We want a single, just a little single...

Last Friday evening I found myself with twenty minutes to spare before I had to report backstage for my performance. It was a perfect spring night--warmth still emitting from the setting sun and that sweet, lazy smell of the air ripe with growth and the onset of summer. This outdoor ambiance is probably what drew me to the softball fields behind the community center, where I happily took a seat on the stands to watch a few innings of the local girls softball game.

I would guess that the girls were around eight or nine years old, judging from their stature and the typical fielding errors that plagued the defense. A throw from the shortstop gets by the first basemen, an easy out at third goes unmade as the base is left uncovered, a soft fly ball taps a glove but ends with that disappointing plop into the sand. I felt the infield's pain as the base runners crept steadily by, but knew that once that third out was achieved, their errors would be mirrored by the opposing side and they would have their turn to trot the diamond. I had, after all, been there when I was their age and discovering my love for this sport. Watching them brought me swiftly back to my days on the field--the triumphs, the frustrations, the camaraderie, and the intangible contentment achieved from the most spectacular to the simplest moments during those nine innings.

If I try to pinpoint my earliest interaction with any softball paraphernalia, it would be watching my dad oil his mitt, place a ball inside, secure it with a rubber band, and store it in the dark recesses of our closet in order to successfully achieve the perfect "pocket." I loved the smell of the oil and the idea that in a few months the glove would emerge as an ideal specimen, ready for duty. I suppose I began actively playing the sport in our backyard, perched over our designated home plate armed with the big red wiffle bat. From there I graduated to t-ball and then around first or second grade to the "big leagues" when all the crutches were removed and we were on our own. But, I always had my dad by my side. From the first organized team I joined, he was my coach, faithfully heading up the team of girls and leading them as they found their way around the skills required of the game. I loved looking over to the sidelines from my perch at second base or shortstop and seeing my dad with the "Coach" t-shirt on. He made us laugh, made funny nicknames for my teammates, taught us how to take the game seriously but not take ourselves too seriously while playing it. His crowning achievement was my seventh grade year, when we steadily worked our way to the championship game, against our town's other team, our sworn rivals. It all came down to that final game, and when the final out was made, putting us on top 13-12, I felt like I had won the world. I was proud of myself and my team, but I think I was the most proud of my dad. He was able to take a team of girls with varying skill levels and find the right formula to send them to a victory. The indelible mark that my years as a softball player left on my heart owes its origin and endurance to my father--he is completely intertwined in my sweet memories of the sport.

When I reached high school, my involvement with softball intensified. I played on travelling summer and fall leagues, attended camps and of course, played for my high school. I loved donning that uniform, even if those synthetic knickers were ghastly hot. I loved crouching in the field with my Wootton Patriot Game hat on, (Game being the popular brand name for hats at the time), my last name embroidered on the back. Those years of softball competition are a swirl of senses and emotions for me. There's the firm, unyielding feel of a new pair of cleats; the satisfying cloud of infield dirt as it coats your skin, dusts your eyelids and sends little grits into your teeth as you safely slide into third. There's the smell of freshly cut grass and a cooler of Gatorade on ice; that settling aroma of a spring or summer's evening coming to a close as you work your way through the game, pitch by pitch. There's the clanking of bats and balls in the always heavy equipment bag, the murmur of family and friends on the bleachers, and the boisterous cheers of your teammates as you face the pitcher, or as you huddle at the pitcher's mound before an inning, shouting, "Three up, three down, don't let 'em get around." There's that burst of satisfaction as your bat connects squarely with the ball and line drives for a base hit, or the flutter of your stomach as that last pitch on a 3-2 count whizzes by and you finally hear "Ball 4!" There's the thrill when you feel the swift mechanics of your body as it springs into action towards a grounder, scoops it up and throws to first for an out; the fantastic joy of watching the game winning run streak across home plate at the bottom of the ninth, and the ensuing celebration.

I think what I loved most about softball was the slow, steady and concentrated pace at which the game was played; how you moved methodically through each inning, either chipping away at the other team's lead or building one of your own. I liked how precise each movement felt, how every girl on the team had her own distinct purpose. I loved having command of my own patch of the infield, and also looking back at my outfielders, trusting their skills in a different area of the field. I loved sharing the thrills and the disappointments with a group of girls that even if we weren't in the same group of friends, on the field we were each others support, a source of laughter, and providers of that buoyant spirit that comes from being part of a team. You always felt special, standing at bat as the girls chanted behind you, "Seven is her number, Carla is her name! And she is just one reason, we're gonna win this game."

So as I sat on the sidelines last week and listened to the girls tiny voices chant some of those same cheers, what I really heard was the sound of my childhood, and my adolescence, as experienced on the softball field. All the voices of those with whom I shared the field, singing, "We want a single, just a little single..."