Softball
Hey,
After two grueling weeks of work I took my yearly Second Summer mini-vacation
back to Sitka to play in the final softball tournament of the year, Mud Ball.
It was great. I would like to take a moment to touch base (no pun) and dispel
some of the nasty rumors that may be aloft in this post tourney air. Our team
finished third in a seventeen-team field. I made the All Tournament Team and
contrary to Kert's belief, it is ALL Tournament Team and not Old Tournament
Team. In the past few years I have been listening awfully close for that distinction
when they make the announcement.
A little while ago our team leader and captain
Marty asked me if I would mind if they gave Scott's boy a look for an inning
or so at my traditional third base position. No problem, I could use a break.
That was May 17th of 1996 and I have yet to play an inning at third base since.
What the hell? Apparently I miss the tryouts each spring. So now I am a platoon
catcher on a slow pitch beer league softball team. When my knees do not allow
me to catch, I am an 'Extra Hitter'. What the hell is an Extra Hitter? I have
played with these same guys for 14 years and I do know one thing for sure: We
certainly are not good enough to have an extra anything...much less an extra
hitter. We are now the oldest division one team in town. If a couple of our
players' kids are grounded for any reason, we become the oldest team in Alaska.
Another thing has me mad. The American Softball Association now allows teams
to 'Courtesy' runners for someone three times during a regulation game. Could
be interesting, could make the game more exciting, and could give some zit faced
underemployed punk a chance to get in an occasional game. But no, they let you
'Courtesy' run with any active player on your team. General consensus on our
team is that three 'Courtesy' runners is not sufficient as Bruce usually gets
up to bat four times in a regulation game. So now strategy becomes, which time
are we going to let Bruce run on his own? What kind of a courtesy is that? On
most occasions I get up to bat, line a clean single and start off for first.
The little shitten 'Courtesy' runner usually beats me to first after watching
my single, taking off his $70 sweatpants, a few quick stretches, and some profanity
laced instruction from Marty. If it was truly a 'Courtesy', the little bastard
should run to first for me. Late in one particular game we had used up all of
the 'Courtesy' runners on me already. I hit a shot to the gap and was running
for second. From OUR dugout comes the increasingly familiar, "Hey Brucey,
we don't mind you carrying the piano with you when you run...but do you have
to play it as well?" Not what you want to hear. So I called time out, stepped
off second, squatted down and pretended to tie my spikes nineteen times. This
four minutes allowed the crowds laughter to die down, my anger to subside, the
burning in my lungs to cease, and the blood to return to starving organs. 'Courtesy
run this.
Now we do have Marty. He is our 47-year-old muse
with a lifetime batting average of .138. Needless to say he is neither a 'Courtesy'
runner nor an extra hitter. He is our inspiration. He is also our pitcher. He
can swear continuously for 4 minutes and not repeat a word. Seen it too many
times. One Canadian tournament game in the early rounds he was on the mound
for us. By then he was 0 for 3 at the plate with a fly out to the catcher, a
strike out, and a 37-hop grounder to the opposing pitcher. We were way ahead
but Marty was still pissed. The umpire was pinching Marty at the plate and not
allowing him any leeway with the strike zone. Two walks later Marty was near
a meltdown. His cap pulled down so far that his ears bent out at 45-degree angles.
Marty began to mumble to himself again. The Canadian umpire called time, and
walked two steps toward the mound and cautioned Marty about the 'Profanity Rule'.
Profanity rule, another shitty addition to a great game. He reminded him that
any yelling of profanity would result in getting him kicked out. Marty did not
make eye contact during this exchange while he stared at the ground and adjusted
himself below the waist. The next batter took the first three pitches for balls.
Each near strike put him closer to a meltdown. Marty toed the rubber for the
next pitch, paused, slammed the ball into his mitt twice and said to the ump,
"Sir, can you throw me out of the game for what I am THINKING?" The
Canuck ump sheepishly replied, "No...". Marty nodded in agreement,
leaned in towards the plate, readied himself for the next pitch, and then stood
up. Glared at the ump, slammed the ball two more times into his mitt, casually
announced, "Alright then...I THINK you're a shitty ump". He dropped
his mitt and walked for the beer tent. Pitching change.
It takes me seven pair of spandex bicycle short
pants to mold everything into a spectator acceptable form. The token young kids
ask me before the game if I want to play catch to warm up. Hell, I warm-up with
a shower these days. If I want to get good and loose before a game, I park my
truck nearer the concession stand, get a dog and beer, and walk all the way
to the dugout. No 'Courtesy' help needed here. Fourteen years ago I purchased
a pair of Nike interchangeable spikes. The kind that allows you to change molded
rubber spikes for metal ones when different tournament rules allow. My molded
rubber spikes have gotten worn down over the last fourteen years. As it turns
out the floor of the Pioneer Bar is tough on them. Well my friend and teammate
Paulie got me some new replacement rubber spikes. Great. 'Courtesy' run for
me now. Problem solved. Again, turns out my speed issue was just an equipment
problem. Sat in the dugout and changed over to the new rubber spikes. Put them
on, laced them up, and stood. At that moment the sensation of 12 unworn spikes
being driven through the bottoms of my feet hit me. Who would have thought that
after only fourteen seasons the bottoms of my shoes had weakened to the point
that these spike would rather push through flesh than enter the ground. I started
sweating. Leaned over to one of the other 240 pound 35 year old platoon catchers
and explained my problem. Deaf ears. So I figured that perhaps the softer ground
of the playing field was better suited for my flawed shoes. Took one step toward
the field, dragged the virgin one inch front spike in my shuffling plodding
stride and fell face forward to the ground. Marty had seen this before. "If
you are going to wear young kid's gear, change your gait and pick your feet
up!" I am only going to endure this ridicule for another ten years...tops.
Mom, I was able to walk following the weekend
without the assistance of codeine. I know where my wallet is. I still do not
know anybody at Sitka radiology by first name. I left my uniform in a pile in
the corner of the garage so I know where to find it again if they let me play
next year. Diet starts on Tuesday.
Bruce