Love of softball

I'm what some would call an old fart. Not decrepit old, just not young. Some use the words more experienced. Some would say wise.

I don't care about the label that is applied to me by others. Youthfulness isn't defined by age. It isn't defined by energy. It is defined by state of mind. My grandfather was in his nineties when he died. He had a more youthful character than most people a third of his age.

Youthfulness is demonstrated in the desire to play games and tricks. I love to play games.

From a very early age, I loved the game of softball. I remember my first glove was emblazened with the Montreal Expos logo. As a kid, I would find a way to practice the sport in some way or another. A good game of catch, shagging fly balls, throwing balls against a building. The game has always been a part of my life.

When no one else would organize a team, I would do it. At thirteen, I organized games against my cousin's team in a nearby community. When my cousin couldn't put together a team, I would organize a game against the local women's team. Our team consisted of players aged 8 to 13. We were good enough to compete with the adult women.

Our team was made up of a bunch of friends. A bunch of like-minded kids who were trying to occupy their time in a community where social dangers were everywhere.

Looking back at those youthful days, I'm very proud of the kids I grew up with. Most of my friends have moved to different parts of the world. Softball brought us together. Life has torn us a part.

As my friends gave up the youthful game, I continue to play. Now in my forties, I play only once per week. It is my time. I'm in my glory on the diamond. Time stands still for a couple of hours as I relive my childhood on the field. Friends are different but the game is the same. 

It no longer matters if I win or lose. It should never have mattered but it did at one time.

Now a bunch of like minded old farts get together once per week to enjoy the passion of a game designed for youth.

I almost stopped playing this year when my son expressed interest in baseball. Unfortunately baseball was one night per week and it was on the same night as my softball night. As any good dad would do, I was ready to hang up the glove so he could enjoy the same wonderful game that I have always loved. Fortunately for me, he thought a hard ball being thrown at him was too scary this year.

So for one more year, I get to hit a ball, run around the bases with the ultimate goal of getting home safe.

There's something primal about that. Don't you think?