When I was in my mid-20's I modestly considered my athletic abilities to be just shy of an Olympic Decathlete's.
In retrospect, they weren't. Those familiar with my sport of choice at the time know that any slow-pitch softball player with a pulse should hit at least twice his weight, or three times it if he weighs under 175 pounds.
My organized softball career began in 1983, when an old colIege chum asked me to join his team, one which was sponsored by Electrolux Vacuum Cleaners. Flattered but concerned because I hadn't played in a league before, I wondered aloud if my inexperience might hurt the squad. My friend allayed my fears by informing me they had gone 2-24 the previous season. Learning that Electrolux sucked in more ways than one convinced me that any real or imagined incompetence on my part couldn't cost my new teammates any more than two victories, so I eagerly joined up.
It turned out that I could indeed play softball. I hit .500, led the team in home runs, and caught every fly ball that stayed in the park. Better yet, we finished at 13-13 and made the playoffs, which was the equivalent of today's Pittsburgh Pirates qualifying for post-season play.
The following season began even more promisingly, but on a Monday about a third of the way through our schedule I got a phone call from someone offering me a terrific summer job. The problem: it was in Fairbanks, Alaska, and I had to be there that Friday. Later that same night I banged out three hits in my final game, a victory that raised our record to 7-3. In my impromptu postgame retirement speech I wished the team well while silently pitying them for having to finish such a potentially great season without their leadoff-hitting sparkplug and defensive ace. But I had a professional opportunity I couldn't afford to pass up, so off I went. I wouldn't swing a bat in earnest for another quarter of a century.
Fast-forward to 2010. I have a wife, a job, and some children, none of which I possessed in 1984. Some guys I coach Little League baseball with asked if I'd like to join them for some Sunday morning softball, assuring me the games are fun, the players low-key, and there is absolutely no stress involved. Since my coaching colleagues are good guys themselves I figured they must know other such people when they see them, so I agreed to give it a try.
I arrived the following Sunday morning wearing 20-year-old soccer cleats and my wife's softball mitt, a glove large enough to double as a jai-alai cesta. There were enough players for two teams, so we chose up sides and started playing. When my turn to hit arrived in the top of the first inning I grabbed the nearest bat, took a practice swing, got in the batter's box, and hacked at the first pitch. The result: a solid line drive to left-center field. I cruised into second base with a stand-up double. Time had stood still; 26 years had elapsed and I hadn't aged a second!
In the bottom of the inning my impressed teammates sent me out to play shortstop, a position I wasn't allowed near back when I was in my prime. The first batter hit a one-hopper to me; I snagged it cleanly and threw him out. We retired the other team with no runs scoring, but more importantly (at least from my perspective) did so without my being exposed as an aging fraud.
On my next at-bat I crushed a ball out to left field that one-hopped the fence! I tore out of the batter's box, determined to impress a bunch of guys I'd just met by hustling out a three-base hit. Then, as I turned first base, something happened behind my right hamstring that felt like what I imagine a nuclear explosion does. I dragged myself into second, planning my re-retirement speech with each excruciating hop.
A week later there was a bruise behind my knee which made it appear as though I had been a loser in a paintball game where the ammunition had been the size of cannonballs.
My abortive softball comeback was the second-most humbling athletic-related event I have ever experienced. The first occurred in September of 1984 when our team captain called me after I returned from Alaska, wondering when I could come by and pick up my trophy. Electrolux had won the league championship that summer, winning 21 of the 22 games they played after their leadoff-hitting sparkplug and defensive ace had deserted them for summer employment in the Land of the Midnight Sun!
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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