Monday, May 17, 2004
In the midst of a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, I played two games of softball. This may not sound like much to you, and I understand. But for me, this was one of the more glorious days in the past few months. Even though we lost both games.
You see, my mind exulted that my body is capable of playing softball for hours at a time now. It was only four months ago--almost to the day--that my back was so badly injured that I crawled on my hands and knees around my apartment for days. I can still remember the feeling--the shocking, sickening pain of sciatica and a throbbing migraine for days on end. My god, I've been through hell. But now, it's May. Suddenly, miraculously, it's May. The sun has shone for weeks on end in Seattle. That last entry about the unexpected pleasure of rain pattering on the roof was purely aberration. It's 65 and pellucid blue outside. Again. And my body feels similarly clear.
I've been playing with this team for a few weeks now. X-Box. I play with Microsoft guys who design video games. You'd expect serious geeks, who snort when they laugh and swing at the ball feebly. But they're athletes instead. And lovely, adjusted people. Yesterday, I looked down the bench at all these married men my age, men who know how to swing the bat and play graciously, and I thought, "What did I do to miss out on this? Why can't I have one of these?" But that's another entry, about the frenzy of dating and trying to find love. That one's a book. This one is about softball.
So we win. Much to my surprise, I'm finally on a winning team. My entire life, I've been the star of a sadly faltering team. The CHS Wolfpack, which didn't know how to field grounders. The slowpitch team on Vashon, which let balls roll through their legs or rush over their heads. The hilarious Irish bar team in New York City, where 8 out of the twelve had never played baseball before, and our pitcher spoke with a thick accent made thicker by the cigarette perpetually hanging from his mouth. And the engineers' league in Seattle, in which every game seemed drenched by rain, and we splashed through the puddles to losses.
They were always fun--I love playing no matter what the circumstance. Especially the Irish bar team in NYC. We played in Riverside Park, perched on the edge of the Hudson, and I made line-drive-double plays at first base every game, because no one knew how to hit. We lost every game but one. The team had played together for a couple of years, and they had never won a game. But somewhere in the middle of July, one hot and sticky day, we actually won a game. I don't really remember how, now. It was a surprise to us all. But win we did. When we went back to the Broadway Dive (the bar at the bottom of my building that sponsored us), we were treated like returning heroes. Pizzas arrived from Sal and Carmine's across the street, steaming with the sweet smell of success. Beers were poured all around. The owner of the bar asked us to sign the winning game ball. And a couple of hours into the evening, someone put U2 on the jukebox. Triumphant and drunk off of lagers, we all joined arms at the bar and shouted, "In the Name of Love" with such pride and gusto that I actually felt, for a moment, as though we had won the world.
But still, it's better to be on a winning team. And now, I am.
Except we lost on Sunday. We played the top team in the league, every one of them a bat, every one them a player who knew how to hit the cut-off. Doesn't happen that often. They slouched balls over the shortstop's head or slammed balls over the left fielder's head. We never knew what was coming. Still, we came close. In a middle inning, I stood on first, Luke up to bat. I love Luke. He adores the game, knows it by blood. He can hit the shit out of the ball--two games ago, he had two grand slams in one game. And mostly, his body is loose and ready, his eyes always watching. But he's also kind, not wrapped in his competition. He says good job to everyone who hits, everyone who attempts a play. It's joy to be on a ballfield with him. And when I'm on base, I want Luke up next. So he hit this long, loping drive into center field. Not a home run, by any means. But as soon as he hit it, I took off running. I ran as though I'd never had an injury. I ran, head down, legs pumping, dust rising. I ran hard and it felt good. Rounding second, I looked to see the center fielder bobble the ball, so I took off running for third. Made it, and I forced them to throw fast, because they hadn't expected me to move. The third baseman leapt, but the ball rattled against the chain-link fence of the dugout. I sussed out immediately his lumbering pace, and I took off. I ran toward home with all my energy. Nothing in my mind for those few seconds but making it down the base path and leaping onto home plate. I could feel the ball come from behind me, but the girl catcher looked tentative. So I darted around her, suddenly, which made her lose her focus. And I ran across home plate smiling.
Man, that was a sweet, exultant moment.
Final score: 17-15. Them. I didn't care.
Quick break, for bathroom stops and Subway sandwiches from across the street. Time to gaze at Greenlake, which is always a pleasure.
