We Want a Pitcher (not a belly-itcher)

It's about softball time in Indiana. As far as sports go, I always liked baseball, softball, and volleyball. I've played softball since I was a kid. After I got my glasses in seventh grade, I could actually SEE the ball--but until then I sported a few black eyes due to line drives that I couldn't see coming at me.

When I got into high school, I took phys ed during the summer so I could play outdoor sports. We joined up with the boys phys ed class and played softball for a week of our summer school. I was the catcher for our team and pretty good at it for a skinny girl. But one day while I was catching, a big strapping football player was barreling towards home plate. The ball was coming to me even faster. Just before home plate, I squatted into a catcher's pose to catch the ball, which was coming in low. It was going to be close, but I was in the path. I had to tag the runner--not just catch it on the plate.

I had it! All I had to do was tag him. But Jim had other plans. I guess he didn't see the 100-pound girl that was about to spoil his plans to score a run--or maybe he did. He plowed into me with everything he had. When I landed, my crumpled body was about 15 feet towards first base. My glasses were another ten feet farther. Stars and little birdies were flying around in circles around my head.

Jim must've realized he played it a little too hard for a sandlot game. We never had any safety equipment--not even a helmet. He ran over to me (after scoring his run), and got down on his knee to take a gander at the damage he'd done. Still swimmy-headed and blind without my glasses, I weakly said, "You're out!" Jim said, "No I'm not...you dropped the ball". Great...all that pain for nothing. I ended up with a huge bruise on the calf of my leg that left a scar for years. But worse than the bruise, this made me gun shy.

About 20 years ago, we formed a co-ed league at the naval base I worked at. The guy I carpooled with was our captain. I played shortstop. I never was a great player, but I always got a hit. Rarely was it a double, but I almost always got a single. Fielding was a little rougher for me. Still gun shy from my high school days, I hated to see a line drive coming at me. The dirt on the field at Crane was horrible--kind of a mixture of razor sharp sand and small cinders. One day someone hit a very fast grounder right at me. I ran up to the ball and got down to stop it. At the last minute it took a bad hop in the dirt, then it hit me on the tendon just above my foot. The ball had a wicked spin on it, so it climbed up my shin and skidded all the way up my face.

Since the ball was embedded with the sharp sand and cinders, it was like sandpaper. I not only had a goose egg on my tendon, I had a huge skid mark from the right side of my chin all the way up to my hairline. My new glasses had the same fate.

During that season, I did have one really good catch. While playing my shortstop position, some guy slammed a line drive right towards me, but way above my head. I involuntarily jumped as high as I could, closed my eyes, stretched my arm out, and the durned ball landed in my mitt--and stayed there. When I landed on my feet and felt the ball in my mitt, my jaw dropped! I looked around and said, "It was an accident!". Everyone cheered--even the opposing team. And after the game, everyone told me what a good catch it was. Gee...wish I'd had it on film. No one was more shocked than I was that I actually caught that ball. I didn't mean to.

Once during the season, coach Danny had what he thought was a bright idea. He turned to me and told me to get out there and pitch. What? I don't pitch! I started protesting. I told him I couldn't pitch underhand, but he didn't believe me. I could pitch just fine overhand, so why wouldn't I be able to pitch underhand? Seeing that the protesting fell on deaf ears, I hit the mound. At bat was another big strapping male. I caught the ball from the catcher and poised myself for my first underhand pitch ever during a real game.

Follow through...follow through--all I had to do was swing my pitching arm behind me, swing it forward, then turn loose of the ball at just the right time...and remember to follow through. I threw the ball and it arced perfectly towards the batter. Good arc, but the pitch went BEHIND the batter--not in front of him. I turned to Danny and yelled, "I told you I can't pitch underhand!". He just chuckled and said, "Get outta there"!

Unfortunately, Danny hadn't seen the time I had to pitch to very young Little Leaguers when my husband the coach had to work. None of the assistant coaches showed up either. Typically me, I felt responsible to fill in. How hard could this be? I didn't have to be scared of line drives coming at me--not from these little kids. So I began pitching--and I beaned every kid that came to bat. And when I'd bean one, I'd say, "Sorry, kid!". Finally a father came out to reprieve me.

I still love baseball and softball, but at this age I'm just content to watch from the stands. And I still can't pitch underhand.