This piece is in memory of my dad, who was my first and best softball coach and a dedicated Braves fan long before they won the World Series in 1995. As a kid, I would watch Braves games with him and Mom. He would be delighted to know that his team won again in 2021--and on the same day as his and Mom’s wedding anniversary, no less. Bravo, Braves!
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Sweat on my brow, softball glove on my hand, and a wad of pink Dubble Bubble gum in my mouth: this was heaven for me as a young teen. Even though I was usually very particular about how I looked, when I stepped onto the softball field, I didn’t care that the hot nylon cap was smushing my hair or the jersey was an ugly green. I played my heart out for my team, my dad and mom, and myself.
Softball was more than a summer pasttime to me. It was the highlight.
Our family loved softball. When I was little, Dad started and coached the girls’ team at church. My older sister, a tiny spitfire, made an intense and fearless shortstop and second baseman and ran like the wind. My mom, also a spitfire, played third base for the women’s team like she was born to do it. The three of them would throw and hit the ball in the back yard. Our short-haired dachshund Fritzi and I would watch them until I finally got big enough to catch the ball and hold a bat. Then Fritzi was on his own.
In those days, I would beg my parents or my sister to “play pitch” with me. I couldn’t wait to practice because it was so fun. Along the way, I learned to hit the ball, catch grounders, and throw it further and further. My “arm” earned me a place on 3rd base, like Mom, because I was the only girl on the team who could get the ball from 3rd to 1st.
My love for the game started with my family in the back yard, and as I grew in my skills, I learned lifelong lessons about life.
Do Your Best.
When I put on my uniform each week, I wanted to do my best. I gave it my all in the batter’s box. If I got on base, I ran hard. I tried to make every throw count. But sometimes I had a bad game: I overthrew 1st base, missed a foul ball, struck out. More than once, I went to my parents in tears. They reminded me that everyone has a bad game occasionally and doing my best was the best I could do. Next week would be better, they assured me. It’s all part of the game—and of learning and growing in life.
Listen to Your Coaches.
My teammates and I learned quickly to listen to Dad and our other coaches. “Keep your eye on the ball” was a familiar refrain for both hitting and fielding. “Don’t swing at the first pitch” was another, especially if the opposing pitcher couldn’t find the strike zone. “Run hard” reminded us to go full speed to 1st base even if we hit a blooper. After all, the other team might bobble the ball or overthrow the base, allowing us to get on and maybe eventually score. Those coach-y phrases still come back to me whenever I watch a game now.
Support Your Teammates.
One year, my dad added a girl to our roster who clearly didn’t want to play, but her parents made her. They felt she needed exercise and fresh air. In practice—and in life—she moved in slow motion; I’d never seen her run or even walk very fast. And yet, because every girl on my dad’s team would play at least part of every game, there she stood in right field, glove dangling from her hand.
Then it happened: a pop fly to the outfield. A gasp rippled through the small crowd behind our team bench as everyone realized the ball was heading straight for her. We hoped desperately that she would catch it somehow, but instead, she sauntered out of the way. The ball hit the ground and rolled a mile before our center fielder finally hauled it in.
I laugh now but back then, I rolled my eyes and snorted with frustration. But knowing how embarrassing it was to miss a ball or make an error, I swallowed whatever words I wanted to say. After all, she was a member of our team, and Dad had taught us to support and encourage each other.
Be a Good Sport.
Our older girls’ team went undefeated two years in a row. We got used to winning and learned to handle it well. Our coaches, my dad especially, set the example by modeling humility and treating other teams and coaches with respect. But I’ve been on teams where we were outmatched, the runs kept adding up, and we got trounced. Regardless of a game’s outcome, I learned the value of winning and losing gracefully. That lesson has stayed with me all these years off the field.
On those hot and humid summer evenings, I played ball for the pure fun of it. Just the opportunity to be on that field, feeling the ball hit my glove, or my bat hit the ball, or the adrenaline pump through me when I made a play. But I might never have had that fun, or learned those lessons, if my parents hadn’t taken the time to play with my sister and me, if my dad had not stepped up to coach a bunch of little girls who didn’t even know what a glove was. So, thanks, Dad. I miss you. And in case the news hasn’t reached heaven yet, the Braves won.
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Fence and field photo courtesy of Frankie Lopez | Unsplash
Base photo courtesy of NeONBRAND | Unsplash
Ball in grass photo courtesy of superloop | Unsplash
Ball and glove photo courtesy of Ben Hershey | Unsplash