My long-time coed team is named WYSIWYGs, which is Silicon Valley parlance for What You See Is What You Get. Lately, though, they’re more the opposite: a non-buffed bunch of mellow oldsters, some of them nearing 50, who constantly beat up on teams half their age. This is a principal beauty of softball, of course - old age and craftiness regularly beating out youthful energy.

What it also means is a higher propensity for injury, which is why I was standing by for the playoffs - technically ineligible to play, but ready to go in should someone separate, strain or break any anatomical parts. Sitting on the bench was an odd experience for me, and Lisa the Rocket Scientist, like a mother telling her kids to go play outside, told me to go coach third.

The result was pretty illuminating: 14 innings of seeing the game from a new angle, and realizing how much a good base coach can add to a team’s success. Especially a coach who’s there all the time, working up a mental database on runner tendencies and outfield arms. A good example was our catcher, Lori, who I stopped at third after a teammate hit a too-sharp single to left. Watching her run from second, however, I learned two things: 1) for someone of her stature (I’m guessing four-foot-eleven) she had some impressive speed, and 2) she had that aggressive look in her eye, which is something you just can’t teach. I knew that next time I could send her and push the envelope a little.

Another of our speedsters is our leadoff man, Garrett, who had a deja vu inning. I waved him home once on a single by our pitcher, Duane, after which he went immediately to first to fill in as a courtesy runner. Two batters later, I sent him home again - and then told him to get some oxygen.

The semifinal game was a close one, but the old farts prevailed once again, and sent me home with a championship T-shirt for my dutiful wind milling.

I also found out that our manager, Mitch, who’s married to Duke Snider’s (former Brooklyn great) daughter, Dawna, has adopted a girl (to go with their adopted boy). Her name is Brooklyn, which ought to please Granddad very much.
The next night, I had the chance to actually play, and had the game I’ve been waiting for all year, finally breaking out of my slump with a "kill the ball" strategy. There really is something to the idea of taking the thought out of the game, waiting for your pitch, and hacking away like Vladimir Guerrero on a six-pack of Red Bulls.

I also had a lot of fun at short, which basically means hurling my body around like a big-time wrestler. Got a couple of diving plays, and bloodied up my elbow like a good shortstop should. Just the ordinary approach to me, but apparently I made an impression on my manager; he seemed genuinely touched that someone would play so hard on a team that’s 0-6.

As for the team, they’ve taken in some really bad mojo this season, and just can’t seem to close out a victory. We started the game by loading the bases, and then I stood at third and watched the RBI guys hit three weak fly balls, driving in absolutely no one. What this team needs, I thought, is for someone to be a jerk, so I vented my frustrations in a loud manner, requesting that my teammates (euphemistically speaking) order up some huevos rancheros. Two innings later, the same three guys loaded the bases, and Kevin, our cleanup guy, hit a grand salami. We battled pretty hard the rest of the way but lost 10-9 (with, alas, the tying run on third). But maybe we’re close to finally getting that W on our record.
New Running Tricks!

I was also impressed with something that Kevin did on the base paths. Failing to notice that the lead runner had stopped at third, he got himself trapped off second. As the pitcher ran directly at him (always the appropriate beginning of a rundown), Kevin looked at Keith on third and told him to take off for home. Keith did, and this immediately messed with the defense’s focus. The pitcher ran at Keith instead, and threw to the catcher, who then made a bad throw to the third baseman, leaving us with runners safe at second and third. The lesson here is: don’t ever stop thinking, even after you’ve massively screwed up.

The antithesis came the night before, when the WYGs’ Gordon found himself caught off of first base on a line drive to the second baseman. Gordon was so bummed out that he dropped his head and gave up - after which the first baseman dropped the throw. If Gordon had done no more than strolled back to the bag, he would have been safe. Instead, the first baseman had all the time in the world to pick up the ball and finish the double play.

You never think of these things at the time, but my second baseman, a tough fellow vet named Tim, came back from a relay situation and told me I needed to let him know where he was relaying. But actually, this makes no sense. As shortstop, I was covering second on the play, and have not yet grown eyes in the back of my head. The only real candidates for this job are the catcher and third baseman, who both have the only full views of the field. Given the reputation of slow-pitch catchers, I’m nominating the third baseman. Got that, third sackers? Warm up those vocal cords, baby!

A final note to my infielder colleagues. Have you tried these new cups that fit into a pair of boxer-briefs? A vast improvement on that reverse-thong thing that we’ve been saddled (literally) with all these years. Do yourself a favor and make the investment.

Michael J. Vaughn is the author of the novel Double Blind, available through amazon.com.