It's still not clear. The only guy older than me is the coach. It's an over 30 league and an over 37 league combined until we sort out the teams. I filled out the league forms and the coach asked for my entry fee so I guess they'll find a slot for me even if it is on the bench. I'm finding out that more "regulars" are showing up from last year. Turns out they find a way to miss the first few practices but they start showing up on game day expecting to play. Clearly there's some politics involved as some are long time pals of the coach and frankly I can outplay a couple of them. But I'm grateful just to be here as my second weekly basketball game just ended this week and I need something. I'm banking on showing them that I can be a asset after awhile.
This weekend I'm not sure I impressed the coach much though. I got picked off second base. That's like falling off the diving board before your first dive to impress the diving coach. Fortunately it was a scrimmage game. We played the local over 18 team (jesus, I'm 57 why do we keep playing the younger teams to get ready?) on Saturday. Two pitchers were throwing in the mid 80's according to a couple of our players that I asked. I worked a three foul strikeout with the first one and took a called strike three on the second guy. Making contact was actually pretty good since we were hitless with that pitcher. We lost that game and I made a very good catch which the coach pointed out. Yeah! But I also lost a fly in the unbelievably bright sun. The center fielder cut in front of me because he saw I was having problems but dropped the ball. It looked like he was being a jerk cutting in front of me to the others but I explained that I needed the help. The next inning another fielder of ours dropped one in the sun. It was brutal and of course helped to exonerate me a bit. I was running a bit on the base paths as a pinch runner (it was just my turn) and my knees and ankles were getting a good workout on the rock hard basepaths and the uneven outfield.
Sunday morning I could barely walk. There were a bunch of household chores that required my attention and the joints were barking big time. Another scrimmage at 2PM and I was trying to time my Ibuprofen pills- 3x200mg is my routine - with game time. A large cup of coffee an hour before game time also makes me forget the pain, but this time I was a hurtin' buckaroo. I got to the park trying to walk like it didn't hurt and I think I succeeded. I warmed up and heard that I was going to DH. That means bat only no field play. An embarrassment but just what the leg doctor ordered for today. Thanks.
The first inning though he said "I wanna get you in the infield today, you'll be going to third next inning". I was thrilled because that's my position I would excel there, I knew it! But an odd thing happened - the kid that plays third that I've internally bragged that I'm better than, had a very bad inning. He made 3 errors. All on easy balls. The coach and I had the exact same feeling; no need to embarrass the kid by thinking he was yanked for underperformance - he sent me to right field the next inning. I actually like the kid anyway.
I played well in the field - not really tested I made the routine plays. I did have a few feelings of "don't hit it to me" when a couple of big lefthanded sluggers came up. Any good athlete will tell you when you start thinking like that you're in trouble.
My plan is to beg for it to be hit to me from now on. Except in real game deciding moments. Heh. I'm sure my fielding confidence will return soon.
Well I got up three times made solid contact all three times but grounded out to the third baseman, the shortstop and lined out to short. I'm starting to get the bat on the ball. My preseason batting average has ended at .000 - 0 for 7 with one walk, one stolen base and one RBI. Not world beating numbers but fortunately they don't keep real track until next week.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Basketball. Are we done for the year?
I hope not, but Tuesday sucked. Seven frikkin' guys show up. We've had as many as 19 this year but the weather was very nice and now the sun isn't down by 7PM and people are feeling like they want to watch the Red Sox on TV. I would play any game, any game, before I'd stay home to watch any game. I mean that. That would only not apply if it were an important game one of my daughters were playing in and they wanted me there. Use it or lose it.
Anyway, one guy goes home - we have 6 and it's 3 on 3. A big disappointment for me as I need the full court to utilize one of the very few advantages I have - speed (relative speed - I can beat most of the old guys down the court) The half court game is for smart players who can shoot and that ain't me. The other very bad thing is that there is alot of lateral play - not good for my knees which, since baseball over the weekend, have been aching alot with the uneven Spring ground.
I had a few good plays, a few bad plays, and got into a major body up match with "fairly new, old guy". I like nearly all the other players and have had very few run-ins with guys, but this guy rubs me (and it turns out several other guys) the wrong way. Here's his thing. He shows up with cut off sleeves - you know the kind LeBron wears to show off his massive guns - and he's got old lady flapper triceps. Dude, only young guys get to wear those. Fortunately he is slow; can't pass, can't dribble and definitely can't shoot. He's got 2 inches on me and 20 pounds but he doesn't move it around well. I'm already in a bad mood because it's half court and he decides he''ll use his only advantage - size- to push me around. Bad idea, he smothers me, we body back and forth then I give him a shove. I'm almost ready to go - the guy's a dick. He laughs it off and a play later complains to someone else that I shoved him.
