BASEBALL
I'm glad I played baseball when I was little, otherwise I'd have missed learning a lot of things that served me well later.
Things like don't put your head up when someone says, "Heads up," don't misjudge, and don't speak softly unless you carry a big stick are important. Also, it's better if you don't learn them all the hard way.
I also found how events seem slow-motion just before an accident, how to treat a black eye and why not to play catcher without a face mask. Good tips all.
And everyone was right about sports developing fair play. Teams were extremely fair about picking me for their side. "You take him." "No, you take him!" "No, you take him!" It brings a lump to my throat yet.
Also, team sports have a definite advantage over individual sports because your teammates give you encouragement. They pushed me (though sometimes literally) to set lofty goals and reach them.
Take, for instance, catching a fly ball without getting hit in the face, picking up a grounder without getting hit in the face and sitting in the dugout without getting hit in the face. Darn foul balls.
I achieved all these goals during my career. And my teammates were there to give me a cheer, it being beside the point what kind of cheer.
Not that I couldn't hit. It's just that their standards were so strict. What's wrong with close?
I even pitched once, to some effect. After what happened to the first hitter, no one on the other team wanted to bat. It's amazing the power you gain by throwing a baseball as hard as you can right past someone. Especially when your control's not so good. (At least it's points in my favor for all the religious conversions.)
I know the umpire was amazed. He said I was in a different league altogether - though he mumbled which one exactly - just before he threw me out of the game. It was high praise.
But my ultimate goal was one I had to keep to myself, mainly because my teammates were already prone to laughing at odd moments. I wanted to hit a home run.
Yet it kept eluding me. One time I did hit the centerfield fence. When I was running to catch someone else's fly ball. After I came to, they told me that didn't count.
Eventually, I had to give up my baseball career without hitting a home run. It was a bummer, but I think it was for the best. The fun had gone out of baseball. Once you leave the Little Leagues, it gets so demanding: "Hurry up with that water!" "Where's my bat?" "Wake up!"
No, it was time for a change.
So I switched to slowpitch softball, which proved a lot of fun. I could use everything I learned in baseball, and the softball team said I could play a lot more, too. Luckily I already knew how often there's a blue moon.
In softball, I continued my quest to hit a home run. But it proved even harder than in baseball. A softball moves slower and weighs more. So I began to fear I'd never hit it out, almost as much as I now fear a gas-station attendant say, "Fill it up?"
Thus I was willing to turn to any solution. That, of course, leads inevitably to one of two possible ends: psychology or infomercials. I picked psychology. (Though it was a close call).
I decided the power of positive thinking from sports psychology was just the ticket. That's how I'd hit a softball over the fence and take my long-awaited trot around the bases.
That is, if I wasn't too fat to make it. (The only thing better than winning at slowpitch softball is commiserating with the losers afterward around the keg.)
