At Least I Got to Third Base

August 10, 2006

I played softball last night. In the fifth inning, I was manning my usual position at third, when the batter skipped a hot grounder to my left. To my credit, I got in front of the ball. To my discredit, the ball hopped over my glove and hit me, instead.

Why did I miss the ball, you ask? Was it a bad hop? Was it because I was already thinking of doubling up the runner on first, before I secured the ball? Was it because I turned my head and squealed, ‘Eeeeeeeeee!!‘ when the ball neared?

I’ll leave that call to the historians. The answer probably lies somewhere in between.

“What’s worse than engaging in a passionate night of wild and acrobatic abandon, then forgetting about it?”

At any rate, I gathered the ball, threw to second, and forced the runner. My momentary flub cost us any chance of getting another out at first base, and also cost me a painful *thwack* on my left thigh, where the ball dinged me.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I also suffered what we male person types call a ‘brushing’, as the ball rattled around my crotchal region. There was contact with the delicates and unmentionables, but no direct hit. Still, it was one of those moments when you think to yourself:

‘Hrm, that hurts a little bit. In ten seconds, the pain will either go away, or drive me weeping to the ground in unbridled agony. I wonder which it’ll be?‘

This time, it went away. One game a couple of years ago, I wasn’t so lucky. For the next three months, I wore a frying pan as a ‘cup’. I couldn’t run very well, but dammit, I was protected.)

The upshot of my fielding foul-up is that I now have an angry, painful bruise on my upper inner left thigh, just a couple of inches below where the ‘rubber meets the road’, so to speak. I don’t notice it much when I’m sitting, but standing or walking brings the ouchie back to life. Each step is like a midget headbutting me hard in the leg, while chanting, ‘Watch the ball into the glove… watch the ball into the glove…‘.

(I like to take a lesson from every sports-related injury, when I can. It makes me a better player.

Also, I like to describe my injuries using scenarios involving midgets. It takes the edge off the pain. It’s like Bactine for the soul.

Poetic, no?)

The worst part of this particular welt is the location. Not because it’s a particuarly painful or a sensitive area, but because soreness in that region might usually be expected to develop from something much more interesting. So now, I stand up and feel the pain, and think:

‘Ouch. Man, what wild, kinky escapade was I on to hurt… oh, right. Softball. What was I thinking?‘

Terribly disappointing, to say the least. What’s worse than engaging in a passionate night of wild and acrobatic abandon, then forgetting about it? Not engaging in a passionate night of wild and acrobatic abandon, momentarily thinking that you might have, and then realizing that you didn’t. Bitches.

And what’s even worse than that?

When I went to bed last night, my thigh was already purpling up and swollen. As I hopped under the covers, my wife — reading in bed at the time — noticed the bruise peeking out the bottom of my boxers, and said:

‘Ouch. Man, what wild, kinky escapade were you on to hurt… oh, right. Softball. What was I thinking? G’night.‘

Clearly, my mystique has faded. Or more likely, was never all that mystiqious to begin with. I’m sure it’s healthy that she knows there’s only one way I’m likely to get bruised and sore outside the house — on a court or field, through my own athletic ineptitude.

Still. Doesn’t somebody have to believe that this monstrosity came from an activity where the gloves weren’t the only things made of leather, and the shin guards weren’t for sliding into second? Anyone? Bueller? Hello?