I forgot to tell you, I’m on a softball team.
No really.
I’m actually on a softball team.
Now, I realize that I am gay. And that as a card carrying member of We Who Wear Sensible Shoes, I’m predisposed to being identified with certain stereotypes*. Like Subarus. Bi-level hair. U-hauls. And yes – the grand and infamous – Lesbian Softball. You know, the fast-pitch kind where the pitcher’s name is Simon** and the team name is Xena’s Army.
This isn’t that.
It’s slow-pitch softball. We don’t end practices with a group hug. We don’t sleep with the rival team’s catcher’s girlfriend – who she broke up with last week but got back together with yesterday because she missed the cat – out of revenge for losing. It’s just a big mix of boys and girls having fun outside.
In fact, at any given time half the outfield have cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
It all started one day when one of the guys in my group said “Hey. Why don’t we start playing some softball before the meetings?” (Our meetings are outside at a beach park). The next week we had a duffle bag full of donated softballs, bats and five new gloves. One guy volunteered to bring a cooler of ice water and sodas each practice. Two guys donated several more new bats. And a few of us pitched in to buy the bases.
I’m not sure exactly how I got involved in all this though.
It’s not like I woke up one morning and said:
You know. All this sitting is getting to me. I just don’t feel active enough. I really feel that high-energy team sports is something that’s missing from my life.
.
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(Sorry. I had to take a large break. Typing that out just caused a huge giggle fit and I had to run and get kleenex. Then in my head I kept coming up with more lines, like ‘Especially sports involving running. I just don’t run enough‘, which made me go into even more giggle fits. Then I started to laugh like Elaine. Then I had to go have a couple of cigarettes).
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.
Ok. Back.
My only previous connection to softball was when I played for my junior high team one semester in 8th grade. Twenty years ago.
Since then, the only time I even said the word Softball (other than use it in Lesbian 101 instructional context) was back in college. Four of my friends and I had the brilliant idea that we should have our own league. It was fabulous. We had it all planned out.
One of them would actually play. The next would play, but insisted on wearing her birks. I would go out onto the field like this:
(Substitute skiing for softball. Apparently Patsy doesn’t run either).
And the gay male would be this.(*)
(Although I almost had to fight him for this position).
Our team name was going to be the Bitter Sugs (pronounced like sugar. Or schnookie).
And our rivals were going to be the Young Republicans.
It was glorious. Too bad it never made it past the bar napkin schematic stage.
ANYWAY, back to the present.
We practice three days a week. With an island-wide game every other Sunday.
I’m all about accessories, so I bought my own glove. It looks like this:
I love my glove.
I spent weeks breaking it in. I put mink oil on it. Placed a ball inside and tied it with a belt. Foamed it and baked it in the oven. Kept it under my mattress. I gave it the royal spa treatment, and it now looks like this:
But you know, still pretty. It has to be pretty.
Then I bought batting gloves. I got teased for this, but it was functional, really. The moment my little girl hands got around the bat, they were ripped to shreds. During my third batting practice I literally had to stop because I was bleeding. So now I bind my hands with athlete’s tape and wear these:
I love these. My hands are no longer mangled, they’re dead sexy – and because I bought the white ones, I get to pretend I’m an Imperial Stormtrooper.
Actually I like this picture better. They look like Imperial Charlie’s Angels.
Or a Stormtrooper Interpretive Dance troupe.
Or Imperial Jets! (Imperial Sharks!)
And notice the tinge of pink?
(Jazz squares!)
Back to the present again.
I’m not the greatest player, but I’m also not the worst.
Praise.
My batting still sucks, but I am improving. I don’t ‘throw like a girl’ any more. I’m consistently holding my own in the outfield – infield even better. I’ve been pretty dedicated to going to practice and working on technique. Don’t mistake all this for personal glorification. Or dedication to the sport. Or a competitive drive.
Or god forbid, a cross-over into the Dark Side of Chronic Outdoor Exercise.
I’m saying all this because 90% of the time I’m the only girl who shows up for practice. (For a variety of reasons. The beach park is five minutes from my house, the time of day is convenient for me, I’m the group representative so I devote extra support. Step away from the Lesbian Stereotypes!)
90% of the time I’m the only girl playing in a team of huge, burly, manly men. Sports-loving men. Men who mainly are former drug addicts. Recently former drug addicts. A large portion having recently been released from prison. (I’m not making this up).
Every once in a while in early practice – where we pick a team partner to catch/throw with – I look across the field at the rather large man I’m warming up with. And I take note that there is a rather large man hurling a rather large heavy object at speeds of 80mph…..directly at my face. And the only thing keeping it from being embedded permanently into my face is my ability to maneuver the object into a leather pouch only a few sizes bigger than my hand, as quickly as I can.
So I’ve learned a few things from all this. One, obviously, is to TAKE PRACTICE SERIOUSLY.
And so far, so good. I’ve only gotten injured four times. But —- they all happened on the same day.
Which brings me to number Two – never play while overly tired.
The night before the Day O’ Injuries I had only slept for roughly two hours. My phone rang at 3am and at 3:01am I was catapulted into the Twelve Step Call from Hell (Twelve Step Call = Staying with someone who is having their alcoholic bottom). This one wasn’t alcohol, however. It was worse. And frankly, it was terrifying. It’s a looooooooong story and someday I’ll share. Because of circumstances, I ended up having to shoulder the responsibility for roughly 7 hours completely by myself. (Not good). 13 hours after the initial call when my duties had finally been relieved, I was so exhausted I was almost ill.
I figured it was already late afternoon and if I slept then, I’d totally ruin my sleep schedule. So I decided to push through and go to practice.
Good call!
Scrunched knee.
Scrunched ankle.
Full contact ball hit on forearm.
Bean in the face.
Yes, BEAN IN THE FACE.
The ball ricocheted from my glove hitting me smack in the jaw.
Because there was only one other girl playing that day (a girl who well, threw like a girl) I had to pretend like nothing happened.
You know, the whole brush yourself off and keep playing thing. The walk-it-off thing. The whole pop immediately back up and say ‘No, I’m fine, it’s just a flesh-wound’ thing. The whole ‘Yes, I’m totally OK. Did it hurt? Oh no, not for me!’ thing. The whole ‘No, I’m not limping, I’m just doing an interpretation of Quasimodo’ thing.
The whole when the boys have gone home, call my parents and girl friends and cry and point to my boo-boo (a large lump/bruise on my jaw) thing.
So, there it is. Me playing softball.
Who knew?
Dude. I need a cigarette.
(*) PS. When I was looking for this image, I found the actual video whence it came. I had forgotten it’s actually about Lesbian softball! Next time I’m at bat and miss, I’m totally going to say “It had attitude”. I can’t wait!
*Apologies lesbian readers. Artistic license.
**Simon was actually the name of our quarterback the time I played Clit-Club*** Bar-sponsored lesbian football. That’s a whole ‘nother story.
*** That wasn’t the bar’s real name, though it’s in the same genre. There really was a Clit-Club. I had the t-shirt. That’s a whole ‘nother story.
