I waited at on the edge of the grass at shortstop
impatiently. The other softball team had not arrived and they were an hour
late. The sun was hot on my face and my long hair was wet with sweat. A
groundball sizzled toward me. I crouched down, swept the ball into my glove,
jumped up into throwing position and fired the ball to first base. Dave
McCarthy scooped the ball out of the dirt. Great play, I thought.
“Where the
hell are those fucking guys?” someone asked.
“They said
they’d be here. I don’t know,” I said.
We
continued practicing. Some of the guys complained how late they were while
others threatened to call it a day. Andy hit the ball into deep left field.
Rich sprang upon it like a deer— smoke in mouth, beer in hand as he raced
toward the fence. Without losing stride, he snared the potential homerun ball.
The guys clapped and cheered.
Our group— our team was a
collection of guys who liked sports, exercise and the competition. We had a lot
of fun playing softball. This particular group had been playing together since
early last spring, mostly on week-ends. It was a nice alternative to bumming
around and getting in trouble. Somewhere along the line we developed into a
worthy team and began to challenge other groups in Randolph
Our team
was fair, unselfish and played within the rules. One of our pitchers, Boomer epitomized
it. In his life, he was messed up. He smoked too much pot, drank too much booze
and could not be trusted to do the right thing. He battled with his parents and
the police. Yet during the game he was a complete team player, competitive and
loyal to the cause. “All’s fair in love and war, baby!” he said.
Our players
had long wild hair, ripped jeans, flannels and old work boots. Some of the guys
wore grubby t-shirts and sported ugly tattoos. We smoked cigarettes and drank
beer. Some wore leather vests and jean jackets with Metallica patches on the
back. In high school we were collectively called Hicks.
I had set
up our initial game with them. I had known some of the more obnoxious kids from
the varsity baseball and intramural hockey teams. That first game wasn’t even
close. We embarrassed them.
That day,
they pulled into the parking lot in their Fieros and Corvettes, parking beside
our collection of third hand Dusters and Impalas. They sauntered out from their
cars and walked toward the dug out, and they had an air of superiority in their
stride. I had heard them laughing at us, making wise comments to themselves on
the bench. They wore colorful aloha shirts, red sox hats and stone washed jeans
with their socks rolled above the hems. Some had spiked hair, Mohawks and
sported football jerseys and baseball cleats. Some wore Nike jumpsuits, and
Addidas shirts and sneakers. Freddy Flynn the epitome of their team, wise ass
spoiled ring leader. He smoked an imaginary joint, picked up a bat and took a
fake tumble to the ground. His teammates laughed and applauded. In high school
they were collectively called Jocks.
The battle
lines were drawn.
We must
have caught them off guard or something. Our fielders were like vacuums and we
went crazy with the long ball. Conversely their defense was careless and sloppy
while Boomer kept their offense tied in knots. We won, 16-4 prompting Freddy to
throw his Red Sox hat to the ground in disgust. “Just wait til tomorrow,” he
said.
The next
day a huge crowd gathered to watch. Word had spread quickly and suddenly this
game meant something. The bleachers were packed with all kinds of kids from
school. Even the Jock’s lineup was different. They had brought in better
players and I watched them during warm-ups. They were quick and confident to
the ball. We must have really upset the balance in high school or something for
them to make line-up changes. Even Freddy kept his mouth shut. Despite their
makeover we were excited and just as confident as ever.
The two
teams had dueled for nine tough innings. Boomer was incredible and only yielded
four singles. Our outfielders made several diving catches to prevent hits. Even
Slabs, not known for his fielding prowess, threw a perfect bullet to second
base to nail a runner. I got in on the act too as I snared a shot down the foul
line and turned a double play by catching the runner off second base. We won,
4-0.
After the
game, I had realized that maybe it was more than just a game. I really wanted
to beat them bad. What did I have to prove to them anyway? I searched my
feelings. Maybe I harbored an element of jealousy. Myself, my teammates— we
were the deprived kids, loners and misfits. The Jocks represented popularity,
wealth and snobbery. It was a natural reaction. I saw beyond the cliques— one’s
character and individuality was real and lasting and not the fake smiles and
high fives. What it came down to was that the Jocks represented conformity. When
you talked to Freddy it was like talking to Walter and when you talked to
Walter it was like talking to Rizzo, they all had the same opinions, quirks and
perspectives. No one seemed to have a singular thought. It also bothered me how
they were treated favorably by teachers and how they got things too easy. I
knew this for a fact. The year before I played varsity baseball, floor teachers
treated me just like everyone else and I would never catch a break; the day I
put on that varsity cap was the day floor teachers began to look away from my
transgressions. I think a few of my teammates wanted to prove that they were
somebody and worthy of respect and not the butt of stupid jokes.
So there I
was, still waiting at shortstop. Boomer ran after an errant throw. I looked
over to the parking lot and at that moment, I saw them driving in— a Fiero,
Corvette and Trans-am. As they crossed the field, they had a different energy
an almost humble air about them. There was no joking at our expense. Freddy
nodded respectfully toward us. They quietly went about warm-ups and playing
catch on the sidelines.
It was
about time. We were bored of practice. I crouched down and rubbed my palm in
the dirt and then slapped my fist into my glove. Let the game begin.
*
Another paper written for my writing class, this one titled
Assignment #4. Originally written in third person and with fake names however I
just changed that to its current form. Though written in 1989 or somewhere around that time (I have
to start nailing these dates), it was based on events that happened in 1987.
*
I found this recent journal entry from 2013 and thought it was relevant to this.
Journal:
These softball games were a big thing for us going back to
our High School days and long afterwards. One year, I don’t remember how it
happened, probably a year removed from high school, some of the “cool jocks”
found out about our games and started playing with us and eventually a lot of
the not so cool jocks found out and they came down and suddenly we had a game
billed as “the jocks vs the hicks” and they went on for quite some time that
season and became so popular, kids would come down just to watch and root for
their teams. The funny thing about us hicks was that we were all pretty good
athletes too but we just didn’t have their pampered lives, rich parents and we
smoked pot and drank (I had quit weed by then, I think) and had long hair and
wore flannels— long before Pearl Jam and Nirvana made it fashionably cool. Well
we won most of those games, no we dominated and boy did I feel a great amount
of pride that year…. After that season we never heard from the jocks again… I’m
sure they went on to become alcoholics and bad parents. This was 1988ish. But
we played and played up until about 1995/96 when our core group started to
scatter, lose interest or just get old fast and my one “day of escape from
reality” just disappeared. Over the years I would try and talk people back into
it but it was usually buzzed talk over drinks and bad morning hangovers and
nothing ever transpired. Then the guys became golf addicts. I tried but just
never took to the game and never really got the sport of it. I enjoyed the long
walks across beautiful greens more than I did the game. Recently, it dawned on
me, that I was not out drinking at parties and bars and that god damn it I’m
not waking up hungover and three sheets to the wind on Sundays anymore. I
decided to try and resuscitate it. Even back in the day, I refused to drink
during our games. The sun and alcohol would give me a headache. The ONE time I
showed up at a game, hammered, with old friend Gary Trull, us having just come
from an all night party, I pretty much made a fool of myself, striking out, no
flailing at the ball on three consecutive at bats before calling it quits.
Anyway, it’s as simple as that. I will try and bring back Softball Sunday.
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