I played softball again last night. It’s the first game I’ve played in Springfield since April. (Or was it early May?) I’ve been so busy with work, umpiring, the novel, and getting my professional life in order [more on that in about 10 days] that I’ve not been able to play.
In my first at bat, I had the bases loaded and sent a fly ball out to right field for a run-scoring sacrifice. As I received the congratulations from my teammates, I thought about how similar the play looked to the first at bat of Moonlight Graham. Any viewer of "Field of Dreams" would know him as the guy who became a doctor in Chisholm, Minn.
He was a real guy, who played in one game with the New York Giants. One hundred days ago today, actually. There was an AP article in The Star-Ledger on Monday.
In my mind, I’m almost at that point in my life where I will be hanging up my cleats and breaking out my Mike Schmidt glove only when a brother or brother-in-law comes around and asks if I want to have a catch. The squad softball games will continue, I suppose, but they haven’t satisfied my hunger for competition for some time. And this past spring I’ve pitched more than play any other position. I’ve rediscovered that unless you’re winning or in a close game, pitching is frustrating.
This could be my final season, and I’ll be just another guy who used to play ball. I’ve already transitioned to umpiring. Perhaps one day there’ll be a child I can coach and teach the game – and the love of the game. One of my upcoming novels will be about a ball player.
I’m not quite as sad about this baseball reality as I thought I’d be. This spring has been eye opening in many ways. One game I played shortstop for the Fire Department and had several plays in which I didn’t field the ball cleanly. I couldn’t bend as I was accustomed to doing. My feet didn’t work the way they’re supposed to; my coordination was wrong. It felt odd. Foreign. That’s not me. But the painful reality was that it’s what I’ve become. Out of shape. Not in "game shape."
Yet, this past Sunday playing for the squad in our latest blowout loss, I was back in the outfield where I’d played in my 20s. I was able to judge the ball fine, and my arm wasn’t as soft as I’d feared it would be. Even last night, my baseball know-how helped the team keep a run from scoring. I was in right field and the batter was running toward second base with a double he’d hit to left. The relay from the shortstop tipped off the second baseman’s glove. I was backing up and the runner didn’t even attempt to advance. We got out of the inning with that runner spot-welded to second.
I still know how to play, and if I can improve physically then I might be able to continue. But work will be changing for me. Commuting will wear me down, and I think my future is arriving. Win one for me, will ya, boys.
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