Published: July 15, 2008 10:28 am            

Take me out of the ballgame

Back in the day, when I played on my dad’s slowpitch softball team, I was “The Kid.”

I could run like the wind. I could throw a country mile. I could place a hit anywhere I wanted. I could catch any ball hit to my side of the field. At least, in comparison to the old guys, it seemed that way. The one position I never played was pitcher, because that was for the really old, really out of shape guys.

Thursday night, I pitched. It had been 20 years since I played slowpitch softball and at some point during those two decades, I got old. And out of shape.

I no longer run voluntarily. The only thing I can throw is a fit. I even have problems picking up the ball. And instead of me laughing at the old guys, Matt the son and Sara the daughter laugh at me (once again, they have been taken out of the will). Other than being able to lob a softball toward home plate, I flail around spastically.

The first batter hit a weak line drive. I reached for the ball, got my glove on it but didn’t catch it. Then I stepped on it. Then I lost it. Then I found it, grabbed it and smoked the throw to first — just in time to see the runner three steps beyond the bag. This became a trend and, as the game wore on, my infielders kept creeping closer so that, at one point, they were standing on the rubber with me.

“Are you guys saying I can’t field my position?” I asked.

They looked away and said nothing, speaking volumes.

“Focus on pitching,” I told myself.

My hand-eye coordination was good enough that I put bat on ball, but the ball didn’t do a lot. But I did reach base and it was at that point I discovered my biggest problem.

I was on first when the batter roped a basehit between outfielders and it was evident I was not stopping at second base, as I had desired. Soon thereafter, I realized that in those 20 years I hadn’t been playing, the slowpitch softball powers had moved second. It used to be 60 feet from first; now it is a quarter-mile.

After about three minutes, I made the turn at second and headed to third (I had a lot of time because, thankfully, all the fielders had collapsed in laughter as I “sped” around the bases).

Five minutes after the hit, I was motoring so fast that I almost felt a breeze on my face. Then the third base coach told me to stop.

“Oh thank God,” I gasped as I collapsed on the bag. “Can I have a pinch runner?”

Coach said something about “no” and “the rules,” but I couldn’t hear over the blood rushing through my ears. Or out of my ears; I’m not sure which. Coach also said I couldn’t have a walker and that I really needed to get in shape.

I have grown to seriously dislike Coach.

Rick Hoover is the NewsPress’ managing editor. Telephone 372-5000 extension 201; e-mail rhoover@stwnewspress.com.

        

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