SEVENTH INNING STRETCH

“Easy sticker! Easy sticker! Swing, batter, swing!”

Ah, summer softball is back, and once again little kids are learning all about the agony of defeat and poor sportsmanship. At least that’s pretty much what I remember about the sport when I suited up in my formative years.

Back then, softball was played at a not-so-groomed diamond at the corner of 12th and Quincy in Fredonia. I was never star material, but I was reliable at the plate for a single or double, provided I hit the ball to someone who had a case of the butter fingers. The position I usually played was outfield, not because I was good at catching the ball but because I was a fast runner. I could chase after anything I missed and usually prevent a homerun, provided the ball wasn’t smacked all the way to 11th Street by some 6th grade girl on steroids.

My older brother Beans also played softball, but he was a lost cause. He was sort of chunky and slow, and he wore glasses, and I think he was afraid of getting hit in the face. Mom still has his ball glove enshrined in some cobwebby corner of the garage. The thumb is chewed off, a sad sign of his fear playing in right field. “Please, God, don’t make the ball come my way!”

I wish all this summer’s little leaguers an enjoyable and successful season. May no one make fun of you when you flub up, which you will, and may all your swings connect, which they won’t. And, when your team loses, a million to nothing, just forlornly slump back to the dugout and think of ol' Beans slurping on his wet ball glove 50 years ago, thinking, “This game bites!”

P.S. The Flaming Bore is off to Pittsburg and Noel, Mo. and will be out of service for the next three days.