It's Only Soft If It Doesn't Hit You
Peter B. Steiger
05/01/03

Two weeks ago, I picked up a bat (the kind you hit things with, not the
kind that lives in caves) for the first time in over 25 years and spent
the next couple of hours embarrassing myself, getting severe back pain,
and nearly breaking my leg.

It was my wife's idea to sign up when they announced in church that ALL
men should join the softball team at the Y'all Come Back Now, Heah? Baptist
Church that we attend.  She correctly pointed out that I need exercise
much in the same way that the Titanic needed life rafts.  I figured, it's
only with my friends at church, how hard could it be?

I found out quickly enough.  I got to the practice field and a couple
of guys swung the bat and hit the ball several miles in the air every
time and went off on their confident way.  I stepped up to the plate and
right away got useful advice: "Stand this way," "Try facing the pitcher,"
"You should really try to keep your eyes open", that kind of thing.  But
despite all the help and encouragement from my teammates, I was there for
at least a half an hour swinging that bat around like crazy, and I only
managed to get a hit four or five times - and those rolled lazily away
from me on the ground like they were made of clay.  By the time they
released me from my embarrassing place at home plate, my back was aching,
my arms were killing me, and I had ripped my shoes (hint: If the only
shoes you own are $7 slip-on sneakers from Wal-Mart, don't sign up
for a softball team).

I went out into the field to at least look like I was trying to catch
the ball, but on the advice of a friend at work I stayed in right field
where the ball almost never came my way, and when it did I made sure to
run the other way.  Once it got WAY too close - I actually heard the
air whizzing as the ball sped right past my upturned face to sail over
my head.

The leg injury came when they had a couple of kids go up to bat who
had been catching even the highest, fastest balls right out of the
air like it was no effort at all.  One of them, I think his name was
Joe DiMaggio, hit the ball about 700 miles an hour right in my direction.
At least this time I didn't have to worry about it hitting me in the
face; it was a low ball that was already rolling by the time I got within
20 feet of it.  I may never know what insanity came over me right then,
but I stuck out my foot to block the ball and give me time to bend down
and grab it (these days, bending down takes several minutes).  Still
rushing along, the ball hopped up over my shoe and cracked into my shin
at full speed.

That's when I got the idea of covering first base.  The guy who originally
was on first base left to fetch a ball that went over the fence, so I
thought it would be nice of me to hang around just in case - besides, the
batters weren't running so I didn't have to worry about anyone throwing
the ball my way.  That's when the second kid got up to bat, and he was
just as powerful as the other one only his ball went straight up for
several miles before coming straight down... at first base.  It was all
I could do to run for cover when that thing came crashing down to dig
a well down to China.

Somehow I managed to survive that practice, and I didn't give up - mostly
because the church pastor had already paid for everyone out of his
pocket and I owed him $15 whether I played or not.  Determined to get in
as much quality practice as possible, I went out the next day and bought
a bat for 50 cents at the Salvation Army store.  They didn't have any
balls, though, so my brilliant engineer son Daniel made a ball by wrapping
a rock in some newspaper and taping it all up for me.  It's not like I
was going to hit it anyway, so what's the difference?  My charming wife
also brought home a ball from Wal-Mart for me - a rubber ball about the
size of a tennis ball, but painted to look like a baseball.

As it turns out, I didn't need the rock or the bouncy ball because that
Saturday we had our second practice... only nobody else showed up just
because it was 25 degrees with a 60-MPH wind.  Daniel and I took turns
pitching dirt clods at each other, and that's when I learned that he can
hit much better than I ever will.  Without any previous experience handling
a bat and only my own garbled repetition of those helpful hints I got from
the other guys, he was whacking dirt clods and pinecones past me with every
swing.  I like to think that his superior batting is due to the fact that he
had a superior pitcher, but we all know that's not true.

One other person who did show up for a few minutes to see if anyone
else made it was the guy who carries the team equipment.  He loaned
me a real softball (well, it was soft when it was new) so Daniel and
I could keep practicing in the basketball court at our trailer park;
that's the only place we figured we wouldn't lose the ball when he
threw it and I missed.

I actually did get a little better, although I figured I couldn't
count on the real pitcher standing 10 feet away and deliberately
trying to aim for my bat.  But before I could get much practice in,
the area filled with neighborhood kids who wanted to play, so I
spent more time chasing the ball for the kids than swinging at it
myself.  By the time we got home, I needed 75 aspirin and a long nap.

The following week - about an hour ago, in fact - we had our first
game.  The coach wisely chose a strategic position on the bench for
me, but we both knew I would have to face that bat eventually.  As
it turns out, every single time I went up to bat there were already
two outs ahead of me, so I didn't face any pressure at all.

I struck out quickly the first time, and the umpire looked at me
and said "next time you might want to wear different shoes."  I
had worn my beach shoes - you know, the stretchy kind that are
rubber all over - because it has been raining all week and the
ground was muddy.  What difference do my shoes make when I can't
hit the ball?

Anyway, next time around I hit it!  Of course it doesn't soar into
orbit like when normal people hit; when I hit a ball it just kind
of dribbles away from the bat for 10 feet.  So it wasn't a big
surprise that the pitcher picked it up, had time to retie his shoes,
made a phone call, and drink a can of Coke before he threw it to
first base, long before I made it halfway there.

By the third time up, our team was far enough ahead that it no
longer mattered how badly I did, so of course I gave the ball
a good whack and made it to first base.  Everyone was proud of
me - the umpire cheered me on, and when I got to base the other
team's first baseman shook my hand in congratulations.  Really,
he did!  As it happens, the guy after me hit a ball almost directly
to second base, so once again mine was the third out for that
inning.  But I found out later that my first base hit got the
guy ahead of me home, and they tell me this Arby Eye thing is
something to be proud of.  Like I need more pride in my life.

The team did perform very well; at one point someone knocked the
ball almost over the fence with the bases loaded, and everyone on
both teams got very excited.  Another time, the bases were loaded
and we had two outs, so our extremely holy pastor took a leap of
faith and tried to steal home, only to have the ball race ahead of
him before he got there.

I didn't get to bat any more in that game, but I was sure pleased
with my tremendous improvement as a total klutz, and with the fact
that our church was clearly much holier than the other church we
played against.

This softball thing isn't so hard to figure out.  Maybe next time
I can get a touchdown.