a small donkey that’s getting branded.
What I’m trying to say is: it hurt.
So, I lay there on the ground, getting chalk and dirt all over myself and wondering if mine was another softball career cruelly cut short by injury. I gingerly stood and walked to the bag, limping obviously. The coach called for a replacement runner, and I limped back to the dugout, most people asking what happened – ours is not a team that pays much attention to the on-field action.
That’s where the real problems began. Trying to explain to people why I was limping. That night at the bar (must medicate the injury) and the next day at work.
“Wait a minute…” whoever it was would pause for effect, “you’re saying you hurt yourself playing
softball
?”
“Well…” I would pause sheepishly, “yeah.”
“Were you at least drunk?”
“What do you mean ‘at least?’”
“I mean… softball? Come on.”
Yes, it’s hard to get sympathy from people when you’ve injured yourself playing a sport that isn’t even really a sport, just a cheap, slowed-down, drunken knock off of a real sport. It’s even worse when your injury was the result of a play that many eight-year old children pull off with ease.
“So, the first baseman hit you?”
“No.”
“You just fell?”
“The bag slipped.”
“So, you just fell?”
“Never mind.”
So, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this whole experience, it’s this: next time the continued frailty of my body decides to show itself on the softball field, I’m going to have the best burning building, cat and baby trapped story you’ve ever heard.