As few as three players may lay claim to an entire ballfield, leaving to wait other knots of men and of women who cannot wait for the season to begin. A pitcher lobs fat ones, trying to find the plate and a hitter whose timing is not down lifts fly balls into short left field where they glance off a fielder's glove. Outside the lines, rosters have come together, shirt sizes have been recorded and numbers reserved. Today, a soft layer of dirt covers the infield, slowing grounders, but, like snow, it will recede, absorbed by the earth as the season nears. I am among the early arrivals for this is the best, most relaxed time of the year, the weeks before the first lineup card is filled out.
Players drift toward the fields out of love of the game.
Competitive fires merely flicker as acquaintances are renewed and all resolve that, this year, no one will forget to have fun out there. I had left softball behind for almost two decades when, three years ago, a buddy tempted me back and a closely knit team of seasoned players and the game, itself, created a spot for me, welcomed me back. Today, I rediscover that batting practice forces from consciousness everything but two simple vectors, the arc of the pitched ball and the path of the bat. And, when that sweet collision occurs, when the fat part of the Easton ConneXion kisses the red-stitched orb, even aging, unsentimental men smile. Ah, this is my spring break.