It was the bottom of the seventh inning.
In Major League Baseball terms, the bottom of the seventh does not typically hold a lot of drama. At RFK stadium, the bottom of the seventh signals two things:
1. Vendors stop selling beer.
2. Spectators think about how they're going to beat the traffic home.
But this was the Congressional Softball League. And in the CSL, the bottom of the seventh is always a pretty big deal, not just because the games only go seven innings, but also because a softball team
always has a chance to win. Ten-run innings are not unheard of. And by the bottom of the seventh, most of the defense is usually pretty drunk anyway.
I was playing with the Red Tape
*, a government agency team with uniforms and bases and everything. I did not have a uniform, since I had been recruited from a free agent list just a few weeks earlier, when they were short on players.
(My usual team, the Softball Questions
*, a private company team for whom I had played the last few years, was somewhat less formal in their approach. They did have a set of cones (which represented bases) and t-shirts, although the company's dedication to the team was so lackluster that we frequently had to round up distant acquaintances, long-lost relatives and the occasional homeless person. The Questions suffered from a severe lack of morale, partially because they had won about three games in three years, but also because the aforementioned t-shirts were so hideously ugly that, in many cases, they actually served as a competitive advantage by inducing our opponents to double over with eye pain.)
But the Red Tape was serious about its softball. Innings and positional rotations were heavily scrutinized. Wins and losses – and playoff eligibility – mattered. The manager, an imposing and intense young woman, could often be seen stomping up and down the baseline, cursing at the opposing players and screaming out directions to her team. And that was when we were
ahead.
Now it's Wednesday, July 21, 2004, in the bottom of the seventh, and we're behind. We had been up three runs going into the top of the seventh, but then a hulking behemoth on the other team (I swear I thought I saw him swat away a helicopter) smacked a three-run homer and our defense let another run trickle in. Down by a run, we need one to tie, two to win.
I'm up fourth in the inning. I'm sort of glad that we're down; if the other team hadn't eked ahead, we would have won the game and gone home. This way, I have a chance at another at-bat.
The skipper had me at designated hitter that night; I hate being the DH, because I like being on the field and in the action. But on this team I am an outsider, and the team prefers to give precedence to people who actually work in the office and who can be referred to by first name. Besides, in the previous week's game I had started at third base and made an error, and our scorekeeper, who is in cahoots with the manager and who dislikes me because I look cuter in my athletic shorts than she does, got me benched for the rest of the game.
As the fourth batter of the inning, there's no assurance that I'll even get to the plate. But I'm eager and nervous, so I grab a bat and start loosening up. The truth is, all of our runs had come early, and their current pitcher was shutting us down.
Leading off the inning, Player No. 1 hits the first pitch hard, really hard, stinging a line drive down the third base line. You can tell when the ball is hit in the sweet part of the bat; the sound is more like a "thud" than a "ping," and the batter's motion is smooth, without the jarring twang of vibrating aluminum. Everyone on the Red Tape baseline breathes in, preparing to cheer.
But the "thud" is quickly followed by the "snap" of leather. The barely-mobile third baseman, who physically resembles a Sherman Tank, somehow snares the ball out of mid-air. The cheers turn to sighs. One out.
Player No. 2 digs into the batter's box. He takes a few pitches, all low. Their pitcher has been serving the ball in the dirt all night, getting batters to pound the ball into the ground or chase high ones for flyouts. No. 2 is patient, though, and gets a knee-high pitch over the plate. He swings, sending it to deep centerfield, and starts sprinting around the bases.
Sprinting across the outfield, though, is their centerfielder, a dark streak of wiry limbs and wind-whipped black hair. He had been coming out of nowhere to shag flies all night, and now a sure hit settles helplessly into the centerfielder's glove. Our sideline is grumbling now. Two outs.
I'm grumbling because this means I'm probably not going to get my at-bat. And in the on-deck circle, I'm gripping the bat tightly now, strangling the life out of it.
Player No. 3, our last hope, comes to the plate. "Be patient," I think at him. "Wait for a good one." He swings at the first pitch. It's a sharp grounder to the left side of the infield, deep in the hole. The shortstop ranges to his right and picks the ball from the grass, whirls and fires to first. Bam-bam-bam. He has No. 3 by a step.
But the first baseman drops the ball. It clanks against his glove and falls to the ground like a crabapple. Safe. The Red Tape sideline exhales as one. They're probably thinking, "Okay, we're not done yet. We have a chance. Who's up next?"
It's me. I walk slowly to the plate, although my heart is firing like a howitzer under my jersey. I would probably be able to hear it, but for the chatter coming from both sidelines. Everyone is on their feet now, yelling. I hear a lot of non-specific encouragement from my sideline, probably because nobody knows my name yet.
I wasn't lacking for confidence, necessarily, but all the attention was making me nervous. I was a lowly zero-for-three on the day, with a popout, a flyout and a groundout. I was running out of ways to get out, and if the skipper watches me take the collar with the game on the line, she's liable to have me drawn and quartered.
The first pitch is tight, inside. I lay off. The second pitch doesn't make it to the plate, and rolls to the catcher. More of this low shit. I scoot up a little in the batter's box and bend my knees a little deeper, lowering my strike zone.
I look at the eyes of the pitcher, this stringy, mustachioed motherfucker. I can see that he's sweaty and tired, and he just wants to get me out and walk off the field. He's nervous. And I know right then that I have him, and I smile, just a little bit.
I get a belt-high pitch and swing hard, driving it to the gap in left-center. It sails just beyond the reach of the leftfielder and past the streaky sonofabitch in center. I'm slow out of the box, because I was watching the flight path, but as I gain steam around first and second base I see the ball it dribbling deeper into the outfield. For a second I manage to focus my eyes on the third-base coach: he's waving me in.
As I make the turn around third, I see Jose ramble across the plate. As I chug down the line, I can feel the softball getting closer to me. The relay throw gets to the catcher about the same time I do, and before she can tag me, I touch home plate. Safe, game over.
Immediately I was engulfed by my teammates; I was hoping that they would lift me up and carry me on their shoulders, a la the sports heroes of Hollywood lore. But instead we did the group jump-around, with people patting my head and offering more non-specific cheers. ("Way to go, you!", "Hooray for teammate!", "All right, bald guy!")
It's softball season again in the Nation's Capital, and I'm playing my first game tonight. It will be fine with me if I never have a moment like that again, but I at least hope a few people will remember my name. Or at least call me "Hero."
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