Fast Pitch Emotional Scars

It’s the top of the 5th, and there are runners on first and third. My team is up by two, and there are only five innings in the game, given that gym class is only 42 minutes long. The opposing team is at bat, and there are two outs. One more, and we win.

I’m playing catcher in eighth grade gym class softball. What can go wrong? I’m practically a spectator, here. Even the kid in right field has seen more action than me.

Basically, I’ve been watching this game, not playing it. And that’s fine by me, because I suck at softball. Why? Because I’m left-handed. Because no one will teach me. Because I’m lazy. Something.

Two strikes. It’s all over after this pitch. Jeremy launches a wobbly softball in my direction. Pete swings wildly – I think his eyes were closed – and I hear the crack of the bat connecting with the ball.

Still not my problem, right? Wrong. The ball goes straight up in the air. Deep down, I know this, but that’s not where it was supposed to go. It was supposed to travel either to my glove, or far away from me. But it didn’t. Returning to Earth, it lands on the ground right next to me and bounces a few feet away, rolling down the hill behind our makeshift home plate.

I’m still staring into the outfield. Why isn’t the ball out there? Damnit. I turn around with all the speed of molasses rushing out of the bottle. I see the ball, and all at once, reality rushes back, carried on the voices of my classmates calling me names that actually amuse my gym teacher. Even he barks, “What the hell are you doing?”

My team won that game, in the bottom half of the sixth. But no thanks to me. We had to come back from a tie. Two runs were scored off of my error – the last guy stopped just past third, only because I was standing on home plate with the ball, holding back adolescent tears. It was months before I was picked anything but last in any sport in gym class.

This is my relationship with baseball and softball. I’ve since found aptitude with other sports and count myself as a fairly confident, athletic person. But to this day, the notion of swinging a bat or trying to catch a ball with a glove nauseates me. So, why the hell did I just join a rec softball team?

It’s all because someone I respect told me I should. I’ll call her Betty. The conversation went like this:

ME: “I have emotional scars from softball and baseball in gym class as a kid. I suck, and haven’t played since then.”

BETTY: “No way, I’m sure you’re at least competent. You should join our softball team. You’d have a lot of fun.”

And what do I say, before my brain can catch up with my mouth? “Sure, that’d be great.” Well, hello, you mental midget. I haven’t seen you since you decided to ignore the pop fly that wounded you for life! Welcome back.

I just couldn’t show weakness in front of Betty. I respect her personally and professionally, and she was showing signs of respecting me back – the thing I’ve been striving for ever since that eighth grade softball game. I was too scared to tell her I didn’t deserve it.

(OK, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but the principle I’m describing IS why I couldn’t bring myself to say no. How do you, as an adult, tell someone with a straight face that you feel incompetent at something? Me, I just don’t. I plow ahead and hope they’re not looking when I do it.)

So, I have to buy a glove and a bat this weekend. And a ball, I guess. I haven’t done this since high school. And the first game is next week. A little practice can’t hurt, right? I’m going to have to find someone to throw the ball at me and see if I can catch it or hit it. It needs to be someone I trust not to reopen old wounds with snide comments.

I’m sure it’ll all be fun and drinking. The team takes a $10-per-head booze collection for each game.

Then again, I can still hear my classmates and gym teacher, mocking me.

Hell, I’ll give the team $20 for the booze collection, for all I’m going to suck down to calm my nerves.