Jock Itch

I guess you could call me a jock. In school I was one of those dreaded well-rounded kids who could pretty much move in any circle. I was smart. I could sing, play an instrument, and act. I enjoyed art electives. But it was on the softball field where I felt most at home, by far.

The last softball game I played in was when I was pregnant with my son. I think I was four-months pregnant, and I really didn't think I should be playing any more. But my team was very serious and they practically begged me to play in one last tournament. I hit two home runs that day. They teased me relentlessly about hitting so hard so that I wouldn't have to run my pregnant body around the bases. They were probably right.

Since then, well, first it was 9/11, then deployments, and then demands of the program my husband was in that kept me off a team. Now I can feel this overwhelming desire to play again. I can feel it in my chest. It's like an addiction.

Softball (and baseball I guess) are almost zen to me. There is nothing in life that can't be mirrored and learned from on the field.

I have twenty years of softball stories stored up for when my kids are old enough to play. I thought about telling them here, but even I was getting bored writing them out. I'll save them to bore my kids with later. (Isn't that why people have kids?)

But I will tell a little story about my parents.

My college was about two hours away from my hometown, so my parents only came to a few games every year. But at the end of my senior year, they drove out for our sports banquet.

Every year, they would show a slide show during the banquet. A friend had told me that there was a great picture of me in this year's show. I figured she meant that my hair looked good, or I had a great smile. Or knowing her, she could have meant that it was embarrassing in the extreme.

So I'm sitting with my parents and my teammates, watching the show. Whenever a new person was shown, they would get a smattering of applause from friends and family. All of a sudden, up pops my picture. I was in the middle of the release of a pitch and my forearm...well...I'm not sure how to describe it. It was the most well-muscled, sinewy forearm ever caught on film. I was shocked. I had no idea my arm looked like that when I pitched.

There was a shocked intake of breath in the room. And then the next picture was of me completing the pitch. And the place erupted in applause. I was really shocked then. And undeniably pleased. I had no idea that people actually liked me.

But my parents...you would have thought that they had just been given the best gift ever. I have never seen them so proud. My father must have told that story to every member of my family and every one of his acquaintances a dozen times over.

I wish I had a copy of that picture. To me it kind of represents parental pride from a father who wasn't programmed to show pride. It also represents a time in my life when I was known as MT (for mentally tough), I was a leader, and I had absolute knowledge of where I stood in life.

Now I need to recapture that feeling again. And the best place for me to do that is the softball field.