Like many baseball players who never played beyond high school, I gravitated towards slow-pitch softball as an adult. I started playing in my early twenties and continued playing for nearly fifty years.
My first team was Owego Street IGA (a supermarket chain) in Cortland, New York. I was an infielder in high school, so I loved that I got to play shortstop. I have always enjoyed defense more than offense, although I became a pretty decent slow-pitch hitter.
In my second year on the team, my manager selected me and a teammate to represent IGA in the All-Star game. I was surrounded by older players, most of whom had been in the league a long time and were seasoned slow-pitch guys. In my first at-bat, I lined a pitch down the left-field line that just kept on going on the fenceless field. I easily circled the bases for a home run. My next time up, I laced a long fly between the left and center fielders that went for a triple. In my final at bat, I drilled a single between short and third.
I played shortstop with my IGA teammate at second, and we turned a 6-4-3 double play. I was named the MVP of the All-Star game.
Let’s fast-forward. Fifteen years later, I’m in my late thirties and living in South San Francisco, California. I played third base for my brother-in-law’s slow-pitch team in the city’s league. The most memorable game was against a team called the Raiders. They were a bunch of pirates — swearing, unsmiling, shouting at the umps and everyone else — oozing evil with the personality of the Oakland Raiders football team.
If you know slow-pitch softball, you understand that it is usually a high-scoring affair. Hitting the high-arcing pitch takes practice, but it’s a lot easier than batting in fast-pitch softball. Most batters get the hang of it and place their hits where the fielders aren’t, ala Wee Willie Keeler’s “hit ’em where they ain’t!”
Generally, a lot of runs are scored, but (surprisingly) that was not the case in this game. We beat the Raiders 2-0, and they couldn’t believe it! The play I remember best is when I was stationed at third base. A Raider hit a vicious line drive to my right, so fast that I barely saw it. But I instinctively reached across my body and backhanded it. I can still see it.
Now, let’s move forward another 20-plus years to the time I was 59 years old. Still living in South San Francisco, I played third base for our church’s team, which was in a league in the neighboring town of Brisbane. It wasn’t a church league, which can conjure the image of not very good softball (not always true). This one was a pretty competitive league.
My wife and I had been on vacation in England, so I had missed the last few league games, but our team progressed in the playoffs, and I got back just in time to play in the championship game.
At a crucial moment in the game, we were staging a rally. There were two outs, and a man was on third base. I hit a groundball in the hole at shortstop and ran as fast as I could, knowing that if I could reach first base safely, the run would count. I crossed the base and half a second later heard the ball plunk into the first baseman’s mitt. “Safe!” the umpire correctly called! The run scored, and we went on to win the game and the championship.
I later asked my teammates, “What happened? Did the shortstop bobble the ball?” They said no, he fielded it cleanly, and I just beat it out. I need to point out that I am not very fast. It was just my hustle out of the batter’s box and down the line that had somehow beaten the throw.
On the move again (in time, I mean), let’s move ahead another 11 years, when I turned 70. Now living in Martinez, California, our church fielded a team to play in the local church league, which was very competitive. We weren’t great, but we had a lot of fun. In my first year on the team, I was playing first base with a runner on first.
In one game, the batter bounced a ground ball far to my right. I knew if I could cut it off instead of letting it reach the second baseman, I could throw out the runner on a force play at second base. I caught up to the ball and backhanded it, but my lunge caused me to start falling to the ground. As I fell, I transferred the ball to my right hand and managed to throw it to the shortstop covering second base as I crashed to the ground. Out at second!
My teammates, not accustomed to seeing 70-year-olds diving on the ground, gave me a huge ovation.
I played one more year. We improved in that second year, making the playoffs and winning one game before being eliminated. I was playing first base in one of those games.
The batter hit a blistering one-hopper right at me. I had learned when playing third base that you need to keep the ball in front of you, even if you don’t make a clean catch. So I got down on one knee, and the ball caromed off my wrist, a few feet in front of me. I picked it up and stepped on first for the out. Our manager commended me in the dugout.
I hung up my spikes after that season. It’s challenging playing against players who are the age I was when I first started. But I still have plenty of memories over decades of play.
