This Sunday someone failed to show up. So I was going to have to hit. "Whatever," I thought, "I'll take a few swipes at it and see how it goes." Then, in the first inning, one of our players got injured. So I was not only hitting but also playing right field. Against a pretty good team, mind you, that can pretty much hit the ball where it wants -- which means it will gladly rip a few deep ones toward that Slow Alternate in Right Who Clearly Knows Jack Squat About How to Play Softball.
Despite what I had told myself to the contrary, I was a little embarrassed stepping up to the plate after having basically no idea what I was doing. I swung on the first pitch. Foul. Actually, I barely hit it, so it just sort of bounced up and hit me. Sort of embarrassing, but okay. I get another chance. The second ball came in looking good, so I took another swing. Dink. It dribbled across the infield. "Now I have to run," I thought, tossing the bat to the ground and realizing it was time to take those Slow Norwegian genes for a stroll around the block. I find myself running hard, clad in New Balance walking shoes and Old Navy track pants that restrict my stride, but with a small burst of confidence coursing through me. Oy. First base is farther away than it looks. I see the throw coming to first, and I know I might have a chance if I can just lengthen my strides. I lean forward, touch the base, and hit the brakes, not having seen the throw come in. I turn back to survey the situation. E3! Victory is mine! The first baseman bobbled it. I am on base. Holy shit.
"Good job, honey," Ben encourages me. "You're on base! Holy shit."
I see he was expecting that about as much as I was.
"Now you know you have to tag up here," he said.
"Um, right," I said. "Right."
"If he hits it in the air, you have to wait to run until someone catches it," another teammate clarifies. "If it's on the ground, RUN!"
"If it's on the ground, run; if it's on the ground, run," I repeat to myself, taking a not-really professional position on the base. The first baseman looks at me like I have seven eyes, and I wonder if I should explain to her that this is my first time playing softball. Not much time for scholarship or chit chat, though; Justin smacks a line drive on his first pitch.
"It's on the ground!" I think. "I have to run."
So I take off running. New Balance walking shoes are not softball cleats. My balance is getting a tish wobbly, but I think I can make it there. I will advance to second! I will advance to second! I will...fall forward into the gravel.
I stagger up, the opponent's shortstop coming toward me to make sure I was not also injured. "No, I'm totally fine," I say, dusting off my bloody hands. "Am I out?" Somehow I thought there was a possibility that I could keep running for second.
Turns out I was out. It seems I actually didn't fall down because I was Master Klutz of the Universe. Justin's shot hit me in the foot. Directly. In. The. Foot. "You totally got sniped," Steffen said as I returned to the dugout. "Tough break; what are the odds?"
While I appreciate my teammates' comforting tone, I have to think that I wasn't just unlucky. A faster or more adroit athlete probably would have been able to dodge the bullet. But they're nice to me, and after all: I know it's not my fault. Last weekend, I learned that individuals with ring fingers that are longer than their index fingers are the most athletic sorts...and if your index finger is actually longer than your ring finger, well...
Anyway, this guy on TV predicted the exact finish of people in a foot race just by looking at their fingers.
AND OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY FINGERS.
I am, like, the only person in my immediate family whose index fingers are longer. And mine are not just a little longer. They are way hella longer.
It's not always easy loving sports and being oh-so-awful at them. But at least I know the deck was stacked against me in the finger length and athleticism departments. Can I also add: Ow, my thighs and butt? I am a runner, not a sprinter. I had no idea how much of a difference in muscle use the latter involved. So I am walking around like a jock the last two days. A jock who is an alternate in slowpitch B-league softball.|
All I can say is this: Stubby Ring Fingerites, unite! And just keep on running, even if you don't know what you're doing. It's just a game, after all. And they give you beer when you're done.
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