For a sport that is considered by the IOC as a exclusively women's sport, you would be surprised at how seriously men take their softball. And I learned this last week when I was invited by a supervisor at work to fill in for his middle-aged buddy in their mens softball league.
I like to believe that most - if not all - of my decisions in life are calculated and strategic (but let's ignore the quality and fabric of the logic for the time being). So when I was asked to partake in America's female pastime with a bunch of grown Minnesotan men, I internally weighed out the pros and cons.
Pro: I would possibly forge a closer bond with my boss, making it that much harder for him to fire me.
Con: I might commit a game-ending error in the field, prompting my boss to fire me on the spot.
So as I stared into blank space, watching my job inevitably slip away from me, my boss, Imran, prodded again. So I said yes. Because when you can't make up your mind on what you should do, there is always one fall-back question that will break the tie. That question is: Which would make a better story?
So I grabbed my cleats, glove and sweatpants from my house during my lunchbreak and mentally prepared myself to be the punchline of a very good story.
After work, the two of us carpooled down to the softball complex, which, I swear to God, must have hoarded every last dollar of Burnsville's public dollars, and I proceded to get nervous.
Now don't get me wrong - I like playing softball, and I consider myself pretty good at it - but when I saw the guy gettingout of his F350 next to me with a full baseball uniform and THREE bats, I kinda freaked out. I mean THREE BATS? Was he planning on using them all? At once?? He was certainly big enough.
So here I am, wearing sweatpants and soccer cleats, shaking hands with the rest of my team, thanking God that I at least wore the required green shirt so they could tell I was here to play softball. After the brief round of introductions, I took my position and the game started.
And in a manner that sent me reeling back to 4th grade, we all lined up and the manager sent us to our positions - and in a move that was both humiliating and a huge relief, I was chosen for catcher. In slow-pitch. Phew. All I had to do was toss the ball back to the pitcher.
Now I’ve never met Cal Ripken before, but I do know baseball pretty well, and I was starting to get nervous because their shortstop was a dead ringer for him. In fact it looked like everyone on our opposing team had played in the MLB. Cleats, stirrups, chew and all.
So with two outs and a man on 2nd, Cal Ripken steps to the plate cracks one deep right. I stand up and walk in front of the plate to watch the right fielder scoop it up and prepare to throw it back. And as I see him wind up in a manner that would make Johnny Damon jealous, I noticed who he was throwing to. The man on 2nd had just rounded 3rd and was barreling towards home. MY home. And the ball was heading right my way too. Like a goddamn laser.
So , like any good Sportscenter viewer would do, I emulated the move that I have seen so many times. Block the basepath with my left leg and try to catch the ball, and then swing around and take out the runner. And as Andre the Giant came thundering towards me, the ball slapped against my mitt, and I pulled it around and tagged him out, throwing us both into the dirt.
Disaster averted. The score was zero-to-zero and we were now up. Imran came up to me in the dugout right after, with a softball-sized chew in his mouth. Good thing you got him there at the plate, he said. Or else I would have had to fire you. He winked. I had a heart attack.
Garrison! You’re on deck!
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