Those Fabulous Moments. . .
Ok, I don't like to brag. Well . . . sometimes I do. Mostly I just get excited on the rare occassions when something cool happens and someone else witnesses it, that I just have to spout a bit more about it. Last night was one of those moments. It was worthy of the highlights reel.

During my several year career of co-ed, just-for-fun softball, I've managed to be a decent asset to the team, more often than not. I also have moments in which my glove should be revoked, and I should be pummeled with the bat. But generally, I'm consistently not a bad player.

I've also never played anywhere in the field except second base, except for a few rare occassions of being stuck in the outfield. I'm great at second base. It is understood that second base is not to be messed with or changed up in any way. That's my spot, if you want anything good out of me. I can usually be counted on to come through for the team, at second base. That base is revered as my place on the team. No one tries to take it from me, and I offer it to no one.

Last night, our coach got a little whimsical and changed up the infield a bit. He decided to be adventuresome and strategically place me at third base. Third base?? What's the strategy there? I wasn't even aware that there were more bases past second base, my home, my calling, my world. I thought everything ended at second base, the center of my softball universe. What was he thinking?? Immediately I consulted with first base, who was usually our third base or fantastic right fielder, and she and I agreed that no good could come of this switch up. She was in a new spot, I was in a new spot. And together we were supposed to make these new spots work out well. No good could come.

I only know how to turn plays from second base. I can catch pop flies, stop grounders (most of the time), and cover second base. I've even been known to turn a double play with the short stop and first base, on more than one occassion. Third base was a whole new world. It's on the complete other side of the infield! Throwing to first base from third base added extra length to the throw, and this was sure to cause me to fall short of the distance, and look like a wimp. I was very, very uneasy about the whole thing. I just can't throw far, accurately. How can I be a star on the team if I can't throw the ball far enough to make any good plays?? I felt my nearly perfect season was in severe jeopardy. I was worried.

My inner 'Rainman' came out in full force. Change is not my friend. I whined. A lot. I tried to convince the coach to switch me back to my usual spot. I tried to be cute, and play on his sympathy that I'm a girl and I need to be at second base because I'm cutest at that spot. It was calling my name! Second base needs me! He just kept saying he put me at third for a reason, and to go with it. He's always so calm. I don't quite know what to do with that.

Well, the game started. The first hit was a short fly ball, in my direction. Or maybe to the short stop, being played by our calm coach. We both went for it, and being so out of my element, I was too distracted with getting my bearings on the field to think to call it. He didn't call it, either. But luckily we didn't run into each other, and he caught it. I could feel the impending doom of a game frought with errors for me, a second base girl out of place. So far, I'm not impressing anyone.

The second batter stood at the plate, and again, hit a ball in my direction. Did they know I have no idea what I'm doing at third base? Are they targeting me? I apparently didn't waste too much time thinking through these issues, because I watched the ball come right towards me, and into my glove. No problem. Out number two.

Hmmm. Maybe I'll be okay at third base after all . . .

Then came the third batter. I remembered him from seasons past. He's a big dude, able to literally kill the ball in a single swipe. And he's usually quite angry and intense, which only succeeds in propelling the ball even further out into the field, and with great power and velocity. He previously had a hefty mullet haircut to go along with his hefty size, but for this season he'd trimmed the 'do into a lesser mullet. This may have been his downfall, because his time as Mighty Mullet was soon to be at an end, little did he suspect. Or any of us, for that matter.

Before I knew what was happening, he swung and launched the ball . . . right at me. I never even saw him swing. In a moment of pure reflex, as I heard a noise and noticed the spherical object hurtling straight at my chest at a speed no less than 108 thousand miles per hour, I quickly opened my glove in front of my chest, and hung on for dear life. Somehow, I didn't flinch or freak out, and the ball drove right into the glove . . . and stayed there. I caught it! And I even managed to look like I meant to catch it! Mighty Mullet was obviously trying to kill me with this torpedo aimed for my heart, but I swiftly averted death by chest impailment, stopped his line drive, and silenced his entire team in the process.

My team, however, went nuts. They erupted in cheering, screaming, and exclamations of pure shock that I was still standing from the force of his attack. After a full moment of shock, I realized that my hand, in the glove, was still grasping the ball tightly. And after another moment, I released the ball, threw it to the pitcher, and further realized that my hand was in a tremendous amount of pain. Oh, dear God, the pain. But Mighty Mullet being the last out, I decided I deserved a break, and I promptly headed to the dugout, with my team following excitedly behind me. I'd succeeded in helping my team give a strong showing for the first few minutes of the game. Woo-diddly-hoo!

I was mauled by my team. One guy attacked me in a big bear hug of excitement, which incidentally, I didn't mind at all. They were so excited for me! They were even proud of me! I've made good plays before, but this one seemed to be extra special, for some reason. Could it be because I whined so much about being stuck at third, yet my coach seemed to obviously know best by putting me there, and I should in the future just shut up and play? Nooo. . .

Once I figured out that my hand was still attached to my arm, and in fact, not even broken into millions of tiny little pieces, I was excited, too! I was shaking and needing to sit for a moment to gather my wits, but I was excited. After all, death by softball had just been averted. I was congratulated, high-fived (using my other good, non-throbbing hand), and the focus of attention for at least a full minute. I was a hero.

Then I realized what I'd just done. I'd made two outs in the first inning, which meant I had set the bar for my playing at an extremely high level for the rest of the game. I couldn't very well go out there and suck for the rest of the game. My team now had the expectation that I'd be a star for the rest of the game, and the other team now saw me as a huge threat. Oh, dear God, the pressure!

Hmmm. Being a star is nice and all, but I was now ready to go home. I'd made a good showing, and much like George Constanza from Seinfeld, I was ready to go out on a high note. I only have so much good softball playing in me per game. If I use it all up in the first inning, well, it's usually downhill from there. I was set to disappoint for the rest of the game. And, I had an angry Mighty-less Mullet man with an entire game to try and kill me again. Again, no good can come from this. But at least I'd conquered third base.

However, apparently it was just my night. I continued playing well, which was a shock more to me than anyone else. I'd had a good season so far. Better than most of my seasons. But I fully expected to start sucking at any moment, running out of my good softball playing, as usual. Alas, it seemed I was to continue with a great season, and a great game for the rest of the evening. I had three great hits at bat. Beautiful balls that soared over the heads of the infield, dropping nicely right in front of the outfield. I knocked in two runs, out of our four runs for the game. I made another out at third base, before our coach switched things up again and moved me back to my home at second base. I didn't care. I now have two homes on the field, as far as I'm concerned. And our coach is very, very wise.

We lost the game, but it was a good game for us. We all played well. For me, it was one of my best personal games ever. The other team actually congratulated me quite a bit on my fabulous catch, and my excellent hits. Even Mighty-less Mullet congratulated me, which I took as a great honor. I went home smiling. And in search of ice for my hand.

Play me where you need me, coach. I will not whine again.

But I make no promises to be as fabulous next week, or ever again.

C.T.