Last summer, I had completed chemo and radiation, and it was that, coupled with my husband's enthusiasm, that made me do what I did.
I joined a slow-pitch softball team for the first time since 1995.
I did it because it offered everything I had been missing for five months: namely, the feeling of being alive.
It's a feeling that I didn't even know to appreciate before I was sick, but it was an exhilarating feeling to have again once I thought it was lost forever.
The feeling of being outside, moving, gulping in air and enjoying every second of it, even in temperatures nearing 100 degrees, with no breeze in sight, made me the happiest I think I have ever been.
So, I spent that whole season just appreciating every minute I got to move. I felt healthy again. I felt alive.
This season, the feelings are different.
The novelty hasn't worn off, exactly, but observing assorted teams and their players has taught me a few things.
There are categories of ballplayers, whether it is in slow-pitch softball or baseball. I will just talk about the ones that I don't like.
1. The Sharons. I named them that last night, after one who embodied the entire stereotype.
I don't know why people bother to play ball if they have no intention of ever, ever swinging the bat. This is true in baseball, as well. Few things bring me to instant fury like a player who will not swing the bat. Ever.
It makes me want to hurt them.
Sharon was worse than the traditional stereotype in that she looked fairly athletic. She knew softball terms. She yelled them out at the right times, but in watching her, I came to believe she was doing it for attention.
"GOOD EYE!" Sharon would bellow, then start laughing, after pitches that were almost in the dirt.
I started conversing with her in my mind, and by conversing, I mean delivering a mental tirade.
Wow, Sharon, you seem to really understand the game. You have a real grasp of the obvious, you know it? Hey, Sharon, since we're talking, and since you are so connected to the inner workings of co-ed slowpitch softball, surely you know that you are a GODLESS WHORE FOR NOT SWINGING THE BAT!? REALLY, SHARON!? REALLY!!????
Something like that. I can't remember verbatim.
2. The Shanes. I named them that after their leader.
Shane, it's obvious you aren't winning in the looks department, and you're clearly batting well below average in intelligence. Nice baby mohawk, though.
The Shanes are the bullies of slow-pitch. Last week, I was filling in for a team who had the misfortune of playing Shane's team. Mind you, when we played Shane's team, he nailed me in the arm when I was in my dugout. Other people would have acknowledged the error, would have said sorry, maybe. Shane got pissed off when the ball didn't get returned to him fast enough.
But I digress.
In the first inning, Shane was pitching, and he pitched like he looked: just awful. One of our players made the poor choice to take the walk. Shane went nuts.
"OH, THAT'S HOW IT'S GONNA BE? A TEAM OF WALKERS? IT'S GONNA BE LIKE THAT, HUH? WELL, WE'LL SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT. F#$%IN' WALKS. F#@$."
Nobody else walked.
However, when it was Shane's team's turn, he instructed each batter, only once they got up to bat, that they had better not, in the name of all that was holy, swing. Under any circumstances.
He instructed loudly.
It was like that for the whole game. God, Shane, I'm sorry that softball is your life, but you don't have to take it out on everyone else.
I guess the Sharons and the Shanes are about my only two gripes, player-wise.
I still love to play. But it hit me last night as I kept dodging hornets at first base that it wasn't the same as it used to be.
I played slow-pitch softball for close to 10 years as a child. I perfected the slow pitch. I was deadly because I was the slowest-pitching pitcher in the league.
We were undefeated nearly every season.
Because I spent so much time working on my pitch, I did not develop skills needed at other spots on the field. I could catch line drives hit at me, I could get pop-ups. Grounders, no. And, most importantly, I never really learned to throw overhand.
It hadn't developed within me since then, either.
So, I tried to be a really good hitter instead.
That's not really working out as well in the adult league as it did the girls' league, though. I tend to hit either directly to the shortstop or pop up to the center fielder.
Then I caught myself paying attention to my thoughts during the second game last night (no action at first base. At all. The whole game.)
They went something like this.
I love to be tan. This feels good.
Wait. Am I starting to look like one of those leathery softball moms? Oh, God, please no. You can't get good skin back. Maybe I should pull my sleeves down.
I need a good floppy hat. And bigger sunglasses.
I don't want to be a leathery softball mom.
Oh, my God, what does my cellulite look like? Just because I can't see it doesn't mean it's not there. Don't fool yourself, sweetheart. You have it. You've seen it on plenty of women who have made the (surely unintentional) mistake of wearing short shorts and showing the world their dimples.
Oh, my God, I don't want to be one of those women.
I wonder how much weight I've lost out here tonight? I'm weighing as soon as I get home. I wonder how much my sweat-soaked hair weighs? I'll subtract that. A couple ounces maybe?
Mindless thoughts are meaningless unless you happen to catch yourself in the midst of them and wonder what it all means.
I thought about my 14-year-old self as a pitcher, and what she thought about during games.
Her thoughts went something like this.
Breathe. Spin the ball in your hand five times.
Step up to the rubber.
Breathe.
Zone in.
Pitch.
React.
They were the same every time. They never, ever varied. It's another reason I was good. Thanks to my dad, a book and a videotape, I knew the secrets of mental toughness in sports.
After the inning, I went to the captain.
"I'll pitch next time."
He agreed. He had been pitching and he had not been doing well.
I threw five warm-ups. Then I announced I was ready.
The umpire was surprised. I don't know what he thought traditional warm-ups consisted of, but he repeated my question back to me.
"You're ready?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
I wasn't exactly a hero in my re-entry to the pitching world. In the one inning I pitched, I struck out two and walked one.
I did well enough, though, to merit a compliment from my teammate.
"You've been holding out on us!"
Any guesses on which one I walked, by the way?
That's right. Sharon.
Also, we lost by 18 runs. But in that one inning, I felt like I was close enough to 14-year-old me to reach out and graze her hand.
I'm not her anymore. But for a few minutes, I remembered.
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