Big Tuesday Part II

As I sped south down I-15, the valley was growing ever darker and foggier - I couldn't tell if it was a mixture of dust and gray clouds, or actual rain. You can always see weather systems coming and going in this valley, but it was hard to figure this one out. Turns out the wind was the only real concern. The games prior to mine were still being played in what appeared to be a desert sand tornado. The burly outfielders in the "Men's League" were shielding their eyes and turning their backs to the action, just to survive. I kept looking back into the wind to see if there were any church steeples or renegade snowboards hurtling toward me (the Utah version of the movie Twister), but fortunately I was safe. I thought there was no way we'd even get to our game. But I waited it out, and right around 8:00 PM, the winds calmed down, no rain came, and we took the field.

Even now, my throbbing left shoulder and scabby left knee remind me of how I wish the rains would have come, the winds would have persisted, a snowboard missile would have threatened my well-being.

I'm like a lot of dudes in that I think I'm awesome at sports. All of them. Forget actual experience or skill or ability. I've never before played cricket, but if you put me on a field I imagine I'd be a tremendous wicket-keeper or silly mid-on. Since I ran track in Jr. High & High School, I didn't play baseball beyond little league. But in recent years, I've really come to enjoy recreational softball. Co-ed leagues are relaxed and fun, and normally I feel like a 'good' player simply because I'm a reasonably able athlete who is not afraid of getting struck by the ball. I wear a "MTA Pro" ball glove that I found at a park, probably in 5th or 6th grade. It still fits my hand and hasn't fallen apart yet so I don't worry about a new one. I don myself in cleats and batting gloves, as they make me feel cool. The combination of theater and competition in organized sports leads me to exert more effort than my talent or body is willing to support. In softball reality, I'm a terrible hitter, but a pretty good left-fielder (this week). But more than anything, I play really hard. In co-ed softball, for nothing.

My first at bat on Tuesday, I tapped a grounder down the 3rd base line, and sprinted toward first like my hair was on fire. This is normal for me. Since I can barely hit it out of the infield, my best chance at getting on base is to scare the crap out of the girl/guy at first so she/he drops it. This time it was a she. I either beat the throw or she dropped it, can't quite remember, but I made the boneheaded error of turning in toward the infield after I heard "Safe!", which I immediately realized made me a live base runner. I looked, and the girl had the ball, not quite sure what to do. I knew I couldn't return to 1st so I feigned a jog, stopped, looked to see if she would throw or chase, took two small steps, then broke into a full-on bull rush toward second. I gave the 2nd basewoman a crazy-person glare and slid - hard - coming to rest with my left hip on the bag. Safe! I tried to pop up, but my left shoulder wouldn't cooperate. When I slid, left hand down, my weight dropping back must have torqued my arm back and up. I could immediately tell I had aggravated an injury I got about 3 years ago...playing softball. And sliding always has another consequence for me - leg damage. I just can't do it right. I even wear pants in order to avoid major dirt-filled gouges, but sure enough, I could feel my knee had taken a pretty good beating. A couple batters later I scored, and I played the entire game in left, making a number of solid catches and no errors. This pleased me, but by the time I woke up Wednesday morning, I realized why most professional athletes peak around ages 26-30. I'm 29. I'm nearing the end.

The leg damage has been much worse in the past, and actually reminds me of a funny story. In my first year of co-ed, with my old church in Kentwood, MI, I slid into 2nd in shorts - again after getting caught in a base running predicament - leaving my skin behind from mid-shin to knee. I consulted with my mother, a trained nurse and, well, my mom, who recommended soaking the leg in epsom salts to help it heal faster. At the time I was living in this groovy tri-level that I rented with 3 buddies (Houseman!) which had a tub in the upper bathroom. The tub butted up against a dividing wall about 3' high, the toilet on the other side. The tub was never used, and thus had no curtain or door. Wearing a swimsuit, I soaked and soaked, and sloughed off dead skin and dirt and somehow didn't pass out. Standing at the divider end of the tub, with bandage and washcloth in each hand and my left leg propped on the edge, I began dressing my wound. Predictably, my foot slipped off the edge and with no hands free to brace myself, my forehead stopped my forward momentum on the countertop of the divider. So I'm standing there, soaking wet, leg like raw meat, forehead split and bleeding. I looked at myself in the mirror and found comfort in the fact that I had both bandages and a washcloth in my hands, and now had something to take my mind off my searing leg pain.

Anyway, I'm not really that clumsy or injury prone - except for when I fall going UP stairs (Murray will laugh at that one) - but I probably need to slow down at times.

I was going to write a Big Tuesday Part III, which was going to be about the Pistons game I watched on DVR. But they lost - and now they've won Game 2 which was awesome. So that's all I have to say about that.