When I was in my teens and 20’s I was always mistaken for being older than I was. It really bothered me. If I look five years older now what am I going to look like when I’m 30? What is going to happen when the real catches up with the imaginary?
And so I sit before you now just shy of fifty-five years of age. Reflecting on a wonderful afternoon. I have always loved to play softball. As a teen in Southern California I played in a fast pitch league, I was pretty good. I had been on a few winning teams. And just when I was getting really good I met a baseball bat up close and personal. The result was a concussion. I was 15. I wouldn’t play again until I moved to Michigan. That is where I learned how the slow came to be in slow-pitch softball.
I played one night a week on the Women’s Church League and the church ladies held my babies because their dad was working/going to school and not available to care for his children one night a week while I did something for myself. -sorry. Where was I?
I played on the Zion Lutheran Church Woman’s team. Third base. I tried to coach one year but I really sucked at playing and coaching. Sometimes I would have to bring the kids with me on game night and those wonderful church ladies would scoop them up and love on them so I could play. For one season I was able to have a baby-sitter come to the house after that they were old enough watch the game or play on the playground.
During one particular Michigan summer we arrived at the park and I gave them their choices and set down the rules. Please do not produce any bumps, bruises, or blood on one another and we may go for ice cream on the way home. It was my only night of the week that was semi-to myself. Damn skippy I dangled a bribe out there. It was a high scoring game on both sides and the inning was intense and then someone yelled:
“TIME! TIME OUT! Kid on the field”
And there was my daughter walking from the first base side and making a beeline to me. She is mad at her brother and is telling me about it the entire walk across the field. I am scanning the bleachers to see where my oldest is and I don’t see either of them. The sun is going down and we need to get the inning finished to win. Without missing a beat one of the church ladies came off the bleacher and scooped her up. Church ladies rock!
After I became single I found a co-ed league. Co-ed was a lot more intense and fun. Pretty sure playing third in that league did not help the subsequent arthritis in my right thumb.
*sigh* But that was then and this is now.
Now I watch my oldest play on a league with the guys and gals he works with at AwesomnessTV.
Softball does not come naturally to my son but that hasn’t stopped him from working at it and improving with every game. It should be noted that I am his biggest fan and, well… the only fan in the stands. I do such a good job cheering that last week the other team wanted to know how much I would charge to come to their game.
Not gonna lie wondered to myself if I could play again. The mind is willing…my glove however is with my youngest son in Oregon. I am safe without a glove it’s better to stay a Super-Fan. -that is until today. Perhaps I should have been more careful about what I wished for.
It seems more than half of my son’s team was not going to be at today’s game and rather than not play the game the coach decides to put together a Bad News Bear team and appoints my oldest to Manager. And that is how I went from being a Super-Fan to playing Right Field. I borrowed glove that was too big, a pair of Sketchers with no tread and a prayer that I would make it to the end. I face planted in the first inning going after one that had a bad hop.
Thankful I didn’t break my prescription sunglasses. See the red part?
Look closer. Dam I need to color again.
I hit out to the infield and struck out. After picking up my pride and dusting myself off the next inning I was playing first base. The best play of the game came when the ball was hit to my oldest playing shortstop and he threw it to me to get the out.
I would be lieing if I said I wasn’t hurting. The ice pack has melted but I can’t move to refill it at the moment.
I would like to thank my niece for suggesting the use of a tennis ball to give oneself a back massage.
Now I am not saying I won’t ever play again but I can say I understand why an athletes years are numbered. Wearing eye glasses to play the game is one thing wearing bifocals makes it a whole lot more interesting. By the time I gained my footing to run to first I watched the ball being caught and thrown back to the pitcher. I think I will stick to roller blading.
I wish I could write that this rag-tag team of awesomeness won the game in pure cinematic form, we did not. But wOw what a great adventure to play softball with my son. The church ladies would love it.
Say goodnight Gracie.
divorced is not a marital status 