I calm down and pat him on the back at the end of the night and say "good job". We want to kill each other. I thought the guy was older than me but I find out later that he's 7 years younger.
Next week I want to block his shot back in his face. It will be my main goal of the evening. I am a pig-headed adolescent jerk about this guy.
I can take him. I think.
Anyway, one guy goes home - we have 6 and it's 3 on 3. A big disappointment for me as I need the full court to utilize one of the very few advantages I have - speed (relative speed - I can beat most of the old guys down the court) The half court game is for smart players who can shoot and that ain't me. The other very bad thing is that there is alot of lateral play - not good for my knees which, since baseball over the weekend, have been aching alot with the uneven Spring ground.
I had a few good plays, a few bad plays, and got into a major body up match with "fairly new, old guy". I like nearly all the other players and have had very few run-ins with guys, but this guy rubs me (and it turns out several other guys) the wrong way. Here's his thing. He shows up with cut off sleeves - you know the kind LeBron wears to show off his massive guns - and he's got old lady flapper triceps. Dude, only young guys get to wear those. Fortunately he is slow; can't pass, can't dribble and definitely can't shoot. He's got 2 inches on me and 20 pounds but he doesn't move it around well. I'm already in a bad mood because it's half court and he decides he''ll use his only advantage - size- to push me around. Bad idea, he smothers me, we body back and forth then I give him a shove. I'm almost ready to go - the guy's a dick. He laughs it off and a play later complains to someone else that I shoved him.
I calm down and pat him on the back at the end of the night and say "good job". We want to kill each other. I thought the guy was older than me but I find out later that he's 7 years younger.
Next week I want to block his shot back in his face. It will be my main goal of the evening. I am a pig-headed adolescent jerk about this guy.
I can take him. I think.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Nerve Wracking Baseball Debut
It was cold. It was wet. The infield had a small puddle around shortstop and the other team's coach was begging off the game. A little voice inside me said "A postponement of this game wouldn't be the worst thing.". Except that it would mean another few days of nervous waiting to see if I could still hit the fastball. Like I ever really could. An over-40 league was what I was told this would be, only upon arriving last Saturday for practice, I found that it's now an 0ver-37 league. I thought about going home at that point, being 20 years over the minimum age was asking for trouble and inviting major ridicule at some point. I stuck around because I've got 2 athletic daughters (Old One and Young One, both in their 20s) who would give me no end of shit if I chickened out. So, I stuck around. And now here it is game day (albeit a preseason game) and it looks like we barely have enough guys, so I'm probably going to play. If we play.
Sure enough the ump shows up and starts screaming at the other coach about "what the hell, we're all here, let's have a frickkin' game!" I've waited too long to warm up my arm which feels tight and who knows what position I'm going to play. I'm nervous, not scared, nervous. I'm 57 years old in reasonably good shape and I'm trying to play baseball, not softball mind you, where the bases are 60 feet apart- but baseball, where the bases are 90 feet apart and they throw overhanded at 80 miles and hour, not underhanded at 15 miles an hour.
"You're playing right and batting ninth" Freddy, who is Mr Baseball in Mill City (a pseudonym) and has played this game with Abner Doubleday I'm sure, tells me. A not little known fact in baseball is that right field is where you put your worst fielder, ninth is where you bat your worst hitter. I was happy. I wouldn't get too many balls hit to me in right and I'd get to watch 8 guys before me bat. This was an embarrassment that I could live with. For now.
At the practice the week before, also in the rain, I pitched BP (batting practice) a bit. I got the ball over the plate consistently and guys were able to hit it all over the park. This impressed Freddy a bit and he asked me if I could pitch. I said sure, lying, since I hadn't pitched since high school 40 years ago. He meant could I pitch if the score were 87 to 3 and our pitcher was getting tired and he didn't want to wear any good pitchers out getting through the rest of the game. Oh.
So today he asks me again you wanna pitch later? I said I haven't pitched off a mound in a long time. I didn't lie this time and he says okay. "Oh so you're a pussy" is what he was thinking, I think. Or maybe not. Anyway, I did take my 3 ibuprofen and large cup of coffee before game time so my knees would not bark enough for anyone to hear. I ran in place a little until I realized that warming up anything other than your arm "is for pussies". No one said that actually, but you can tell it was understood. Please don't misunderstand the term pussy as used by baseball players. It is not a female, it is not a part of the anatomy, it is not a feline. It is a persona. A pussy is a weak man, fearful of getting hurt, probably cowardly, never drove a stick shift and cares how he looks. To be called a pussy by someone you know, in the company of others you know, invites nervous laughter and compells you to perform the task that might take you out of the realm of pussydom immediately. Like; "drink it you pussy'. To be called a pussy by someone you don't know, if front of someone you do, means you have to fight or you are indeed a pussy.
