Take Me Out of the Ball Game

I have found my household glued to the TV lately, watching the Mariners’ games. I’m not a real enthusiast. I only know that my presence is a hindrance to winning games, whether I am watching in the bleachers, or totally at a distance from the hidey-hole of my living room. And I have mystical, magical powers of doom.

If I leave the room, the team scores. If I stay, the other team will get a three-base hit and run. Never fails. So I try to occupy myself elsewhere and give the Mariners a fair chance. :)

All this baseball drama has brought memories of the one summer I was on a softball team for the City. I won’t say when because I think I’d get tarred and feathered. You see, I have the same effect if I am actually on the team. Worse.

I could not hit a ball to save my soul. I couldn’t catch a ball either. Or throw. But I’d try, try, try!!!!

Once, I was thrown the ball to 2nd base, where the runner was flying down from 1st. I just closed my eyes tight and held out the ball towards the runner and, damn! if she didn’t run smack into it with her left boob. She said she was going to go around again and try for the right – so at least they (the boobs) would be even.

I was a terrible but extremely earnest player. I never did make it to a base – so no need to worry about stealing 2nd or 3rd – I never got to 1st.

The legend of my lack of prowess got to be so bad, that BOTH teams would root for me. I caught a ball, playing shortstop. I mean, I actually caught a fly ball. I’m hopping up and down and shouting, “I caught it! I caught it!” and then realized that every one on both sides is doing the same thing. All jumping up and down and screaming “She caught the ball! She honestly caught the ball!” The game stopped so we could all regroup. Even the people on the bases stood still instead of running for all they were worth. Oh, maybe you can’t do that if I caught the fly ball. What do I know. . . .


When we got to the finals and there were several teams playing, I showed up, loyally and diligently, in my uniform, with my mitt, ready to Play Ball. The coach met me at my car and told me he was benching me right off the get go. No hard feelings – we just needed to have all players actually hitting the ball and catching it. You know, we’d like to actually win a game here.



al said...

Hmm ... brings back some very unwanted memories. Usually a lot of kids didn't have their own mit, so you'd have to borrow one from the other team (they're up the bat, so they have a bunch of unused mits laying around). I'm left handed. EVERYONE else was right handed. So, invariably I'd have to use a right-handed mit - they fit on the left hand 'cause the player is going to be throwing with their right hand.

Because of that I learned to catch with my left hand. Problem was I never learned to throw with my right, so, I'd have to catch the ball, pull off the glove and then throw the ball. Guess who was always picked last for a team?

BBCor Bats said...

I won’t say when because I think I’d get tarred and feathered.