First Practice

So, we had our first get-together for the men's softball team last night.

We're in a summer rec league of pre-formed teams. That is, 15 guys have gotten together (typically, employees of the same company, or members of the same union) and entered the team into the league.

This season is the first year that the league has accepted individuals and formed a composite team out of all of these "leftover" players.

As our first game is TOMORROW NIGHT, we decided it might be prudent to get together and at least, you know, meet each other prior to the first game. So we did that last night.

It's been a while since I've played organized ball.
Like, a long while.
To be specific, I think 8th grade was my last year, although it could have been 6th.
That was, give or take, 20 years ago.

I have played catch since then, of course.
With kids. Young, small kids.
It's hard to really stretch out your arm when you're playing catch with 5-year-olds.

Thing is, I see myself as a shortstop. But not just that, a Shorstop, capital S.
Cal Ripken, Jr. Ozzie Smith. Derek Jeter. A-Rod. Nomar. . . Me.
I picture myself coming across those guys, all together in a group, late at night, maybe at a Stuckeys on the Interstate. They'll be all sitting around the formica table, drinking joe, swapping stories from the Show.

"Jeets, tell me about the time you dove into the stands to snare that foul ball agains the Red Sox," Cal will say. (Nomar winces, slightly.)
"That season I won my first, no wait, it was my second batting title . . ." Nomar will begin one anecdote.
"Cal, is it true that the closest you came to missing a game during The Streak was when your nose was broken during the team photo for the All-Star Game?" Derek will ask, wide-eyed with wonder.
"I have a Monet," A-Rod chips in. "I have more money than all of you put together."

I'll walk up to the table, and they'll stop talking, stoney-faced, staring at me for having the gall to interrupt their roundtable.

"It's okay, guys," I'll say. "I play Short." And with that, I'll toss my worn, beaten-in Rawlings Heart of the Hide PRO6HF onto the table and they'll know.

They'll know I belong.

So . . . I've kinda called dibs on short on my softball team.