The Glory Day

Originally posted on 04/26/09.

The day dawned bright and sunny, the air charged with excitement.  It was the first day of softball practice for the Senior (over 55) Softball league and the first practice for him after a very long absence (20+ years).  It’s an active league.  The players arrive brattered and bandaged.  The teams sponsored by local pharmacies and chiropractors with an occasional pub thrown in the mix.

For several weeks leading up to the big day the internet had been scoured in search of the perfect 14", outfielder, slow-pitch softball glove (his original lost in one of our many moves).  Finally a decision was made and an order placed.  So keyed up over the new purchase he had it shipped to Nashville where we were visiting over Easter.  Upon arrival, the box was opened in the driveway and the new glove examined by its owner and the UPS man.  Both awarded it two thumbs up.  Several games of “catch” were scheduled in a bizarre turn of events that had the sons warming up the old man and giving him pointers.  He was pronounced…rusty.

In addition to the glove, new cleats were purchased.  In an effort to cover-up the lack of athletic activity in the past twenty years the shoes were worn in advance, dirt kicked onto the shiny toes.

At the prescribed time on this beautiful April morning he headed to the ball-park, new scuffed to perfection shoes on his feet and the soft feel of leather on his hand.  He was ready, but was he worthy? 

The story becomes a bit hazy from here but I will try my best to relay it to you as it happened.  The first trip to the outfield energized him.  He was twenty again, playing the game he loved so much in his younger years.  With the crack of a bat a high-flying ball was heading his direction.  Could he get it?  He knew that he could.  Waving off the center fielder he took off in a sprint and as the ball began its descent he knew what he had to do.  After all, he was one of the youngsters on the team, and had everything to prove.  Stretching those long Jimmy Stewart legs to their limit he reached out, invisioning the catch in his mind.  And with his arm extended beyond normal limits he made the catch.  When he dared look, the ball was cradled safely in the soft leather; the batter was out and the crowd was cheering. 

But wait, what was that horrible searing pain tearing through his left thigh?  Could it be?  I’m afraid so.  A torn hamstring.

The rookie has been benched.  Confined to his recliner, with ice and an ace bandage.  Wreathing in pain, all the while oiling his new glove.  Reliving the glory of one perfect, career ending catch.