Hey Batter Batter! (aka: Adult Sports)

“Hey batter batter batter, SWING!”

Familiar words from my childhood, which intermingle with the smell of grass, dirt-smeared white knickers, and the heavy feel of cleats on my feet, scraping against the ground. My little league teammates and I sat around in the dugout, chewing Big League Chew bubblegum and, encouraged by our coaches, yelling out unsportsmanlike taunts to the other team.

Go back, go back

go back in the woods!

Your coach ain’t got no spirit

and your team is no good!

I was a catcher. Kind of a lame position to play, in retrospect, since I had to stay in a squat position for most of the game, and had exactly three tasks:

  1. Catch the ball. A lot.
  2. Return the ball to the pitcher.
  3. Don’t get hit by the bat.

I guess I did pretty okay at these. I also did pretty okay at batting. I’m a leftie, and often got walked by pitchers who were freaked out that I was standing on the wrong side of the plate. I was okay with being pretty okay, and I enjoyed playing softball. But softball was nothing compared to soccer. In soccer, you got to run and move and try out cool tricks and, well, do stuff all the time, instead of standing or sitting around, waiting for something to happen.

Even the major leaguers get bored waiting around.

When my kids were growing up, only one participated in little league baseball. My oldest son did tee-ball and coach pitch, and he was also pretty okay. But for him, just like for me, soccer had the louder siren song, so he abandoned the baseball diamond for the soccer pitch.

A few days ago, I decided to give softball a whirl again. A Meetup group I’m a part of was getting together with another group of mostly middle-aged wanna be athletes to play at a local park. It had been many years since I’d played, so I was pretty nervous that I’d play like a total newb. There were no dirt-smeared knickers or cleats, but the air smelled like grass (no, not that kind of grass). It was exactly as I’d remembered it, though the kids were all aged 30-50-something, and the pitcher would keep pitching the ball until you got a hit, so no one struck out.

I played third base, hoping that I’d see lots of action. But the ball rarely came my way, and runners were often intercepted before even reaching second base. So, there was still a lot of standing around, waiting. A few innings later, I was starting to wish I hadn’t skipped my Sunday morning Zumba class. I mean, how on earth did we kids manage to wait and wait and wait in those pre-cell phone days? Oh yeah. Go back, go back, go back in the woods…

Finally, I stepped up to bat for the last time. Each inning, I’d managed to get a base hit, except for one pretty little pop fly to center field that got three of us out and ended the inning. *Groan*

The pitcher lobbed the ball my way, and — CRACK!! I’ve got to tell you…when you hit the ball hard, and it’s just right, there is nothing like the sound the bat makes when it strikes the ball and sends it soaring. Nothing.

I wish I could say I hit a home run. Or even got an RBI. I didn’t But base by base, I got to fly like the wind, until at last, I reached home plate. Boom! That was the feeling I’d been waiting for all morning. The reason why baseball players can stand all the waiting, waiting, waiting. Because when something finally happens, it’s like a thunder strike. Almost as great as scoring a goal in soccer. Almost.

And it doesn’t even matter that I didn’t hit a homerun. Who cares whether I made it home all at once or one base at a time? The point is that, I made it home.

Cheers! (aka: A Beer-y Tasty Project)

Twitter is good at reminding me of things I may have missed out on, like rocket launches, or Trump’s latest blunders, or finales to TV shows I’ve never watched and don’t care about. It is especially good at reminding me about little-known holidays, most of which are probably made up by companies trying to sell their ice cream, or pancakes, or greeting cards.

Well apparently, a couple of days ago, I missed out on a big one. National Beer Day. Right? I mean, you’d have to be from Jupiter, or perhaps living in a cave to miss out on such an important occasion. Yesterday, I made up for it, though, by enjoying a nice cold bottle of Mexican beer from Trader José. Olé!

Brewski

Now here’s a confession. The very first time I tried beer was around 3-4 years ago. It’s true. I spent most of the first two decades of my adult life surrounded by very conservative, teetotalist Christian friends. When we used to get together, the strongest thing we ever drank was double shot espresso. Somehow I managed to start tasting and enjoying wine over the years, but not beer. A glass of pinot noir or chardonnay is a great companion for solitary moments with a good book and indie rock music. But there’s something about beer that screams of social outings, soccer matches, and fun. So I kept putting off that first drink until I was in an appropriate social situation for trying it out.

Toast beer diversity

My first beer was a Budweiser, and I liked it right away. Since then, I’ve begun keeping a spreadsheet of my beer explorations, and rating their flavors (Hey, I’m an INTJ, okay? This is what we do). I’ve learned that I really dislike IPAs and bitter beers. Bleah! But I really enjoy light beers and beers with a fruity twist. My absolute favorite type of beer? Pilsner. Yummm….I am tempted to end the experiment right here and only drink pilsner-style beers from now on. The very best pilsner I’ve had so far turned out to be the original pilsner beer — an import from Czech Republic called Pilsner Urquell.

Pilsner Urquell

Of course, there’s still a lot I don’t know about beers. I could probably do some Beer 101 reading to learn more about the different types, how they’re made, and what the heck is even in beer. I could probably also try visiting some of the many local breweries where I live. But that sounds a little intimidating to do alone, so maybe I’ll just stay home and sip another cold, frosty bottle of pilsner while watching a tennis match on TV. After all, beer doesn’t really require a Twitterized special occasion for us to celebrate it.

One last note — a few days ago, while I was at Trader Joe’s buying my single bottle of Trader José beer, the clerk studied my face, then asked to see my ID. When she saw that I am 42 years old, she laughed. “Seriously? Oh, come on!” So I guess that’s another good excuse to keep going with the beer tasting project. Getting carded by people around my own age makes me feel young. I’ll drink to that.

Cheers!

 

Stained With Innocence (a poem)

The elders look down their noses

gaze severe

tutting the overgrown girl who roams the garden

in bare feet

How dare she tiptoe around

the circle

shunning the shrouded mysteries

See how she raises empty hands

to fill with rain

then cup to her own mouth

stained with innocence

adrift in blissful fantasy

How dare she!

She tilts her head, wondering

when the elders traded

the sweetness and burst of grapes

for bitter wines

and dry bread

that crumbles in their mouths

When did they lose their zest

for spring’s green hope

that dawn will rise

with golden light to paint the sky?

She refuses to hate her own

wind-kissed knees

from twirling skirts

and loose, messy hair.

The days are made

for a child’s faith

to see the world in wonder

and taste the new