The Worst, Best Player
Let me tell you what it’s like to successfully make a play in softball:
It’s like my early days doing standup comedy. I’d get on that stage with my thin little jokes, and the oncoming train would block out any and everything — I couldn’t hear anything but the train roaring, I couldn’t see anything but the train’s headlights bearing down. If I hadn’t recorded myself, I’d never know if the audience laughed or puked. Sometimes I’d have to be escorted off the stage in a fog.
So there I am, playing catcher. I play catcher because I am, without question, the worst player on the team. But while I may be a terrible player with no real skills or talents, I am arguably the second most intense player on our team. (The first most intense player is the captain, who is the pitcher.) My positive self-talk is for the record books! “Eye on the ball. One of these days, you’re going to surprise them all, Megan. Every time you mess up, that’s one less mess-up before you make the play. Let ’em underestimate you. It’s not a question of if but when…” I’m like an entire Tony Robbins seminar, only not awful.
My goal for some time now has been: catch the ball. Complete a play. I’ve hit the ball (good!), I’ve gotten on base (yes!), but I’ve yet to score a run or make a play on the field. So, okay: I make Chris practice pop-ups with me, I take notes at my daughter’s tee-ball practices, I’m bringing the full weight of my intellectual curiosity to this purpose.
I will catch the ball. I will catch the ball. Not a question of if, but when. I will catch the ball.
The other team all work at some pharmaceutical company, and are frankly too athletic to be allowed to play organized sports. They looked like they were selling chests (barrel) and thighs (svelte). They were not having fun, which seemed weird since they were hitting the ball everywhere, especially the third baseman who clearly is not content that life gave him a chiseled jaw. But that’s his problem — I’m focused on me.
Personal best. Pay attention. Get in front of the ball. You can do this.
So there I am, playing catcher. Mostly this consists of running after the ball when the batter misses it, then throwing it with all my strength back at the pitcher and watching it go about two-thirds the distance I intend. But I’m practicing my form, I’m focused, I’m softball ready.
One of these days. Don’t think. You’re gonna surprise everybody.
The ball is hit — crushed. I run in front of home plate — softball ready! — as the pitcher/coach covers the third base/home plate line. I watch as my team scrambles to retrieve the ball as the batter goes tearing around the bases. Outfield to shortstop. Shortstop to the pitcher. But the runner is already headed home.
And I’m standing there. In front of the plate. Softball ready.
The pitcher lobs the ball to me.
I watch the ball go in my glove. I pivot to home plate. Apparently, I have dived there, because I’m on the ground. I touch home plate, clutching the ball in my glove. There is yelling. Who is the runner? Is it the surly third-baseman from the other team, or did he run up from the dug-out to yell? My captain is yelling in my face. I am apparently still in the dirt. It dawns on me: I caught the ball. I touched the base. Maybe I’m not actually in trouble. Could this be good yelling?
“I caught the ball, I touched the base!” I say (yell?) at the umpire. “Did I do it?”
The umpire says, “It looked that way to me.”
That’s when I get it: I caught the ball. I got the runner out. I made the play.
I made the play!!!
I’m on my feet! I know it’s unseemly to victory dance at a local softball game, but I can’t believe it! I’m jumping up and down like a lottery winner! My team in the field is losing their minds! It is a spectacular play, and the most spectacular thing about it is, without a doubt, that I did it. Me! Butterfingers! Megan Gawk-erty! I MADE THE PLAY AND I GOT THE RUNNER OUT.
We are all energized. People are hitting triples (not me). These middle aged dreamers are diving and rolling and risking all kinds of preventable injuries, because if Megan can catch the ball, what other miracles are in store for the Bluesox tonight?
We won the game. We beat those chiseled pricks. We won it because we were lucky, and because we wanted it more, and because we were blessed by the god of joy and heavenly softball.
I continued to make plenty of mistakes — I overran third once, and I hesitated too long another time and got out, and I dropped and dropped and dropped the ball.
But I tasted glory tonight, friends. The team started calling me Magic Megan (or Megan Magic, it’s all a blur). And it was magical. It was more than that: It was a miracle.
Softball, y’all. It is exquisite.
