Softball

I went to Leo's for lunch the other day with Marcy. When I leaned over and said "Hey Charlie, can we get some more salad plates?," to CharLES, who HATES to be called CharLIE, it was kind of funny because it took me a second to figure out why he was giving me such a mean look. I was blameless--I was in Marcy mode--her husband is named Charlie. Once I figured it out I forgave Charles and I think he forgave me.

Then he asked me if I wanted to be on the Softball team this year. Yes. Of course I do.

What do I not love about Softball? About nerve-racking suspense as every one stares at you, just you, with the heavy metal bat and knees over the dusty plate? With your elbow tilted just up at that perfect most comfortable angle? With your hands touching each other just right? Staring the pitcher down as you remember how Ty Cobb said batting is a breeze if you can just scare the pitcher? "Clink"-- contact. Running, racing, watching, judging, sliding, cheering, stealing, scoring. Delicious red clay rings around your socks when you take off your shoes. Leather. Freshly cut green soft grass in the outfield. Dusky lights. Dugout banter. Pats on the back. High fives.

I was especially flattered because it is a Leonardo's team and I don't even work there anymore, which means they still love me even though I was fired for not showing up for a shift. And I will get a new team shirt.


So, in honor of softball, here is a spontaneous little poem:

I. Now

Clink. the sun is going down
and I am on my way to first (I always barely make it)
its like my life, a constant race, just ahead by a toe or behind by a foot.
someone else's mistake, an error, can send me home
to start all over again batting fifth.
I'm not afraid of you
big fat pitcher.

II. Ten

when I was in little league the boys always walked me
never sent me a good one, a hard one
I think I would have cried, I was such a weany
they didn't want to make me cry
I always half-played and sometimes faked sick
so I could just watch the team.
Coach Vern asked me why I always looked so mad
did I think it was cute or something? and I was embarassed because I thought so
and practiced looking that way.
I had a crush on his son.
Dad called me snake-hips and I hated my grey pants
but everyonceinawhile I would lean out over the plate
and hit it between the shortstop and third and get an RBI
or a sacrifice
and that is how baseball was for me: a sacrifice.
I'd rather be reading. I wished I was in ballet.
I did perouettes in center field and was too tall and akward and skinny
for baseball, big plays, ballet, or boys.

Baseball was free and we wore orange jerseys; the Orioles.
I certainly felt like a bird.
I liked helping in the concession stands the most, with jeremy,
I haven't seen him in years I wonder what he's like now. he liked to read too
but we never talked about it.
ketchup and mustard and pickles will always be delicious
whenever I eat a hotdog I will be eleven again and think of jeremy
and our dusty dirty dinky diamond in the middle of a yellow sweaty pasture behind the fire station
and how I used to be afraid to hit the ball.


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This isn't part of the poem because I don't like it very much and it doesn't seem to fit and the ending sucks, but I included it anyways since I just sat here and wrote it. For your reading pleasure, if you care about the sucky way that my softball career ended.

III. Sixteen

Fear is an indulgence that went away
I'm not exactly sure when
I decided to kick it, run it over, stomp on it, call it "out"
I was mad when I didn't make it on varsity softball. I was too good for JV
all those whiny girls afraid to catch the ball. I think that was the beginning, when I was angry
that fear started its retreat.
Softballs are bigger and easy--there is nothing hard about it
nothing hard about staring down a girl and imagining wacking the ball right into her stomach
nothing complicated about being tough
nothing frightening about being the tallest, skinniest, weirdest, quietest
if it is who you are
but I still only half-played. It just wasn't too much fun, singing silly songs about a
rooster on a fence
and how we want a rally and hey number whatever
JV softball was a failure too. I was afraid of the coach,
a small lesbian dyke who was so mean and tough in little league, the star, the champion, trophy-winner
the ball was afraid of her , she played with all boys too,
in highschool she was on the varsity baseball team.
I hated her when she talked over my head like I wasn't there
when she told me I need a better throwing arm--softballs are stupid--not at all like tiny compact baseballs
and you have to throw them like a sissy straight over your head
I threw sidearm. I was mad because I was still afraid. I was mad because I wasn't good enough.
Sometimes she would compliment me and it would make me even angrier.
I played first base one game and it was horrible. I hate first base.
I didn't play the next season.