Being a good sport at softball

People might assume a girl who tops 6 feet and has no apparent physical disabilities is good at sports, particularly basketball.

They wouldn't know that she could rebound pretty well but could not, under any circumstances, score a goal.

Or that, in volleyball, the ball was more likely to smack her between the eyes, leaving a temporary glasses imprint on her face, than to end up back over the net.

Or that, in tennis, her fair amount of arm strength would launch ball after ball over the fence and into a nearby ditch instead of over the net and onto the court.

Yes, that girl was me. I was always picked first by team captains in physical education -- the same team captains who later would shake their heads in disbelief and agonize over the foolishness of their choice.

So when some pals asked me to play on the company softball team, I figured it was more of the same: They assumed I could run, hit and catch like a person of average motor skills instead of like a sloth on barbiturates.

Ends up they knew I had problems with athletics -- my reputation preceded me from last year's company picnic. They only wanted me for my body.

That's right. They needed one more female body in order to have a full team. In the city-run softball league, each team must be sufficiently handicapped with an equal number of women.

If the team doesn't show up with five women, that empty position gets an out every time it shows up in the rotation.

So, after spending one game in the bleachers, I agreed out of guilt to join the team. Hey, if they were going to get one instant out every couple innings, at least I ought to be earning it.

My first game was rained out. I thanked the softball gods for saving me from the embarrassment and opening the way for me to attend the Smash Mouth concert.

(Note: Do not ever, EVER tell me no good bands come to Cape Girardeau and there's nothing to do around here. It was pitiful to see the Show Me Center set up for about 3,000 and have only 1,000 people in the audience for a band that had a hit -- "I'm a Believer" -- just last year.)

On Sunday, a guy from the softball team called me. "Hey, we're having a practice out at Arena Park," he said. "Come on out!"

When I got there, it was me, the caller and one other male teammate.

There was no practice. This was a tutoring session just for me.

We took over the most remote field -- the one with relatively tall grass right next to Cape La Croix Creek.

"Let's see if you can hit," one teammate said.

I'm usually good for a single maybe once a game, but that's if the fielding is slow enough that I can haul my giant butt from home to first base.

"OK. Good. Let's see if you can catch," he said.

I was provided a glove only recently outgrown by a 10-year-old boy. It had a catching area roughly the size of a CD.

"Try a grounder!" he yelled. He tossed the ball over his head and hit it toward me.

It rolled between my legs.

"Try a fly ball!" he yelled, popping one up. I crouched down and covered my head with my arms as the ball kerplopped a couple feet away.

My teammates shook their heads like the kids used to do back at Sikeston Middle School.

The next game loomed Tuesday. It wasn't rained out as of 5:15 p.m.

But when I showed up at 7:45 p.m., no one was there but a few of my teammates, all rained upon and dejected.

"Wanna toss it around?" one asked quietly.

We stood in the damp, freshly mowed field, turning our sneakers green and getting eaten alive by mosquitos, the sun setting in the distance.

But before dark, I caught my first fly ball. It took me 32 years.

Hey. Does that make me too old for the Olympics?

Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.