Chasing Softballs

I am the laziest person I know. Seriously. During the summer months, it takes all the energy I have to lie down and sweat. My normal routine when I get home from work is to sit somewhere and involve myself in some activity that requires no physical effort on my part. Napping is a favorite.

Yesterday, however, against my better judgment I was convinced to not only attend – but also participate in – a softball game. I have not played softball (or any ball) since grade school and certainly did not expect to be an incredible sportsman, given my aversion to physical activity – and, let’s face it – the outdoors. Shopping is more my sport, really. But even I was surprised to learn that I am so bad at the game. How hard can it be, I thought, you hit a ball, run around the bases, anybody can do it. Well, I was in for a special kind of education, let me tell you.

I was especially shocked to find that I am sore today, especially considering the level of work I put into avoiding exertion during the game. Judging by the current state of my muscles one would think I had run a marathon or perhaps competed in the “World’s Strongest Man” contest, where large men in small clothes pull ridiculous objects, for example, 18-wheeelers, for several dozen feet to determine who the strongest man is. I had done nothing remotely so vigorous, however. Mostly I stood on the far side of the outfield, trying my best to look prepared with my knees bent and a glove on, thinking “please don’t throw the ball at me…anybody but me…just let me remain invisible.” I never even once caught a ball that came my way. Generally I would lunge for it, miss – usually by several feet – and then chase after it across the street, under a car, through more humiliation than I can usually manage in an entire day, and bring it back for another round. I guess it was all that chasing that wore me out…but boy do I need an Advil.

Not only was I to learn my shortcomings as a catcher, it turned out, but also to be made aware that I am completely incapable of throwing a ball. I do not throw like a girl. I throw like someone in the midst of an epileptic fit. I can hear my husband telling me “okay, left foot forward, elbow up, now twist your body, snap your wrist” and while trying desperately to do what he tells me I end up in a bizarre seizure dance. The ball generally ends up about four feet in front of me. It seems to mock me from the ground.

I was glad when this adventure was over, and I’m equally glad to be back in my comfort zone with my ass in a chair. Until next time, you know where to find me.