Best Day In Sports Rough Draft

You would be hard pressed to find a day where I even moderately enjoyed playing a sport. The problem was not that I was unathletic. Quite the contrary, as ballet had assured that my body from ages seven to about fourteen was finely muscled and taut and that my endurance was nothing to scoff at. I simply lacked, among other things, the competitive streak necessary to enjoy and succeed in sports. I was a quiet, creative child. I lived for art class, visits to the library, and choir performances. I dreaded track and field day, the capture the flag games everyone loved to play during recess, and any P.E. unit other than gymnastics and line dancing. While the other kids whined and complained about having recess indoors, I relished it because it meant that I could sit quietly at my desk and read a book. My point is, the ratio of bad sports days to good sports days is about 203:1. This is the story of that one, singular good sports day.

When I was twelve, I had a ridiculous notion to join a softball team. My mom had played it when she was growing up in the suburbs of Houston and my dad,being from Chicago, was a long-suffering Cubs fan and played baseball all throughout his youth. It just made sense to carry on the family tradition. I, however, did not take into consideration that I hated sports, hated being outside for extended periods of time, and had the hand-eye coordination of a 100-year-old blind dog.

The first week of being on a softball team was the best. Granted, the only time I ever touched a ball or a glove that week was in the sporting goods store, practice hadn’t started yet. That day in the sporting goods store was the best day I ever had in sports. I hadn’t realized I hated softball yet. Everything was still ripe with excitement, every piece of equipment I piled into the shopping cart, from cleats that had the distinctive plastic-y smell of a new car to an aluminum bat that glowed with a steely sheen, seemed to radiate promise and opportunity. I got black knee length pants and purple stirrup socks to match my brand new jersey and visor, both of which had “Lady Pumas #9” proudly emblazoned in white on both the front and the back. My new glove was Wilson brand and left handed. My cleats had a flashy, girlish, baby pink swoop splashed across each side. I was prepared.

Prepared for hell, that is. The next week I found softball to be hot, sticky, grueling work that I absolutely had no patience for. I never played any position other than outfield, never hit a ball, and quit as soon as the season was over.