Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

I was out running one night last week - a different route than I usually do, as I was combining the run with an errand - and the route took me through a park where I played softball in the early 80s.  A team was out there practicing, and I heard that unmistakable “ping” that happens when an aluminum bat makes contact. Though I don’t play softball any more (a circumstance that I’ll cover in a bit), I got this itch, like they say about people that have lost a limb.

I played on softball teams for quite a few years after graduating from college, mostly associated with firms I worked for.  Not that I was especially good at it; I had a barely average arm and couldn’t hit for distance, but I COULD run pretty fast, and in the leagues I played in, that was usually more than good enough.

By the late 80s, however, I wasn’t playing.  My employer didn’t sponsor a team, I had turned 40 and was happy enough with my other physical activities - running, bicycling, skiing.  Then a guy who was painting our house said he had a team that was short a couple players, and asked if I’d be interested in filling in for a couple of games. 

The “couple of games” stretched out to 5 or 6 years.  The team was comprised of a bunch of guys in their late 20s, and I was kind of flattered to be able to hang with them as a player.  By 1997, however, I was still making the occasional spectacular catch in the outfield, but increasingly those were plays that would have been routine outs a decade previously.  I was being platooned more, and they started using me as a pitcher now & then.  Basically, I was a geezer-in-training.

Then one game night I arrived at the park a bit late from work and had to take the field without a real good warmup.  We were playing a team from Microsoft, and I have to say that they were just as rabidly competitive playing softball as they are in business.  I was playing in right field, and someone hit a fly well over my head.  I turned and tore off after it, and after about 5 strides felt a rip in my hamstring like someone had taken a machete to it.  I tried to stretch it and walk it off, but it persisted, and started to stiffen.

The coach finally decided I was useless in the outfield, and brought me in to pitch.  I got through a couple innings in workmanlike fashion and was feeling pretty good about it when a hitter smacked a screaming line drive right back at me.  I had just enough time to get my right hand (the ungloved one) up to protect myself, and the ball smashed into it below the pinkie finger.  I was miserable with pain, and took a seat on the bench for an inning, leaving us with 9 players instead of the usual 10.

I hated letting everyone down, and convinced myself that I was feeling better.  The coach said I could play catcher for the rest of the game, so I went out to warm up the new pitcher.  I caught the first pitch, pulled it out of my glove and threw it back with my injured hand.  It just exploded in pain, and I felt a couple clicks as it came to rest.  I decided that I could get through the game by rolling the ball back after each pitch, but the ump told me to just catch the ball and he’d throw it back to the pitcher, and that’s how I finished the game - a catcher for christ’s sake, with one good leg and one good arm.

After the game the coach drove me to an emergency room, where xrays confirmed I had crushed the metacarpal leading to my pinkie.  They numbed me up, set the bone and placed a couple pins through them.  I was sentenced to 5 weeks with a cast and splint, and my season was finished.  My hamstring was an ugly dark bruise for a week or so, but I could actually jog on it after 2 or 3 days. It’s not easy, however, to make a living in the computer industry with only one hand to type and none that can work a mouse.

So, that’s how my softball career ended in one hellacious night - no extended Cal Ripken season-long farewell. I haven’t played softball since, except for a little backyard horseplay, and I’m mostly happy not to be chasing around to suburban ballparks on nice summer nights.  Still, there are those moments when I see people practicing or playing, and I get a rush of muscle memory, and a little tingle as I imagine myself scooping up a grounder and coming up throwing.  It passes, though, and I jog on into the night.