One of my idiosyncratic softball codes is a sort of "no-bragging" rule. If someone asks me if I’m good, I say "yes," and I leave it at that. Because I don’t want to tell you I’m good, I want to show you.
There’s a deep satisfaction to be gained from this. A couple years ago, I joined a team sponsored by a bar in Tacoma, Washington where I sang karaoke. The manager, who knew that I could sing "Mustang Sally" but nothing about my softball skills, asked me to play catcher, and I dutifully reported to home plate. In the first inning, I short-hopped a throw coming home and winged it to third. The third baseman caught it right next to the bag, rudely interrupting the trailing runner, who was planning on placing his foot there. The next inning, I dutifully reported to second base.
Isn’t this the way it should always be? Shouldn’t you have to earn your place on the field? In a world where so many jobs are won through the school you went to, the guys your daddy plays golf with, and your proficiency at butt-kissing, the softball field is all-performance, all the time. ‘You make da plays, you get da job.’
Recently, however, I discovered a flip side to the no-bragging rule. Reporting to a softball complex in Santa Clara, California to sub on my pal Doug’s team, I discovered (Alas!) that 14 regulars had shown up. But I was all geared up for a game, doggone it, so I made the rounds of the complex, looking for a team that was short on personnel.
They weren’t hard to find. The Bombers numbered five players at game time, and all five were on their cell phones, tracking players who were still on the freeway. When I volunteered my services, I didn’t even have to answer the usual question about ability - they were happy just to have a warm body.
Three more Bombers jogged in with seconds to spare, and we managed to start the game - but with a catch. Because we had caused the game to begin late, we forfeited our first at-bat, essentially staying on defense for six outs. In twenty-some years of softball, I had never heard of this rule.
And what a defense! The outfielders played scaredy-cat deep, even after our opponents blooped a half-dozen Texas Leaguers between them and the infield. When they finally hit a grounder, to our shortstop, our second baseman didn’t seem to understand that he was supposed to cover second on a force play.
I stood at first base, thinking, Egad! I’ve landed on the oldest Little League team in history. (Okay, honestly, I have never thought Egad! in my life, but this is a family paper.) But what could I do? I was just a one-time Johnny, and they needed to teach this guy to play second, because he’d probably be there for the rest of the season.
A couple plays later; they hit a fly between me and the second baseman, headed for shallow right field. This was clearly a second baseman’s ball, but I could see he wasn’t going to get there, so I called him off and stumbled back - so I could miss the ball by half a foot. Egad! I thought. Now I look like a complete idiot.
Fortunately, our opponents were just as iron-gloved as we were. We got a good little rally going - until I came up and rolled a weak grounder to second. Two innings later, I rolled a weak grounder to first. (Egad! Egad!) Add in the fact that I wouldn’t get a single additional play at first, and I was beginning to see an alternative benefit to the no-bragging rule: If you played down to the level of your awful team, if you had a really bad game, at least you couldn’t be accused of false advertising. (And you could spare yourself from saying; I’m usually not this bad, which has to be the most mealy-mouthed phrase in history.)
The next step was to go into salvage mode. When I came up in the sixth inning, a guy on third with no outs, I thought, If I can’t do anything else today, I’m gonna make sure that runner gets home. Which I did, because I have a sacrifice-fly swing that never fails, even on my worst days.
Amazingly enough, by the bottom of the seventh we were only two runs behind - and our opposing pitcher was generous enough to start us off with two four-pitch walks. A few minutes later, we had the winning run on third, another runner on second, and no outs. I was in the hole, trying to imagine a scenario by which I would get to drive in that run, but I couldn’t think of one.
My teammates, apparently sensing my dilemma, proceeded to act one out. The first guy blasted a grounder to third. The third baseman knocked it down, but was unable to make a play, so the bases were now loaded. The second guy popped out to the pitcher.
Ah, yes. The air was getting thin. Downright Bill Buckner/Steve Bartman thin. But little did the Bombers know that the mysterious walk-on who had looked so lousy all game long, possessed the most awesome offensive weapon in the game: the automatic fly ball swing.
I won’t flatter myself that I hit it over their heads - they were likely playing shallow, to make a possible throw home - but that was one mighty sweet walk-off single. And it reminded me of one more beautiful thing about this sport: even at the end of your worst game, there is always a chance for redemption, and maybe even a chance to be the hero.
The 14 regulars of Doug’s team, meanwhile, were losing 9-1, saved from a goose egg only by Doug’s solo homer. But that’s what they get for not letting me play. Ha!
Michael J. Vaughn is the author of the softball novel The Legendary Barons (deadendstreet.com). He wishes Joe Morgan would stop talking to us like we’re kindergartners.