7-26-02, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb
The Ballgame Changes with Age
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
The difference between playing ball when you are young, and playing ball when
you are, well, not as young, is the TALK. In the old days, the high school and
before glory years; all the talk was of victory. Winning. Scoring. Mega-hits and
super plays. These days, the talk in our family circulates around medical jargon
and injuries.
Last week, my
brother, the multi-talented Eric, came to town for a brief visit. He planned his
trip around a church softball game at my church. "Do you think they will
let me play?" He asked, eagerness tinging his voice. My brother, along with
my little sis, had been the shining apples of my father's eye when they were
young. While I was busy decorating the playhouse and writing really stupid plays
for the neighborhood kids to put on; my brother and sister were hitting home
runs in the All-Star games. When I joined the ranks of the baseball playing
Traynors, my best season resembled a nightmare downslide for either of them. My
brother, like my father before him, REALLY likes to play ball. So participating
in a church softball game sounded like Eric's idea of a great day.
"I am sure
they will." I said, looking at my brother who had bloomed from his skinny
auburn headed high school self into a huge hulking presence of a man in his late
thirties. One look at his tree trunk arms and the other team would go running
for the far outreaches of the outfield, I thought to myself.
As for myself, I
have learned that the best church softball games are the ones in which I do not
have to participate. Since women are, as a rule, scarce, it usually happens that
no matter how much I protest, Coach Hayes will be calling me to the field. Once
there, I spend all my energies trying to avoid getting hurt in any manner. If
that means jumping OVER a line drive to avoid getting a bruise, then so be it.
If staying well involves a weak throw to first so that one of my ten perfect
nails do not break; well, the team has become used to such actions.
Luckily for me,
the night in question the team was crawling with eager women who seemed not to
mind at all the prospect of getting hurt. I was able to sit in the bleachers
with the cheering crowd, and watch my brother as he took left field. The first
fly ball he caught was done so with ease, and it seemed as if time had not
changed a thing for the former Little League All-Star. The second fly ball,
however, brought with it DANGER, and he had to run an impossible (to me)
distance, only to dive and fall, holding up his glove; victorious, as he caught
the ball.
During the game,
he managed to catch any and all balls in his direction, and to secure two
impressive doubles. It seemed that he still had the old magic. Until his playing
time was up, and he limped off the field.
"Oh,"
he said in my direction, "I think I pulled my hamstring."
"That
diving catch?" I asked, knowing full well that I would have stood there,
100 feet back and let the ball drop to safety, keeping my muscles intact for
another day.
"Oh,
yeah." He moaned. "Oh, my hammy!"
When we returned
to my home, my husband, who was out of town on business called to check up on
the progress of the game. We were happy to report that we had won, partly in
thanks to Eric's contribution on the field, 20-4. "But, " I told my
husband, "Eric had to make a diving catch and he pulled his
hamstring."
"Tell him
that last year I had to make a diving catch and I pulled my hamstring and hit
the vagal nerve and I passed out cold on the field." My husband relayed.
"Man."
My brother empathized. "I didn't pass out, but I wish I could have; it hurt
so bad." The two continued to trade sports injury stories, via me,
including my husband cracked ribs during soccer games and my brother's assorted
torn muscles and skin.
Finally, I could
stand it no longer. "I don't understand why you guys want to play!" I
screamed into the mouthpiece of the phone. "All you do is get hurt these
days!"
"But it's
so fun!" My brother piped. "I've got to get me on a softball team back
home; right away." He limped into the kitchen, moaning
about his "hammy" as he drug his bad leg behind him, apparently
imagining the joys of playing another day just to tear another muscle or perhaps
even break a bone.
"I can't
wait until I get back." My husband was bitter at having had to miss an
opportunity to wrench another body part into oblivion. "Next week, I
am going to do awesome." I imagined as he spoke the subsequent injuries of
his actions; the previous week he had stretched a double into a triple; sliding
into third and losing most of his thigh skin in the process. His leg had seeped
for days through his pants and he wore the injury like I would wear an
exceptional pair of earrings; with pride.
The game has
certainly changed from when we were young.