Watching the news with the Little League World Series and the 12-year old young lady named, “Maddy,” I was reminded of my early softball career.
In elementary school, I learned the game of “touch-up” softball. (I think that’s what we called it?) It was always initiated after lunch. Proper digestion was not encouraged, as the first people out to the grass field after lunch “touched home plate,” and thus got to be pitcher, catcher, and the basemen in that order. Dawdling diners were in the outfield. I never minded the outfield with the dandelions providing entertainment. When I was the pitcher, I got the wind knocked out of me once and I was forever a skittish pitcher anyway.
In high school, I endeavored to play girls softball on the “town team.” I had an old mitt, probably from my great uncle Leo’s stash. I can still picture the moment in the outfield when the pop fly came to me. I caught it! The mitt did not. The stitching broke and the ball went straight through to the ground. I was mortified. I had no glove to finish the game.
I promptly took up tennis which did not require catching anything, and running was contained to a court.