On Memorial Day, my family and I traveled back to the town in which we used to live, to play softball with friends we’ve known for over twenty years. These friends had invited other families to play as well, people we’d never met, and we all slipped into the rhythm of the game as neatly as a hand fits into a well-worn Spaulding glove.
In fact, our friend Gary has one such glove—his since second grade. Burned into its leather is the name of another boy (who shall remain nameless here) who snitched Gary’s glove way back when, back then, and, once caught, had to give it back. Gary’s name also figures multiple times on the glove, in various styles of script that no doubt depict different eras of his life. The leather looks burnished from years of use; it’s the rich color of honey and amber, all mottled together like the soft sepia wash of memory.
“Play ball!” someone said. And we did. We did.
When I was a girl, I loved playing catch in the backyard with my dad. “Throw it hard, no, harder!” I’d call, and my dad didn’t go easy on me; he threw that ball full force. Usually I caught it neatly, but once, the ball jammed my finger, which then swelled like a sausage. The purpled flesh looked ready to burst its taut casing of skin. Somehow, we got a splint, which I wore with pride. This was pre-Title Nine, and though I longed to be a real athlete, I didn’t think I had a cheerleader’s chance in h-e-double chopsticks. Turned out, I did have a cheerleader’s chance. I cheered for five long years. But always in the back of my mind, the best diamonds a girl could have were on the playing field.
On our first anniversary, I had a softball bat made from ash for my husband, Greg. (We brought this with us yesterday as well.) Burned into the wood are the words: Him who my soul loves, August 11, 1991. Greg likes playing softball, too. When he lived in New York, he was part of a league, and pitched regularly on one of the great fields of Central Park. Our first years of marriage, we joined a league together; we played ball with friends whenever we could. Greg now plays catch in the backyard with our son, who’s also on a team now, and who, pitching, has taken a direct hit to the nose (last year) and a hit to the shin (this). Hard knocks, yes, but Teo wields his black glove with gusto.
Yesterday, as always in our backyard, there were no teams; we didn’t keep score. We circled from field to bat, from first base to second. We got out. We came home. We circled again.
Round robin.
