I stand outside the dugout, pressed to the fence of the backstop yelling things that I think I used to yell when I was 12. Doug takes a long stride and he nicks the ball after a loaded swing. The ball flies up into the air for maybe half a beat, rising not much higher than Doug's own head and the catcher, a smaller, rather rotund man in his 50's catches the harmless ball.
"Great stuff! Great stuff 1-5!" The catcher yells, as the pitcher, number 15, has delivered the exact same type of generic pitch every other slow-pitch softball pitcher has ever pitched. A slow arcing corn hole toss landing in the general vicinity of home plate.
Doug's head drops, but we cannot quite make out his entire expression as he has put up his face guard at home plate. The words that seem to just make it out under his breath and his eyes show a look of sheer frustration.
It's incredibly hot out. Somewhere in the mid 90's and humidity that seemed to have sprung out of nowhere. I'm sweating through my jersey and taking practice swings, trying desperately to loosen enough muscles to where the swing actually feels natural and comfortable like it did when I was twelve. I know I'll never get there. My back feels it needs to crack but never can. Like I can never fully unwind.
There's a few fans and families out on the side to cheer. Most, like the players themselves, just seemingly looking for something else to do outside of the house. They bring pets and snacks and their lawn chairs and take in a game of grown men attempting to stay young and play a child's game.
We lose the first game by ten runs, the game is over quickly. The second game we win by ten runs.
There is such a huge mix of solid plays with unbelievably funny goofs that it becomes difficult to keep them all straight.
This is the slow pitch softball that I have come to love.
And now, twice every Monday, we get to play again.
When I was first approached about playing again this year I was hesitant at first. I knew the pandemic wasn't over, but softball seemed like one of the few games that you could truly minimize and control contact with others. With the exception of the batter, catcher, and umpire (the league is official enough for umps, but casual enough for gym shorts and "courtesy" runners.), the sport doesn't require any of the players to be within six feet of each other for any kind of prolonged time and is played outside.
Still, I waffled. My wife and sister both have asthma. My parents, as well as my in-laws are all in riskier age ranges. At every turn when this disease has been underestimated it seems to have spread and had deadly consequences. For me to imagine myself being partly responsible for someone else's death due to my own desire to live life as best I can was a reality I had to at least think about.
Ultimately the deciding factor in me playing was that it seemed that my state, Pennsylvania, had done a great job with their initial lock-down phase. New cases were declining steadily, businesses were on the brink of what seemed like a near re-open, and it felt like things were going to this new semi-open model of life.
I felt like as long as I took certain precautions, while the risk was certainly still present, it would be so low that it'd to be worth it to have some semblance of social normalcy. To get out of the house and into the world around me and do something both physical and pleasurable. To get outside to feel the sun, feel the camaraderie, and feel like the planet is still the same one I remembered.
I am currently playing under my own guidance that as soon as either someone on the team gets sick or tests positive, my season will likely be over, regardless of rules imposed by either the state or the league.
I continue to moderate my habits. As cases in PA have begun to
rise again, and the new data suggesting more asymptomatic spread, I
will wear a mask for the entirety of the game.
For me, it's a personal decision, but one that I think allows me to play and enjoy something else in life, while still attempting to keep those around me safe. I also shared my decision with others who would be spending time with me so they knew where I had been previously, and I made sure the people who I shared a house with (in this case, just my wife) were OK with my choice.
Our team has not played particularly well as a group. We are 1-5. While I think we all have some baseball or athletics in our background, none of us would be confused for what I would call a "ringer".
At times, it's hard to stay motivated as I fail to bend over at the waist far enough to pick up a ground ball or when the other team has a couple of players just crushing the ball all over.
But I still want to play. Because at the moment it offers my life a sense of spontaneity that is positive. If during my at bat, I can hit the ball hard, and maybe, if I happened to have actually stretched before the game, I can open up my gate enough to re-live just a moment of youthful energy, it'll be worth it.
If we can pull together and string just enough hits and defensive plays to win one more game, it'll be worth it.
If we can just smile and live in the moment, it will be worth it.
I get a text on my phone from the Captain. "Game on Monday vs the Labbat Blues. Field 4. Whose in?"
I don't hesitate.
I'm in.
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