“Softball” is a Cruel Misnomer

A few weeks back, most likely following a night of heavy drinking that temporarily blacked out my scarring childhood memories of competitive sports, I made the unlikely decision to join the ranks of Culver City’s upcoming softball sensation, the Suicide Squeeze. While I know there are any number of reasons to join an amateur, one night a week local sports team – money, women and eternal glory being the most obvious – I honestly can’t remember why I decided to sign up. It’s not that I’m unaware of the valuable life lessons that can be learned from a good game of underarm, slow-pitch softball. It’s just that I…well…kind of hate sports.

All of them.

See, I wasn’t kidding about those scarring childhood memories. I have volumes of them. Separate volumes. And each one’s dedicated to my misadventures in a time-honored athletic pastime of the world’s nations. Soccer? When I was seven, I made fun of a kid for wearing a headband and his dad beat me up. His dad, for God’s sake. Swimming? I was kicked out of my fifth grade P.E. class for giggling uncontrollably at the mention of the word “breaststroke.” And softball? Well, let’s just say that I have an entire shelf set aside for my volumes of softball memories.

There’s a simple enough reason for this. While being banished to right field with the rest of the kids who would rather wave at birds and tear up fistfuls of grass than actually participate in the game was fine in my book, there was no escaping the scrutiny of parents and peers alike when you were at the bat. I still remember how the coach would read my name from the roster, leaving me guessing as to whether the apologetic tone in his voice was for my benefit or the team’s. This uncertainty was in no way shared by my teammates. Their inevitable harmonized sigh of frustration – more with God for letting this happen than with me, I like to think – was, without a doubt, their greatest example of teamwork both on and off the field. The only response I could ever muster was the slow, steady grind of my bat as it trailed along the diamond’s dusty floor on my death march to the batter’s box. Think “Dead Man Walking”, with kids.

While I considered myself a friendly – if athletically deficient – young kid, the broad smile I’d receive from the opposite team’s pitcher whenever I stepped up to the plate always gave me pause. I imagine it’s the same toothy grin an ailing baby lamb sees from the wolf that’s separated it from the herd; nature’s own way of saying “There there, little one – this will all be over soon.” Whether my opponent on the mound shared this same predatory instinct – or if it was simply my reputation preceding me – I’ll never know.

It was as I raised the bat that my parents would begin to cheer. Now, don’t get me wrong – I love my parents dearly. I’m even willing to give them the benefit of the doubt that they honestly felt I might, in spite of the laws of physics, the theories of probability and my entire athletic history, “hit it out of the park”, “knock the stuffing out of it” or – my personal favorite, since it suggested I would still be loved if I didn’t hit a home run – “take it to the fence.” That doesn’t, however, change the fact that this did about as much for my stress level as having them at the SAT’s shouting “fill in that oval”, “2B is 4U” or “SAT is A-OK”. And while hearing their encouragement even as I struck out left me wishing I was the batter in the comic above (which was, by the way, lifted from the always-genius PBF Archive), I have to say I really do appreciate it in hindsight.

Which, I suppose, brings us back to the present. Or at least to two nights ago, when I took to the diamond after a fifteen-year absence. The result? I hit (read: took it to the fence) every time I was at bat, got on base and – dear God – even caught a pop fly in the outfield. And that, dear reader, made me remember why I joined the team – complete redemption for my inner child (which, as anyone who knows me can attest, is also my outer 20-something). So needless to say, I’m chalking Monday’s game up as a victory in spite of our technical loss of 13-11. And the only thing that would have made that victory a little sweeter was if my old team had been there.

Or if someone’s mom had shown up with orange wedges and Capri Sun.