Good Field, Good Hit

Now that Central Ohio’s winter of discontent is but a (not so) distant memory, it is time to turn our attention to summer pursuits. Beginning in the cool of spring and stretching well into autumn, there is no more pervasive summer pastime in these parts than the leagues of softball. Slow pitch, fast pitch, gender-based, age-based, or coed, all bases are covered when it comes to this amateur activity. If you are considering joining a team this year, it is best to take a test drive first – show up for the pickup games that usually precede official sign up. It is at these informal gatherings that one can get a true picture of what one is getting into because prospective participants have not yet put on their game faces, they are still themselves.

So it was that a while back, I showed up for a Sunday morning pickup game where players were taking batting and fielding practice before choosing up sides. I boldly filled a gap at shortstop even though I was not likely to be the best infielder in sight. It wasn’t long before a batter shot a sharp grounder to my side of the infield. The third baseman lunged for it, but it bounced off the end of his glove. I tried to backhand it, but it ricocheted off mine, and rolled into left field. “A base hit or two errors?” I asked the third baseman. “In this league, that’s a double.” At least I knew I wasn’t in over my head.

Trouble presented itself when it came time to divide up into two teams. A couple of apparent veterans of the league started arguing over who should be the captains to choose their players. “Why do we need captains? This game doesn’t even count. It’s just practice.” “You wanna be captain; you can be captain.” “You listenin’ to me? No captains, understand?” The argument became heated as several others chose sides and began making ill-advised comments regarding the legitimacy of the combatants’ birth as well of that of their relatives. Finally, one gentleman gifted with exceptionally powerful vocal cords announced a solution to the problem: “Al-right! E-nough! All lawyers stay in the field! Everyone else, your team’s at bat!” As improbable as that sounded, it resulted in a neat division into two teams of approximately equal numbers. It also portended future problems.

With so many attorneys involved in play, every close call at every base resulted in heated discourse regarding the likelihood of the players involved being safe or out. This was especially problematic since there are no umpires hired for pickup games. During one particular dispute following a tag play at home plate which held up the proceedings for an extended period of time, I turned to an elderly spectator named Moe Gathers who seemed to be enjoying the proceedings. “Do you believe this?” I asked him. “Oh yeah, this happens every week. I just hope that this isn’t the end of the game, because my wife won’t be finished at the beauty parlor for another hour and a half.” I asked the gent if used to play. “Yes, but there were more accountants like me back in those days. We didn’t fight that much except when computing batting averages.”

Moe got his wish, and the game eventually resumed. The runner was ruled out, and my team took the field. I ended up playing third base, the “hot corner” as it is known, because right-handed power hitters would frequently rip line drives in that direction. Sure enough, with two out and a couple of runners on base, the opposing team’s muscular left fielder ripped a shot my way. Reflexively, I raised my glove in self-defense and caught it. I felt somewhat redeemed, because the only other ball sent my way had been a hard grounder that had caromed off my shin. I was up first to start the next inning, and I promptly lined a single to center. “Good field, good hit,” I heard Moe croak as I ran to first base.

After the game broke up, one of the pitchers made appreciative comments regarding the respectable turnout. “You know, it’s surprising so many guys came out. After all, it’s Mother’s Day.” Moe offered an explanation: “You know what happened, Dave. These guys got up in the morning, kissed the wife, and said, ‘Honey, it’s Mother’s Day. What can I do for you?’ And she said, ‘You can get the hell out of my face!’” Dave laughed in a manner that indicated Moe’s insight likely contained more than a grain of truth. As the players disbanded, some to go mow their lawn, some to hunt for last-minute Mother’s Day bouquet, some to meet the family for brunch, I decided this league was OK. I’d sign up, and be back next week.