There's No Crying in Softball!

The year is 1994. It's summer, and I'm a newlywed. I'm also a size 4. That last part has no bearing on the story whatsoever. I just want it duly noted.

This was back in the day of good ole' Sunday night services, followed by something social. In this case, softball.  This was usually a guys-only thing. Until one night, a friend of mine had this great idea. "Let's get up a girls' game next week!"

The next week we stood on the field and waited to be chosen. It was 6th grade kick-ball all over again.

On the car ride over, my new hubby thought it prudent to share his thoughts on the matter. "This is not a good idea. You don't need to do this. Somebody is gonna get hurt." I was perplexed. What am I, 5? It's softball. Granted I'd never played and was not athletically inclined, but the youthfulness of my 26 year old brain was wondering what in the world could possibly go wrong in a silly game. So not a big deal.

I'm not sure in what order I was chosen, but I know it had to be close to last, if not dead last. The captain, or whatever her title was, said it was because I didn't have a glove. "Sorry, guys, if you don't have a glove, I'm not gonna pick you!" Awesome. Off to a good start.

My time at bat had come, and lo and behold, I actually hit the ball. I was ecstatic. I took off for first base with glee and confidence. I could see my best friend Cristi in that space out ahead of me - right field? Anyway, I knew I hadn't hit it that far and somebody was bound to be throwing the ball at any second. So I sped up. The breeze in my hair is feeling great. This is actually fun! I am an athlete! It was somewhere around this onset of euphoria that I realized I had a problem. Something in my lower extremities is not right. I think.....am I?....yep...Houston, we have a problem. My legs were moving too fast. Much faster than I knew was possible, and seemingly faster than the rest of me. And I can't catch up to them. I just knew I looked like one of those cartoon characters with a head, a body, and nothing but a swirling cloud of air below. It had to be Mach 2. And while this felt great at first, things had started to get out of hand.  This would need to come to an end, and for the life of me I could not figure out how to make that happen. Maybe I should tell somebody. Can they not see I'm in trouble here? I'm so fast it can't be normal. Maybe I should just scream out that I can't stop. I mean, they're girls. We talk about stuff. Maybe they can help. It was around 3 nanoseconds later that God must've thought it would be funny to solve this problem of excessive speed with a little swiftness of His own. I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I just know it was over in a flash. Bam. Everything hit the deck at once. I was on the ground, spread eagle, face firmly planted in red dust. I looked up as people started to rush over. I spotted Cristi, doubled over in her spot. The laughing pose. (More like the I'm actually crying and about to pee my pants pose). Amid the murmers I hear the voice of my hair stylist. "Wh...??...was she....was she diving? To first base?" For half a second I think I might have a brilliant cover story, and once I spit this dirt out of my mouth, I'll tell them that's exactly what I was doing. But the brutal reality was revealed to me as I looked dead ahead. I'm like 30 feet away from the base. I have no idea how this is possible because I was booking.  We're talking warp speed. My legs were on fire. There has to be smoke. And yet, here I am, barely half way. Maybe not even half way. I start wondering how in the world I'm going to explain this.

Trying to ignore the sting of pain, I stand up with some assistance (although not from the captain, who apparently saw this coming, me being without the proper equipment and all). I start to dust myself off, which seems pointless since I don't carry a ShopVac, but what're you gonna do. As I reach to brush off my legs - and this is difficult because there's dirt in my eyelashes and in case you ever have this problem incessant speed blinking will not help - I notice a whole 'nother kinda red. Not really gushing blood, but still a lot. Everywhere. On every limb. Big, huge strawberries on every joint. My pristine white shirt is toast. And still, Cristi is unable to stand from her hysteria.

Once I'm upright, somebody thinks it'll be a good idea to get me to my husband. I guess so they don't have to deal with me and can get back to their game. Somehow it had completely escaped my attention that my friends were seriously competitive and I might need a glove if I want to keep hanging out with them.

I'm escorted to the field he's playing on. He turns around just as we approach.

"I told you somebody was gonna get hurt."

That was helpful.

I kind of mill around, dazed, for a few minutes and our pastor actually helps me get cleaned up. He was a man who'd been married for more than 3 minutes and had the good sense to leave what he was doing and come to my aid. That's all I'm sayin'.

As I'm stiffly making my way back to the bleachers to watch the girls' smack down, I run into my sister, who, up to this point, has been chasing her 18 month old daughter around the park. I'm still thinking to myself, "How am I going to explain this?  How do you say you were operating at such an impressive rate of motion that you couldn't stop and God just smote you down?"

She looks at me, and with all the grace and wisdom only a sister can possess, says....wait for it....
"Were your feet just moving way too fast?"

A-ha! So it's a family trait, this speed of light thing?! Can you imagine if both of us had been playing?

My husband did eventually come to my aid that night. When we got home he ran a warm bath for me and applied giant band-aids to my elbows and knees, all the while still saying, "I told you so." OK I'm still not five, and I don't get what me being so fast has to do with your weird predictions, but, whatever. There was most definitely crying in softball that summer. (And for about 3 days after, but only every time I had to move.) And Cristi still cries at the mention of the words "feet" and "fast."

Things I Think Should Be Allowed Part 1

It's a crazy world. With all  kinds a crazy folk. Sometimes I think I might lose my ever loving mind. Sometimes it seems like everybody else all ready has and I've missed the bus. But I'm thinking if I could just do certain things, you know, have some sort of outlet, then dealing with the crazy would be easier. So here's my list of things I think we ought to be able to do. I'll share one a day. Maybe one a week. Or maybe nobody will read this and I won't share any more at all. I'll just do them. I wonder if they give out laptops in city jails...

Thing Number One:

Yell.  I think we should be able to yell in public places. Because people are doin' it, in case you haven't noticed, and nobody's telling them they can't. Including their mother. So why can't we sane, self aware ones have a crack at it? Why can't I walk up to the woman in Target whose voice is clanging out over everyone else's in the store, tap her on the shoulder and say, "Hi! You know what?? There's boat loads of people in here trying to have a pleasant shopping experience. Some even have cranky toddlers and screaming babies. And yet, miraculously, YOU are the only one I can hear! And guess what else? THAT'S NOT OK! And if this is your inside voice, then you need to live outside and never, ever, ever enter an establishment with four walls again, K?" And then, on our way to clobber the guy monitoring the security cameras and steal the tape, do the Ross thing with our hands to show them how to bring it down. 

How is this not OK?