But I digress.
"Play ball" and out I run to right field, it's soggy and there's a puddle 10 by 10 feet along the right field line in play. I play toss with the center fielder, his name is Manny he looks 18, I find out later he's new and actually 30. Nice guy though, I think I actually got one throw to him in the air. The sky is grey and the wind is blowing out toward me and to the right. Nothing is hit to me that inning and I run in trying very hard not to look 57. The pills and coffee are working pretty well.
Shit. I left my brand new batting gloves in the car parked way the hell over there. I can't get to them. You don't borrow batting gloves in baseball, it's like asking to borrow underwear. Even pussies don't do that. Anyway we don't score, in fact 2 guys strike out no one gets the ball out of the infield. I never sat on the bench, I nervously walked around like a 7 year old at his first baseball game. Fifty years later and things haven't changed a bit.
During the course of the game I got 2 balls hit to my area, one was a rocket hit between me and Manny that travelled all the way to the fence. Manny could have gotten there before me but he could see that my skinny arthritic legs were pumping pretty good and "oh hell, let the old guy get it it's probably a thrill for him." It was. I made a decent throw into the cutoff guy and held the guy to a double. Pretty good, except that the runner was very fat- he could hit the ball a ton, but couldn't run, it diminished the value of my holding him to a double a bit. I was happy though, no mistakes. The second ball was the kind I hate, it was a high fly ball hit well and off the bat of a righty meaning it was spinning away from me toward the foul line, I got to it 2 steps late and was absolutely bullshit that I didn't get a glove on it at least. The guys were charitable back on the bench, "impossible to get that one blah, blah". I knew I had failed at my first chance to make a real lasting impression. But now it was my turn to hit, bottom of the third, runners on 2nd and 3rd - nobody out they were leading 3-0. My first at bat against live fastball pitching in 40 years and the guy on the mound looked like Paul Bunyan, 6 feet 8, 240 and was throwing peas at our guys. No one had gotten the ball out of the infield. Both our guys were on with walks and a passed ball.
He had already hit one of our players (our catcher Ben), doinking one off his helmet. No injury, but I did take notice. So I'm waiting in the on deck circle nervous as a goose and who do I see standing behind the fence chatting with Freddy the coach but Steve Greer. Steve is another Mill City basketball and baseball legend who is about 2 or 3 years older than me. He lives near me and we say hi now and then, our kids all went to Mill City High. Then I hear "Bill, I didn't know you played ball." He meant to say; "WTF are you doing out here, you didn't even grow up in this town and you think you can play ball with kids 20 years younger than you? This ought to be quite a laugh." I smiled, said something self effacing and turned toward home plate now with the potential embarrassment level elevated exponentially for my first at bat against Paul Bunyan. I am proud that I did not faint walking to the batter's box.
I dug in, lifted the bat (the only player at the game not wearing batting gloves) and the first pitch zipped by at belt level at somewhere near 200 miles an hour. Or 75 miles an hour, one of the two. Please Lord, let me make contact if I swing, or make this guy wild enough to walk me. The rest was a bit of a blur - the ball came at me and I swung, something made the bat hit the ball and it travelled high and pretty deep to center field where it was easily caught. Our runner came in from third with our first run and the runner from 2nd advance to third. I began to run to first but was out before I got there. As I returned to the bench there were high fives waiting, I acted disappointed that I didn't get a clean hit but was secretly delighted that I made solid contact. I didn't look for Steve Greer but knew I dodged the most humiliating bullet of that day.
Sure enough the ump shows up and starts screaming at the other coach about "what the hell, we're all here, let's have a frickkin' game!" I've waited too long to warm up my arm which feels tight and who knows what position I'm going to play. I'm nervous, not scared, nervous. I'm 57 years old in reasonably good shape and I'm trying to play baseball, not softball mind you, where the bases are 60 feet apart- but baseball, where the bases are 90 feet apart and they throw overhanded at 80 miles and hour, not underhanded at 15 miles an hour.
"You're playing right and batting ninth" Freddy, who is Mr Baseball in Mill City (a pseudonym) and has played this game with Abner Doubleday I'm sure, tells me. A not little known fact in baseball is that right field is where you put your worst fielder, ninth is where you bat your worst hitter. I was happy. I wouldn't get too many balls hit to me in right and I'd get to watch 8 guys before me bat. This was an embarrassment that I could live with. For now.
