RJM62
Touchdown! Greaser!
- Joined
- Jun 15, 2007
- Messages
- 13,157
- Location
- Upstate New York
- Display Name
Display name:
Geek on the Hill
The last time I played softball, I made an amazing diving catch to end the game. It was made all the more amazing because I was pretty much the worst outfielder in the history of softball.
I could hit, that's for sure. I'd grown up in Brooklyn playing stickball in the streets with a broomstick and a spauldeen (a little pink rubber ball a little smaller than a tennis ball), so there wasn't much I couldn't do with a real bat against a big, fat softball.
The problem was that our stickball field was a one-way street, with home plate and second base marked by manhole covers (hence the name "two-sewer stickball"), and first and third marked by the fenders of whatever cars happened to be parked where first and third should be.
There was no need for an actual first or third baseman. Fair territory was that area between the parked cars, which was maybe 12 feet, if that much; so first and third basemen would just get in the pitcher's way.
Neither did we need a left fielder or a right fielder because we had neither a left nor a right field. Two-sewer stickball is a game of depth, not breadth.
So the lineup consisted of the pitcher (who also covered first and third -- sometimes simultaneously), the second baseman at second manhole (the one behind the pitcher), an outfielder behind the second baseman, and the catcher behind home manhole.
If we had extra kids, the first would be assigned to play "backup," which meant behind the catcher. He was basically a ball-chaser. Because we played uphill as per Brooklyn convention rules, we didn't really need outfield ball-chasers; but if we still had extra kids, they would play "deep," meaning far beyond where any of us expected a ball to ever be hit. It also was far enough away that occasionally the "deep" outfielders would leave in the middle of a game and no one would notice.
So to sum it up, stickball was played in a very narrow, very deep venue, so we had little experience with side-to-side movement. But because it was played with a broomstick and a little pink ball, we did develop good hitting skills.
In fact, the first time I took to an actual field to play softball, two things became obvious: Firstly, I could hit. Man, could I hit. I hit the good pitches, the bad pitches, and the everything in-between pitches. I even got a hit one time when the opposing pitcher was trying to walk me. Yessiree, I could hit. No doubt about that.
The second thing that became obvious was that I couldn't field. I was atrocious. I was okay with pop flies and line drives if they were hit directly at me and I didn't have to move side-to-side, but anything that was hit to my left or my right was probably going to be a hit.
Over the years, I got a little better, eventually improving from atrocious to merely horrible. But a few years ago, a few of my childhood friends got together for a game, just for old time's sake.
After we chose sides, I trotted off toward right field (my being assigned to right being a foregone conclusion). I played the game with my customary stunning grace and athleticism, except with the improvements afforded by nearly half a century of experience and about 150 pounds of extra mass.
Or to put it another way, I'm not sure I touched the ball for the entire game (although my bat did -- with great gusto).
But then came the last play of the game. Two men were out, but Bobby Russo was getting tired and had men on second and third. The beer was also getting low, so it was a tense situation.
Then it happened: Bobby tossed a fat one to Lefty Durante, who pulled it hard and deep to right. I got on my horse andgasped my way charged to what looked like the softest patch of grass in right field, intending to go down in a blaze of glory, at least, regardless of where the ball happened to land.
Like a gazelle, I leaped toward the soft-looking green patch, and extended my arm and hand as if I actually had some idea of what the ball's trajectory might be.
And then, right before I hit the ground, I felt an unfamiliar thump in my glove.
A pigeon, perhaps?
No, there in my glove was, of all things, a softball.
I stared at it stupidly for a moment as if wondering how in the world a softball got in my glove (which actually is pretty much what I was wondering), when I heard the swell of applause from my teammates and from the fans in the grandstand. Both of them.
Lefty was out. The game was over. And I was a hero.
Never let it be said that I played past my prime. With that spectacular display of skill and athleticism as my farewell, I hung up my glove for good, and retired at the top of my game. Let my legacy be the retold legends of my astounding outfield prowess, not the sad observation that I didn't know when it was time to step aside and let future legends take their place on the field of dreams.
-Rich
I could hit, that's for sure. I'd grown up in Brooklyn playing stickball in the streets with a broomstick and a spauldeen (a little pink rubber ball a little smaller than a tennis ball), so there wasn't much I couldn't do with a real bat against a big, fat softball.
The problem was that our stickball field was a one-way street, with home plate and second base marked by manhole covers (hence the name "two-sewer stickball"), and first and third marked by the fenders of whatever cars happened to be parked where first and third should be.
There was no need for an actual first or third baseman. Fair territory was that area between the parked cars, which was maybe 12 feet, if that much; so first and third basemen would just get in the pitcher's way.
Neither did we need a left fielder or a right fielder because we had neither a left nor a right field. Two-sewer stickball is a game of depth, not breadth.
So the lineup consisted of the pitcher (who also covered first and third -- sometimes simultaneously), the second baseman at second manhole (the one behind the pitcher), an outfielder behind the second baseman, and the catcher behind home manhole.
If we had extra kids, the first would be assigned to play "backup," which meant behind the catcher. He was basically a ball-chaser. Because we played uphill as per Brooklyn convention rules, we didn't really need outfield ball-chasers; but if we still had extra kids, they would play "deep," meaning far beyond where any of us expected a ball to ever be hit. It also was far enough away that occasionally the "deep" outfielders would leave in the middle of a game and no one would notice.
So to sum it up, stickball was played in a very narrow, very deep venue, so we had little experience with side-to-side movement. But because it was played with a broomstick and a little pink ball, we did develop good hitting skills.
In fact, the first time I took to an actual field to play softball, two things became obvious: Firstly, I could hit. Man, could I hit. I hit the good pitches, the bad pitches, and the everything in-between pitches. I even got a hit one time when the opposing pitcher was trying to walk me. Yessiree, I could hit. No doubt about that.
The second thing that became obvious was that I couldn't field. I was atrocious. I was okay with pop flies and line drives if they were hit directly at me and I didn't have to move side-to-side, but anything that was hit to my left or my right was probably going to be a hit.
Over the years, I got a little better, eventually improving from atrocious to merely horrible. But a few years ago, a few of my childhood friends got together for a game, just for old time's sake.
After we chose sides, I trotted off toward right field (my being assigned to right being a foregone conclusion). I played the game with my customary stunning grace and athleticism, except with the improvements afforded by nearly half a century of experience and about 150 pounds of extra mass.
Or to put it another way, I'm not sure I touched the ball for the entire game (although my bat did -- with great gusto).
But then came the last play of the game. Two men were out, but Bobby Russo was getting tired and had men on second and third. The beer was also getting low, so it was a tense situation.
Then it happened: Bobby tossed a fat one to Lefty Durante, who pulled it hard and deep to right. I got on my horse and
Like a gazelle, I leaped toward the soft-looking green patch, and extended my arm and hand as if I actually had some idea of what the ball's trajectory might be.
And then, right before I hit the ground, I felt an unfamiliar thump in my glove.
A pigeon, perhaps?
No, there in my glove was, of all things, a softball.
I stared at it stupidly for a moment as if wondering how in the world a softball got in my glove (which actually is pretty much what I was wondering), when I heard the swell of applause from my teammates and from the fans in the grandstand. Both of them.
Lefty was out. The game was over. And I was a hero.
Never let it be said that I played past my prime. With that spectacular display of skill and athleticism as my farewell, I hung up my glove for good, and retired at the top of my game. Let my legacy be the retold legends of my astounding outfield prowess, not the sad observation that I didn't know when it was time to step aside and let future legends take their place on the field of dreams.
-Rich
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