We play double headers every week that doesn't have a holiday in it. The first week, the ball didn't get anywhere near me, and I skipped around the field like The Littlest Elf Does Gym Class. I struck out about three times and once I got to first, because my dad always yelled at me if I struck out by watching a pitch pass my face. Ergo, I swing at everything.
The second week, some lefthanded jackass actually hit the ball toward me! I stared in shock as the center fielder hurtled past me in a desperate attempt to salvage the play, muttering under his breath and giving me a disbelieving headshake as he walked back to his post. But when I went up to bat, the real fun began.
My swing was never worldshattering or remarkable in any way. It's still not as bad as someone who didn't spend her childhood desperately trying to win her father's love through athletic achievement (no surprise he's not crazy about yours truly), and I can often hit the ball somewhere in between the pitcher, the catcher and the third baseman. This is actually sort of a perfect place for me, because they usually stare at it for a second, like, 'Really?' and then at each other for another second, trying to decide who's responsible for fielding the thing. And by that time I'm already running like the dickens.
This special night was no exception. Right up on past the dickens-running. But just as first base was within my reach, those borrowed, half-size-too-big cleats turned out to be somewhere I wasn't expecting them to be, and before I knew it I was catapulted through the base-coach-box and scrambled to my feet before anyone would notice what was going on. I looked around. Everyone on the field was staring (except the runner on third who was taking this opportunity to score. Good one, Tyler). The first baseman was cautiously approaching, trying to determine whether I was fit to stay on the field. I hurried to my base, and right at that moment the third baseman, annoyed with himself for letting a run in, decided to throw the ball to first, and maybe tag me out. But in his emotional state, he overthrew and the ball rolled around in the dirt in which I'd recently been sprawled. The base coach said, "Take second! Take second!" And before I knew what was happening I was dashing to second base. When I got there, I looked around again. Everyone on the field was staring. The pitcher turned around and my hand unconsciously moved toward my ears, to make sure lobsters weren't crawling out of them. "Are... you... okay?" he managed to stammer. I realized everyone thought I might be suffering from blood loss, trauma to the head, or both. And I cite both of those as the only possible explanation for everything that happened next.
I responded with my best cheer pose, hand on hip, one arm in the air, and I guess they all breathed a sigh of relief. I thought to myself, "I wonder if I should ask for a runner... my knees are starting to bleed kind of profusely..." But I dismissed the thought, reminding myself that runners are for chubby old men and people with torn ACLs. And the game went on.
My cousin Dylan was up to bat next, and, unlike me, he can hit the ball with some measure of accuracy, timing, and force(comma count: 5). He popped the ball in the air, and someone in the infield caught it. I forgot that I wasn't forced to run, because why would I ever have an extra base? I saw the pitcher give me that look again, the one where he's thinking, "I mean she didn't look handicapped..." as he held the ball in front of him near the shortstop. I gave him my winning oh-well-I-tried-and-a-double-on-errors-is-obviously-the-best-I-could-hope-for smile, and he tagged me with the ball, still looking puzzled. As I approached the third base coach, I realized I could have stayed on second and, in the tone and volume I usually reserve for remarking on the weather, I said, "Shit!" But it turns out that when everyone on the field and off is staring at you in befuddled silence, my weather-remarking voice is clearly audible to all. My cousin Tiffani's husband, Tyler, said, "Please don't yell swears in front of my nana." I looked over to see a woman whose age I'll place somewhere between ninety-five and infinity, looking old and dumbstruck, along with all my aunties and several babies. I looked down at my knees, pouring blood, and took advantage of their attention. "Does anyone have a First Aid kit? Or at least some tissues?"
Probably I shouldn't be involved in physical activity.