At the practice the week before, also in the rain, I pitched BP (batting practice) a bit. I got the ball over the plate consistently and guys were able to hit it all over the park. This impressed Freddy a bit and he asked me if I could pitch. I said sure, lying, since I hadn't pitched since high school 40 years ago. He meant could I pitch if the score were 87 to 3 and our pitcher was getting tired and he didn't want to wear any good pitchers out getting through the rest of the game. Oh.
So today he asks me again you wanna pitch later? I said I haven't pitched off a mound in a long time. I didn't lie this time and he says okay. "Oh so you're a pussy" is what he was thinking, I think. Or maybe not. Anyway, I did take my 3 ibuprofen and large cup of coffee before game time so my knees would not bark enough for anyone to hear. I ran in place a little until I realized that warming up anything other than your arm "is for pussies". No one said that actually, but you can tell it was understood. Please don't misunderstand the term pussy as used by baseball players. It is not a female, it is not a part of the anatomy, it is not a feline. It is a persona. A pussy is a weak man, fearful of getting hurt, probably cowardly, never drove a stick shift and cares how he looks. To be called a pussy by someone you know, in the company of others you know, invites nervous laughter and compells you to perform the task that might take you out of the realm of pussydom immediately. Like; "drink it you pussy'. To be called a pussy by someone you don't know, if front of someone you do, means you have to fight or you are indeed a pussy.
But I digress.
"Play ball" and out I run to right field, it's soggy and there's a puddle 10 by 10 feet along the right field line in play. I play toss with the center fielder, his name is Manny he looks 18, I find out later he's new and actually 30. Nice guy though, I think I actually got one throw to him in the air. The sky is grey and the wind is blowing out toward me and to the right. Nothing is hit to me that inning and I run in trying very hard not to look 57. The pills and coffee are working pretty well.
Shit. I left my brand new batting gloves in the car parked way the hell over there. I can't get to them. You don't borrow batting gloves in baseball, it's like asking to borrow underwear. Even pussies don't do that. Anyway we don't score, in fact 2 guys strike out no one gets the ball out of the infield. I never sat on the bench, I nervously walked around like a 7 year old at his first baseball game. Fifty years later and things haven't changed a bit.
During the course of the game I got 2 balls hit to my area, one was a rocket hit between me and Manny that travelled all the way to the fence. Manny could have gotten there before me but he could see that my skinny arthritic legs were pumping pretty good and "oh hell, let the old guy get it it's probably a thrill for him." It was. I made a decent throw into the cutoff guy and held the guy to a double. Pretty good, except that the runner was very fat- he could hit the ball a ton, but couldn't run, it diminished the value of my holding him to a double a bit. I was happy though, no mistakes. The second ball was the kind I hate, it was a high fly ball hit well and off the bat of a righty meaning it was spinning away from me toward the foul line, I got to it 2 steps late and was absolutely bullshit that I didn't get a glove on it at least. The guys were charitable back on the bench, "impossible to get that one blah, blah". I knew I had failed at my first chance to make a real lasting impression. But now it was my turn to hit, bottom of the third, runners on 2nd and 3rd - nobody out they were leading 3-0. My first at bat against live fastball pitching in 40 years and the guy on the mound looked like Paul Bunyan, 6 feet 8, 240 and was throwing peas at our guys. No one had gotten the ball out of the infield. Both our guys were on with walks and a passed ball.
He had already hit one of our players (our catcher Ben), doinking one off his helmet. No injury, but I did take notice. So I'm waiting in the on deck circle nervous as a goose and who do I see standing behind the fence chatting with Freddy the coach but Steve Greer. Steve is another Mill City basketball and baseball legend who is about 2 or 3 years older than me. He lives near me and we say hi now and then, our kids all went to Mill City High. Then I hear "Bill, I didn't know you played ball." He meant to say; "WTF are you doing out here, you didn't even grow up in this town and you think you can play ball with kids 20 years younger than you? This ought to be quite a laugh." I smiled, said something self effacing and turned toward home plate now with the potential embarrassment level elevated exponentially for my first at bat against Paul Bunyan. I am proud that I did not faint walking to the batter's box.
I dug in, lifted the bat (the only player at the game not wearing batting gloves) and the first pitch zipped by at belt level at somewhere near 200 miles an hour. Or 75 miles an hour, one of the two. Please Lord, let me make contact if I swing, or make this guy wild enough to walk me. The rest was a bit of a blur - the ball came at me and I swung, something made the bat hit the ball and it travelled high and pretty deep to center field where it was easily caught. Our runner came in from third with our first run and the runner from 2nd advance to third. I began to run to first but was out before I got there. As I returned to the bench there were high fives waiting, I acted disappointed that I didn't get a clean hit but was secretly delighted that I made solid contact. I didn't look for Steve Greer but knew I dodged the most humiliating bullet of that day.
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