Just call me Nomar

It was great to get back out there last night. Once again, it feels like weeks since I've played a game. It was good to see the guys (including our intrepid shortstop Steve, back from his wedding in Florida).
I was pencilled in at second base, but as gametime approched, we realized that our big slugger Jeff (who has hit several balls out - as in over the fence out - and has little catchphrases he uses when he makes contact, "See ya!") was not going to show.

We were the road team, and I did not come to bat in the top of the first. Chuck, who feels cheated if he does not go 5-5 with four triples and 15 RBI in a game, hit a sharp two-hopper to the left of the shortstop in the first, who snared it and made a snap throw to first to nail him. When Chuck gets nailed on a hard-hit ball, you know you're up against a pretty good defensive team.

As we took the field in the bottom of the first, Chris, our erstwhile captain, re-distributed the bodies to cover for Jeff's absence. "Brett, you're on second."
I looked quizzically (is that really how you spell that word?) at Chris, as I was supposed to be on second. And I knew Steve was back at short.

I thought Tim would cover first, Chuck would come in and play third, and Brett would rotate to the outfield. But evidently, in my absences in the last few games, Brett has acquitted himself admirably at second. I felt challenged.

"Tom, you cover first."

First base? Me?
Huh.

But then I thought, "Hey, if Nomar can do it, so can I." (Because, you know, he and I are so similar and all . . .)

I got a ball and rolled grounders to the infielders, and warmed up at 1B. I can't even remember the last time I played first in any kind of game. I don't know if I ever have. It was exciting.

(A handy hint to all of you up-and-coming ballplayers: If you're unsure of where to play your position, just check the infield dirt and go where there are the most footprints. That's usually the best place to line up. I discovered that at short a few weeks back; I tend to play a little deeper in the hole, when I noticed the worn area to my right. Of course, we actually play on fairly nice fields, which are dragged before the game, so if you're out in the top of the first, there are no footprints to follow.)

I assumed the position, and we were off. I got the footwork down in the first couple of batters: a ground ball, not to me, rotate over to the base, putting your right toe on the inside corner of the bag. Don't stand on the bag itself, but just slide the side of your foot against the side, so as to not be trampled by the runner hustling through. Give your infielder a big target, chest-high, and don't stretch until you see where the ball is going.

One thing that surprised me in slow-pitch softball is the amount of bend the shortstop and third baseman can get on a hard throw. You can see in pro ball (more in person than on TV) that a hard, long throw will bend fairly significantly. The rotation on the ball (depending on the grip and arm angle) can make a fairly big break, which is why little-leaguers are taught to take a four-seam fastball grip and throw over the top, as that is the straightest ball you can throw. Anyway, a couple of throws in to me tailed from my high right side down to my left, and I learned to read it pretty quickly, and didn't let any past me. Except for the one that Steve - trying to turn two - sailed over my head. But I made a quick recovery and fielded the carom and was able to look the runner back to third - not allowing a run on the E.

I also learned how to circle around the batter on deeply-hit fly balls . . . I'd go a little bit up the line, allowing the runner to take a big turn at first, and then sneak around behind them to be in position for a snap throw if they got too far off. We didn't nail anyone, but it was a good thought.

I had perhaps my best offensive game of the season. I went 3-4 (the last one should have been a hit, but the runner on first got forced at second to end the inning.) I also had a stellar day on the basepaths.

First time up I got a clean single, and then went station-to-station as the guys behind me kept the inning going, jogging in to score. The next time at bat, however, came the real excitement.

I got another single (to the left side), and beat out the throw at first. I don't know how fast I am (I would guess not that fast), but I was at my absolute top speed down that line. Chest heaving, I stood on first. There were two outs, so I had to be prepared to run on contact. Contact there was, a grounder to short. The easy play would be the flip to the second baseman for the force, ending the inning. But I was busting it again, and - with the play in front of me - saw the ball eat up the shortstop. I knew it would be close, so I went in with a strong slide* and beat it out - keeping the inning alive.

Now standing on second, huffing and puffing, I stood still prepared to be off at the crack of the bat. The next batter hit a looper into the outfield, and, as I was hustling towards third, the third base coach was waving me in. I took the corner at my absolute top speed, and as I was coming down the line, I could see the catcher squaring up to receive the throw. From behind me, I heard, "You're gonna have to get down!" - meaning that I would have to slide to avoid the inning-ending tag.

By this point, however, I was beyond my top speed, and I could feel my limbs starting to lose control. I think I had a vague notion to slide in, headfirst, and do one of those sleek around-the-back-of-the-plate slides, just reaching my hand over to swipe the plate as I passed.

However, as Nickle-Ass Jackson** would say, "That's not exactly the way it happened."

As I say, I could feel my limbs getting away from me, and I stumbled into a face-first, rolling, thundering catastrophe at home.

But I was safe.

All in all, I had a great time and, if I am asked to play the balance of the season at first, I will do so with equanimity. (Again, just because Nomar did it. I don't see myself as your prototypcial first baseman.) I'd prefer to slide back over to second, although I did see more action at first.

We are allowed an "Extra Hitter" in this league - not unlike the hated DH, this is someone who is allowed to hit without having to play the field. Jeff, our erstwhile 1B (and power hitter) might be okay with EH - allowing me to play first base in the field without his losing his at-bats. But I don't want to offend him if he really enjoys playing first. My feelings were unduly bruised, seeing Brett nonchalantly jogging out to what I had perceived as "my territory" at second base last night.

Next game: Thursday, 9:30. Then we have the big double-header on Sunday.
I'm toying with the idea of wearing the high-knee baseball pants on Sunday. I think Charlie's going to come out and watch, and that might be kind of fun. We'll see . . .



* I should mention that the night before last I went to a college wood-bat league game (like the Cape Cod League, but on a smaller scale), and took part in the between-the-innings entertainment, having to race another guy from first to third. Needless to say, I slid into third (in shorts), giving myself one hell of a raspberry. If you don't know what a raspberry is, it's when you burn the top couple of layers of skin off, leaving a huge, red, incredibly painful scrape. It's red and kinda bumpy (due to pores or hair follicles or something), giving it the general look of a raspberry skin. Ow.

So, last night, I had it wrapped up with an Ace(c) bandage and covered with a neoprene shin wrap. I have to say, I felt a little bit like MJ out there. It's a good thing I had it wrapped.



** Teacher of American History, Vintage Highschool, 1986-1989. Notorious for his encyclopaedic knowledge of Billy the Kid and his catch-phrase "BAM!"
He would ramble on, lecturing for 20 mintues about American History, saying something like, "As John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger, Lincoln whipped around and deflected the bullet with his titanium stovepipe hat. He then bicycle-kicked Booth off of the balcony, breaking his (Booth's) leg. Later that evening, Lincoln was involved in a firefight outside the Capitol, where he held off several gunmen until the SWAT team could arrive. It was during that fight that he was fatally shot . . . but that's not really how it happened."

Causing the students to glare at him, as we erased the paragraph from our notes, hoping that we would not be tested on things that "did not really happen."

Vintage High was not exactly an elite center of learning.