Next game, we held the new team for three innings. And it was in the third that I had my other baseball glory moment. This game, I was playing catcher. Normally--in fact, all my life--I've played at first. I know that bag like my breath. I know where to stand, how to gauge when the ball's going to be hit toward me, how to guide the rest of the infield based on a flicker in the batter's eyes. And standing at first base, waiting for that pitch, is one of my favorite places in the universe. On the ballfield, I don't think about anything. I just move and adjust and blink. No grading or bantering or second guessing. I'm just there. I love that spot of earth.
But this team already had a first-base person. And I'll give it to her--she's good. She knows that plot of land and knows how to stretch out on it to make the play. And besides, since the car accident, I'm not so possessive of my place. I just want to play. So the first game, I was at second base. Except that it felt profoundly odd to me. Playing on the right side, but not at my spot. And just where do I stand for the cut-off? (I think the last time I played second base was in the fourth grade.) It's like moving into a new house on your own block. You're sort of in the same place, but you don't know how to read the creaks in the basement yet.
So during the second game, I played catcher. Afraid at first of all the squatting and the proximity of the bat to my head, I used to hate playing catcher. But now, it feels right. It's slow and methodical, just catching the ball and throwing it back. But I am also involved in every pitch. And I can see the field with more expansiveness than when I'm guarding my little plot of land. I could grow used to this.
In the third inning, they put a man on second. Damn. After some close pitching by Craig, the guy at the plate hit a solid thunk out to center field. The guy on second was sure he was going to score, so he started wheeling. But this time, the girl catcher didn't get thrown off her focus. Luke pegged it to Chuck, our shortstop. I bent my knees to ground myself in front of the plate, blocking the third-base line a bit, and shouted, "HOME!!" Chuck turned and pegged it at me, with a whoosh and solid accuracy. Right to my glove. The glove that was positioned right at my left knee. Without thinking, I swooped down and tagged the guy on the leg, while also grounding down in my heels, so I wouldn't be moved. Out, I gestured, triumphant with the play. "OUUT!" the umpire shouted. And this big guy on the ground grinned up at me and said, "Nice play, Catch." And all around me, I could hear my teammates whooping and hollering, shouting my name.
I'm back. I'm here. And don't try to stop me.
You see, my mind exulted that my body is capable of playing softball for hours at a time now. It was only four months ago--almost to the day--that my back was so badly injured that I crawled on my hands and knees around my apartment for days. I can still remember the feeling--the shocking, sickening pain of sciatica and a throbbing migraine for days on end. My god, I've been through hell. But now, it's May. Suddenly, miraculously, it's May. The sun has shone for weeks on end in Seattle. That last entry about the unexpected pleasure of rain pattering on the roof was purely aberration. It's 65 and pellucid blue outside. Again. And my body feels similarly clear.
I've been playing with this team for a few weeks now. X-Box. I play with Microsoft guys who design video games. You'd expect serious geeks, who snort when they laugh and swing at the ball feebly. But they're athletes instead. And lovely, adjusted people. Yesterday, I looked down the bench at all these married men my age, men who know how to swing the bat and play graciously, and I thought, "What did I do to miss out on this? Why can't I have one of these?" But that's another entry, about the frenzy of dating and trying to find love. That one's a book. This one is about softball.
So we win. Much to my surprise, I'm finally on a winning team. My entire life, I've been the star of a sadly faltering team. The CHS Wolfpack, which didn't know how to field grounders. The slowpitch team on Vashon, which let balls roll through their legs or rush over their heads. The hilarious Irish bar team in New York City, where 8 out of the twelve had never played baseball before, and our pitcher spoke with a thick accent made thicker by the cigarette perpetually hanging from his mouth. And the engineers' league in Seattle, in which every game seemed drenched by rain, and we splashed through the puddles to losses.
They were always fun--I love playing no matter what the circumstance. Especially the Irish bar team in NYC. We played in Riverside Park, perched on the edge of the Hudson, and I made line-drive-double plays at first base every game, because no one knew how to hit. We lost every game but one. The team had played together for a couple of years, and they had never won a game. But somewhere in the middle of July, one hot and sticky day, we actually won a game. I don't really remember how, now. It was a surprise to us all. But win we did. When we went back to the Broadway Dive (the bar at the bottom of my building that sponsored us), we were treated like returning heroes. Pizzas arrived from Sal and Carmine's across the street, steaming with the sweet smell of success. Beers were poured all around. The owner of the bar asked us to sign the winning game ball. And a couple of hours into the evening, someone put U2 on the jukebox. Triumphant and drunk off of lagers, we all joined arms at the bar and shouted, "In the Name of Love" with such pride and gusto that I actually felt, for a moment, as though we had won the world.
