Six years ago, an unsure rookie worked his way up from an unsteady right fielder to the backup shortstop position in his softball team in the city weekend league. On a rainy August afternoon, he slid towards a soft, catchable pop fly and instead bounded it toward home plate with his left knee thus loading the bases. Two pitches, a triple in deep left centre field, three runs batted in, and a lost lead later, the shortstop was inconsolable, and his position as the #2 shortstop guy was gone. In the end, all that remained was me, and a stain.
I still have the shirt from that year, as well as the dirt stain on his left shoulder. After booting the pop fly, I rolled over and slammed his glove before getting to his feet, and as a result of rolling over the stain emerged on his shirt. That Saturday night, under a running faucet of warm water, and a near empty box of bleach powder, I scrubbed, brushed, rubbed, wet, and pounded the stain with bleach until all that remained was a small yet noticeable patch of brown. The hours spent cleaning by hand did next to nothing, nor did the cleaning absolve me of guilt for costing the team the game. The experience did teach me something about the game of baseball, which I love though you wouldn't know that from my demeanour that night, but it also taught me about who I was.
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| Don't laugh! That picture got me four hundred hits on ChristianMingle! o_O |
- The mud spray all over my white baseball pants with blue piping: During a rainstorm, I ran through a puddle to field a ground ball.
- The countless black baseball socks with holes in the shins from various attempts at making diving, no, heroic catches in the outfield* (Hi Kevin).
- Standing in the middle of right field in dry, weathered, red cleats, and watching two groups of people shouting and yelling at each other during a championship game because the rain & lightning started in the last inning, and members of the losing team, which was batting, thought the leading team on the field was trying to call the game prematurely.
New rule: If you don't wear your stirrups or socks up to
Cardinals relief pitcher Pat Neshek level height, you'll be
ejected from the game.
I don't want to bore you other baseball and softball stories from the past twenty-five years of my life, but with every big fish story there is a sense of missed opportunity and dread. Why did I leave that baseball player with the stain on his shirt at that field? Baseball was not only my escape, but a chance to become someone else: A dependable, capable, focused, and sometimes goofy teammate, competitor, and friend. Why can't I be that kind of baseball player away from the diamond? Why can't I be that kind of person now? Who am I? Am I making sense? Who am I?
I don't pretend to know all the answers, nevertheless I would like to say I'm closer to being a synthesis of regular Phil and baseball player Phil now than I was in 2008 or 2011. Baseball is a team sport based on a chain of events by individual people. o_O If that makes no sense, then baseball is a series of games within a game, and if baseball mirrors life than maybe I'm just an individual trying to play the "game" within a game, only I'm on a team full of teammates wearing stained shirts.
I hope we're on the same baseball team, and I hope you're not tired of me, and want to put me on waivers?! Please don't do that; who will make all of those heroic catches in the outfield?*
* - Insert eye roll here
