Watching Baseball, Playing Softball

by Lubby Juggins
1
We watch baseball: it's what we have always imagined life should be like. We play softball.
It's sloppythe way life really is. I figured that out a long time ago, on a summer evening
when I was 13 years old and dying of shame in center field as our opponents touched us up
for 17 runs in the top half of the first inning.
Now, beer in fist, gaping at a blank TV screen as I wait for the first major league game of the
season, I'm trying to define just what it is I'm really waiting for.

2
Baseball, we know, is precise, ceremonial. It's a world bounded by foul lines, marked by
fixed positions. The playing field is neatly geometric, while the game itself is a linear
equation of batters retired and runs batted in. It begins with a song nobody can sing, and it
ends with hoarse whispers of "Maybe next year." The story of baseball is like some ancient
Greek myth: meet the enemy head on, tour the bases, and eventually head back home, there
to be greeted by friends who suddenly recall how much they have missed you. That's
baseball.
3
Now softball is something different. For one thing we play wherever we can, usually on
golden fields of dog patties and shattered glass, bounded by city streets and factory parking
lots. We start by choosing sides, arguing over who's to be stuck with Artie Magaffe, cross-
eyed and gimpy, and what we're going to use for home plate. We play until we get too rowdy
or the kids drag us home or we lose the ball somewhere between a dumpster and a security
fence. And whenever some complacent fool reminds us, "It's only a game, fellas," we come
close to lopping his head off because, of course, weknow it's a game. Why else would we take
it so seriously?
4
We watch baseball and imagine what it would be like to have the power of Mike Trout, Joey
Bats, and Big Papi. We play softball and remember that we're really more like Moe, Larry,
and Shemp. In baseball men are Giantsand Pirates and Tigers and Braves. In softball, at
best, we're lug wrenches and nuts in Warren's Electric & Hardware. Or, more often, we're just
beer-bellied slobs in Disney World t-shirts and Hooters caps. And while we imagine
grandstands thundering with fans, all we've got is a runny-nosed wino chasing unicorns in the
outfield, and Sammy's poor wife, squatting on the hood of their Honda, reading E. L.
James and picking her teeth.
5
Yet now, as I sit here glaring at the TV, I remember what it is we're all waiting for. That's
why I get up, wheezing slightly, go to the closet and root out a stiff old glove signed by
Nomar Garciaparra. The laces are missing and all the padding has been squeezed out through
a hole in the thumb. I follow my gut across a schoolyard diamondjackets for bases, a
Frisbee for home plateand I wander out to center field. In front of me a gaggle of obsolete
children are shagging, groaning, slapping their haunches, hollering "Way to go! Way to go!" I
crouch down with my hands on my knees and I wait. I wait for a lopsided ball to come
skidding or spinning or bounding my way. And, as ever, I will spend the afternoon fumbling
and bobbling and falling flat on my can. I play softball.

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