But still, it's better to be on a winning team. And now, I am.
Except we lost on Sunday. We played the top team in the league, every one of them a bat, every one them a player who knew how to hit the cut-off. Doesn't happen that often. They slouched balls over the shortstop's head or slammed balls over the left fielder's head. We never knew what was coming. Still, we came close. In a middle inning, I stood on first, Luke up to bat. I love Luke. He adores the game, knows it by blood. He can hit the shit out of the ball--two games ago, he had two grand slams in one game. And mostly, his body is loose and ready, his eyes always watching. But he's also kind, not wrapped in his competition. He says good job to everyone who hits, everyone who attempts a play. It's joy to be on a ballfield with him. And when I'm on base, I want Luke up next. So he hit this long, loping drive into center field. Not a home run, by any means. But as soon as he hit it, I took off running. I ran as though I'd never had an injury. I ran, head down, legs pumping, dust rising. I ran hard and it felt good. Rounding second, I looked to see the center fielder bobble the ball, so I took off running for third. Made it, and I forced them to throw fast, because they hadn't expected me to move. The third baseman leapt, but the ball rattled against the chain-link fence of the dugout. I sussed out immediately his lumbering pace, and I took off. I ran toward home with all my energy. Nothing in my mind for those few seconds but making it down the base path and leaping onto home plate. I could feel the ball come from behind me, but the girl catcher looked tentative. So I darted around her, suddenly, which made her lose her focus. And I ran across home plate smiling.
Man, that was a sweet, exultant moment.
Final score: 17-15. Them. I didn't care.
Quick break, for bathroom stops and Subway sandwiches from across the street. Time to gaze at Greenlake, which is always a pleasure.
Next game, we held the new team for three innings. And it was in the third that I had my other baseball glory moment. This game, I was playing catcher. Normally--in fact, all my life--I've played at first. I know that bag like my breath. I know where to stand, how to gauge when the ball's going to be hit toward me, how to guide the rest of the infield based on a flicker in the batter's eyes. And standing at first base, waiting for that pitch, is one of my favorite places in the universe. On the ballfield, I don't think about anything. I just move and adjust and blink. No grading or bantering or second guessing. I'm just there. I love that spot of earth.
But this team already had a first-base person. And I'll give it to her--she's good. She knows that plot of land and knows how to stretch out on it to make the play. And besides, since the car accident, I'm not so possessive of my place. I just want to play. So the first game, I was at second base. Except that it felt profoundly odd to me. Playing on the right side, but not at my spot. And just where do I stand for the cut-off? (I think the last time I played second base was in the fourth grade.) It's like moving into a new house on your own block. You're sort of in the same place, but you don't know how to read the creaks in the basement yet.
So during the second game, I played catcher. Afraid at first of all the squatting and the proximity of the bat to my head, I used to hate playing catcher. But now, it feels right. It's slow and methodical, just catching the ball and throwing it back. But I am also involved in every pitch. And I can see the field with more expansiveness than when I'm guarding my little plot of land. I could grow used to this.
In the third inning, they put a man on second. Damn. After some close pitching by Craig, the guy at the plate hit a solid thunk out to center field. The guy on second was sure he was going to score, so he started wheeling. But this time, the girl catcher didn't get thrown off her focus. Luke pegged it to Chuck, our shortstop. I bent my knees to ground myself in front of the plate, blocking the third-base line a bit, and shouted, "HOME!!" Chuck turned and pegged it at me, with a whoosh and solid accuracy. Right to my glove. The glove that was positioned right at my left knee. Without thinking, I swooped down and tagged the guy on the leg, while also grounding down in my heels, so I wouldn't be moved. Out, I gestured, triumphant with the play. "OUUT!" the umpire shouted. And this big guy on the ground grinned up at me and said, "Nice play, Catch." And all around me, I could hear my teammates whooping and hollering, shouting my name.
I'm back. I'm here. And don't try to stop me.
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