#17. Join a "non-competitive" sports team (but secretly play competitively). COMPLETED
I did it. Or rather, I'm doing it [no, not that - the list remember?]. You are reading the blog of the newest addition to the women's slow-pitch "twilight" league aka "softball for moms", of which there are three teams. My team, is the Short Stops. We certainly stopped short of using any form of creativity to carefully choose a winning team name. One that would instill fear in the women we faced. Why couldn't we have been the PMS'ers? Or Charlie's Hormonal Angels. Anything! But alas, I can't be expected to do all the thinking.
Our coach Larry is in his 80's, though you'd never know it. You know how Bob Barker is like 100? Well this guy is the Bob Barker of women's softball. Larry and his son, Gary (a young stud in his late 50's) spent two weeks teaching us gals the basics. How to throw (shoulder squared off facing the target), how to hit with the bat (don't forget to step forward with your leading foot!). It was a beautiful sight; a sea of white balls being womanhandled - a real "Bad News Bears" meets the "Mighty Ducks" kind of moment. Oddly enough you can get skilled with some basic instruction. But how the h*** did I not make the softball team in high school? Yes Mr. Stewart...I'm talking to you! Who knew I was such a gifted softballer. Ok, I had a feeling.
Picking up the lingo is taking a bit more time. I went around for days proudly announcing my position was "back catcher" ie. the person who catches the ball behind the person at bat.
[note to non-softballers...it's just called "catcher"].
[note to self...proudly announcing you're a back catcher results in sly smiles from guys].
On our last night of practise before starting our weekly scrimmages, we were taking turns catching fly-balls in the outfield. I was running to get into proper catching position but couldn't run fast enough to get under the ball. So what's a girl to do? I made a ballet-like leap through the air and yes...I caught the ball! Enjoyed cheers from teammates before realizing I'd torn a muscle and could barely walk. I attempted to continue on but got struck out twice because I couldn't run fast enough to first base. My son, Aidan, was my mini-crutch and had to lift my leg in and out of the car. Fade to rubbing A535 and downing anti-inflamatories.
I healed nicely in time for our first official game, against the Blue Jays (*not the real ones*). We lost 7-2. Slightly embarasing? Absolutely. But am I having fun? You betcha. Now it's time to kick some a**.