Softball and Inferiority

Living on a military base provides community, which I like. Most in that community are kids, many of whom joined up instead of going to college. Even the other parents on the base seem really young and this intimidates me, actually. “Hi, my beard is graying, but my kids are the same age as yours. Can you help me buy some Depends?” Living on the base gives me some angst.

So it was with some apprehension that I went to play softball last night. Indeed, everyone on the team was stronger, faster, 10 years younger, better looking and equipped with cleats.

Oh, jeez, I really hope I don’t embarrass myself.

We scored a few runs right off the bat, while I was removing the splinters out of my ass, so at least there wouldn’t be any real pressure. After two innings, I was put into right field.

I didn’t complain. That’s where I would have put me. Not much happens in right field, especially when the opposing team doesn’t have any left handed hitters. I just had to pick up a grounder that got past the infield. Routine plays and little opportunity to screw up. That’s just the way I like it my first time out.

But then it was my turn to bat. I haven’t swung a bat since 2004. Back then it was for the law firm team, and no one was taking it seriously. I haven’t swung a bat sober since 1989, at summer camp.

I really hope I don’t really embarrass myself. Really. Not here in front of the military kids. They might buy me a walker.

I step up and dig in. One on first, no out. All I hear is my heartbeat and that voice hoping that I don’t embarrass myself. Who is that? The first pitch arcs high, but starts to drift outside. I’ll take this one, but at least I’m picking the ball up well. It’s a called strike. It probably got the outside corner.

Next pitch, less arc. Lands in front of the plate. Ump calls the count, two-and-two. Huh? Do I only get two strikes? Should I get an explanation?

No, here comes the next pitch. Nice arc, straight down the middle. My shoulders tense, my left foot steps and … “klonk!”

Solidly hit, but a grounder. It bounces past the shortstop, for a nicely hit single, advancing the runner. The next batter lines the first pitch into left and I hold at second.

Standing on second, watching the next batter, the wind picks up and I smell the dusty infield. The workday melts away, as does the uncertain future. I’m fifteen again, feeling alive, worrying about math tests and driver’s ed. The tension that I didn’t even realize I was carrying in my shoulders drains away leaving me, I dare say, euphoric. Suddenly life is certain and the future is as clear as the basepath to third. Which I now have to hustle down because the batter belted one to left. The coach holds me at third, but the moment has passed. I ended up scoring on the next batter. I was thirty four again when I stepped on the plate and high five'd all the kids on the way to the dugout.

Sure, I badly misjudged a routine fly in the last inning, letting it sail over my head for an in-the-park home run, but I made up for that by catching the last out of the game by drifting eight steps to my right for another fly. It doesn’t matter. I can play with these kids for a while, especially if it will make me younger, if only momentarily.