Last week, my husband and I went to my nephew’s college baseball game. Baseball can be a slow game, and this one was turning out to be one of those. That, and the fact that nephew Chase is a relief pitcher so doesn’t usually play until the last couple of innings allows lots of time for one’s mind to wander.

As I sat in the nearly deserted stands at Jackie Robinson Stadium, across from the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, I started reminiscing about my athletic career and some of my proudest — or possibly most embarrassing? — moments.

I signed up for a women’s fast-pitch softball league in 1984 in Arizona. I emphasize the “fast pitch” designation because I want you to know this was not a game for prissies. I was thoroughly enjoying the process — practices that included throwing, batting, catching, infield practice, etc.

Our final practice before opening day of the season was on Labor Day. We were on the ball field and Coach Abe had moved me around to several spots, including catcher and third base. He was liking how I looked at third base. While he was batting around to those of us in the infield it became that time of day when the sun was directly in my eyes. Phoenix, September, and a third base facing west can be a deadly combination.

I said, “Hey, coach, the sun is directly in my eyes” (to quote myself). Be careful about where and how hard you’re hitting.”

Whoa, wrong thing to say. He yelled, “Quit your complaining!” Was I complaining? No, I merely wanted to apprise him of the fact that the sun was in my eyes, and that it was difficult to see the ball coming at me, especially at full speed.

WIth that, he hit the ball at that full speed toward third base. I could see nothing, but I felt the ball hit the tip of my shoe, shoot up my leg and through the bottom of my nose.

Blood spurted everywhere. I dropped my glove, fell to my knees, and grabbed my nose.

“Oh, God, are you all right?”, asked Coach Abe.

“Hell no, I’m not all right.” Why would he ask me that when it was clear that blood was gushing from my nose and I had fallen to my knees?

He stopped practice (thoughtfully) and someone escorted me over to the bench. Coach Abe didn’t really say much to me then, but his wife came over to try to soothe me. There were a few drama queens who played softball, but I had decided to not become one, so I was pretending to be very brave — except for that first “Hell no!” To tell the truth, everything became a bit surreal. I think I was in shock.

About a week later, I decided to see a doctor and then to get a nose job because the doctor said if I didn’t do anything about it, my nose would start to droop and continue to droop, along with everything else on my body, as I aged. The body was one thing; the nose was another.

I kept picturing Peter Sellers in one of the Pink Panther movies with a disguise that included a fake nose made of wax that started to melt when he held a candle too close to it. I didn’t want to look like Peter Sellers.

So I ended up on the IL — for those of you in the know, that’s the Injured List — or did I make that up?

I didn’t play that season. I had to heal.

But I went back next season. Different team, different coach, but they were all afraid of hurting me now, and to tell the truth, I was a bit gun-shy myself. They stuck me in right field when they did play me.

I played so far away from the action that I often had no idea what was going on and not that many balls came my way. Besides, we played most of the games at night, and I couldn’t see the ball coming out to the field in any case. I might as well have been in Timbuktu.

When I played, I got to bat, of course. That’s when I got a lot of helpful advice.

Things like:

Stand up in the box
Stand back in the box
Stand to the left; stand to the right
Face the pitcher more; turn your back a little to the pitcher.
Choke up on the bat
Don’t choke up on the bat so much
Hold your arms higher
Hold you arms lower
Crouch
Stand up straighter

I invented a little dance: I called it the Up in the Box; Back in the Box Dance that I only did at home……………when I was alone.

But there were a few moments of glory — very few.

Once when I was at bat, I got the “bunt” sign. Oh shit. I hadn’t practiced that. But as beginner’s luck would have it, I bunted beautifully. They watched the ball slowly roll along the first base line and stay INSIDE the line! The runner on third went home and scored, and I made it to first base safely.

I think they were so stunned that I had bunted safely they didn’t know how to react.

The next batter got a hit, and I ran to 2nd base.

Now, our power hitter was up to bat. She hit the ball very far out into the field. I charged toward third as fast as I could. Emphasis on the …fast as I could.

Wait a minute! The 3rd base coach was waving me around third to go home!

I freaked out but sped up. At least in my mind I sped up. (My friend once took a video of me running the bases, and it looked like I was running in slow motion even though I was feeling like like Flo-Jo.)

I made the turn at third and headed for home with the sound of cheering all around me, but I could sense the ball coming in from outer field.

Something in my body switched on, or was that “off”?; I threw myself headfirst across homeplate. I was SAFE!

The catcher was stunned — first, I imagine, by the sight of my body gracefully hurtling toward her and then the realization that I was actually going to slide. She got out of my way. and didn’t get close enough to tag me anyway.

My team came off the bench. I was exhilarated! My friend, Becky, who was playing center field on the opposing team told me afterwards she thought to herself, “Wow, Jeanie is really into this game!”

No one knew that none of it was planned; that my body was on its own and out of control and that my legs had turned into useless appendages.

Nevertheless.

I was safe at home, somewhat damaged, but so very proud.

The End