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May 26, 2005
The Burden of Low Expectations
As a kid I enjoyed sports though I was not very good at them. I discovered in my thirties that adults have many more opportunities to play sports at an insignificant level and hence enjoy them for their own sake, rather than for glory. Glory certainly factors into the equation at even the lowest levels of competition, but it is the ephemeral sort of making one incredible play that the people present might remember the following week.
I have been worried the past week or so that I will be unable to find work in Albuquerque. I should not have to worry much, since I have never had to struggle much to find a job. And once in the job, I seem to stick around until (a) something better comes along or (b) I get promoted. But the very worst way to find a job, it seems, is to go out looking. And so I worry that I am underqualified for interesting jobs and overqualified (and will be bored out of my mind) with a menial job.
I was not expecting to play softball at all last night, for it had been raining lightly but steadily the entire day. But the field was playable, and the after the first inning or so we were able to remove our rainjackets and play some ball. It would not surprise me to learn that all softball teams are bunches of misfits, but we certainly seem to be so. No one on our team "wears the pants," meaning the sliding pants that "hardcore" American batting sports types wear. Many of us wear warm-up pants with giant tears from in them from the occasional sliding we do. Our opponents wore the pants, although they had weak center and right fielders and an 0-5 record.
Before the first at-bat (this year and for some reason unknown to me I have been moved from the bottom of the order to the top), I swung the bat loosely thinking of the admonition to follow the ball all the way to the bat rather than look away to where it is going. I hit the first pitch of the game up the left field line for a single. I was subsequently forced out at second. My second at-bat flied out to left field. The third at bat was a line drive over the glove of the shortstop, who had moved over to cover second). I advanced the runner to third. I was subsequently forced out at second again.
On my the fourth trip to the plate, runners were already at first and second. I hit a low pitch hard. It appeared to be going right to the left fielder. But she underestimated the speed of the ball, as I have done many many times. As I rounded first, I saw that it had sailed over her glove and she and the center fielder were running after it. In our league it almost always pays off to run the bases aggressively, since seldom are the most skilled players assigned to cover home plate. So I ran like hell around second and third, minding the slippery stretch that had already brought a teammate into the mud, forcing him to crawl up into a brief hotbox from which an errant throw released him home for a grand slam—probably the most highlight-reel event of the game. The throw arrived behind me and I was spared the necessity of sliding into home. Any season in which I hit one is a good one for me.
Every once in a while, your confidence gets a lift right when it needs one. In my case it appears to be about once every two years.
Posted by Underblog at May 26, 2005 6:31 AM
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