It's that time of the year again. The smell of worn leather. The crack of a bat. The bloody knees of my brother Jer after he slides into third base. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the softball season has begun. For 13 of the last 14 summers, my family has fielded a co-ed slow pitch softball team in the city league. We've had our ups and downs like any franchise. (We went 0-10 our first season, but rebounded the next year.) I served as team manager for several seasons, but am happy to just be showing up and playing now.
Our first game was on May 13 and we did not have an auspicious start to the season. The umpire assumed that there was no game because it was raining, so he was 30 minutes late
to the game. (After beginning the game, my feelings toward the umpire did not improve. Let me just say that I should have followed my mother's timeless advice: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.") There was a puddle the size of Texas behind home plate, to say nothing of the swampy batters' boxes. It didn't take long for the brand new game balls to become muddy and heavy.
Between my goofy brother Mark performing antics at third base and my sister Elizabeth buzzing with righteous indignation at first base, it felt like home to be back on the pitcher's mound. The fresh smells of the ball diamond feed the senses and there's nothing quite like a softball game to remind me that it's spring again. (Good thing I got something out of it, because we lost 16-3!)
Our first game was on May 13 and we did not have an auspicious start to the season. The umpire assumed that there was no game because it was raining, so he was 30 minutes late
to the game. (After beginning the game, my feelings toward the umpire did not improve. Let me just say that I should have followed my mother's timeless advice: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.") There was a puddle the size of Texas behind home plate, to say nothing of the swampy batters' boxes. It didn't take long for the brand new game balls to become muddy and heavy.Between my goofy brother Mark performing antics at third base and my sister Elizabeth buzzing with righteous indignation at first base, it felt like home to be back on the pitcher's mound. The fresh smells of the ball diamond feed the senses and there's nothing quite like a softball game to remind me that it's spring again. (Good thing I got something out of it, because we lost 16-3!)
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