They say it’s always good to scatter the ball around the field, so allow me to do the same with my thoughts.
Is there anything as good as driving by Little League tryouts and then, the next day, receiving an email announcing the beginning of your spring softball league?

I found out this new girl, Judy, used to play softball. I sized up her generally fearless attitude and womanly physique and said, “Third base?” I was right. Which made me wonder: are there distinct personalities to each position? (I wanted to start calling her “Third-base Babe,” but she said she didn’t like the connotation).

Am I the only one who finds top-level women’s fastpitch intolerably boring? The pitchers are so un-hittable, it hardly seems like a sport anymore. I say, make them pitch from second base.

I recently returned to the Bay Area, and am terribly happy, thank you, that I will return to being a regular instead of a when-he’s-not-in-WA sub. As for you people in WA, you have some anti-social issues that you really need to work out. A veteran shortstop shouldn’t go five years in your little burgh and not manage to crack one of your cliquey little lineups.

One of the many little rituals that have gathered around my games over the years is my hat policy. I wear only the hats of big-league teams, purchased at their home stadiums, or (to be cheap) across the street from their home stadiums. I have no loyalty, whatsoever, because I enjoy the variety (and because the A’s colors are virtually unmatchable to any uniform that isn’t green, gold or white). Okay, one time I wore a painter’s cap, but that was an emergency.

I’m also pretty promiscuous when it comes to bats. I show up, find something that’s 34 inches, 28 ounces, and head for the plate. If I get out, I look for something else the same size.

The only March Madness I get is from the wait for Opening Day.

Thank you, Lord, for my nephew Kyle. After a long series of Rollerblading, hip-hop dancing, volleyball-playing nephews and nieces, he’s the one who finally took up the glove and spikes and headed for the diamond. Possibly something to do with Mom and Dad, who were both serious players themselves (Dad’s still at it, nearing 50). This all gives me a dandy excuse to consume some more of those tasty, cheap Little League hot dogs.

Doesn’t anybody practice anymore? Certainly none of my teams do. Frankly, I miss it. For one thing, it’s much better exercise than a game. Fortunately, one of my Bum’s teammates decided to round up enough guys to at least pursue our league’s first-week, no-umpire practice game.

The ancient Rawlings Ryne Sandberg second baseman’s glove disappeared at one of my fall league games, and, sad to say, I’m not missing it. The new model snags ground balls like a spider web, even though it’s not even broken in yet. Love that new-glove smell, too.

One of my favorite offensive plays is the two-base tag-up. Two essential ingredients: an aggressive runner and a base coach who’s smart enough to send him home with a silent signal.

My favorite accidental offensive play is the swinging bunt single. I swear some of my teammates perform this play better than big leaguers who are trying to lay one down the old-fashioned way.

Ever been forced to play in tennis shoes? I had to do this a couple times (for reasons of sheer forgetfulness), and I’ll tell ya, it is terrifically hard to fight the instinct for that quick first step (which, in tennis shoes, will put you right on your tuckus).
Is there any better word than “tuckus?”

Perhaps my most memorable softball moment is the one time, out of twenty years, that I reached over the fence and brought back a home run ball. That balances nicely with the time that I tipped a ball over the fence with my glove. Doh! I guess that I have successfully completed the Torri Hunter/Jose Canseco bifecta.

Any of you guys out there ever make a play off your cup? I almost did – on a ground ball that made a solid thwack off sound equipment before settling to the ground right in front of me. Alas, my throw was too late, but only because I was distracted by the loud gasp coming from the crowd. (No family jewels were harmed in the making of this anecdote).

During a long bachelorhood, I have met five future girlfriends at poetry readings, and precisely one through a softball team. What’s the deal with that?

Gotta love those new softball backpacks. The way the bats stick up over each shoulder reminds me of a Samurai heading into battle. Or Mad Max. Or Clint Eastwood.

Ever try to get your adult softball team to chatter like a Little League team? “Hey battah, Hey battah…Swing!” Yeah, me either.
Anybody ever think of starting a wooden bat league? I think it might be a real kick, as long as there were no fatal splinter accidents.

I call my teammate Trinae “The Human Hinge” because she uses about three feet of the entire field when she bats: down the right field line on outside pitches and down the left on inside pitches. I can’t even conceive of how you would program your muscles to switch that rapidly depending on your brain’s determination of inside or outside. Wrists like Gumby, that’s all I can say.
One of the more amusing fields I have played on is on the landing approach for the San Jose International Airport. Those 747’s feel so close that I often wonder if a well-smacked fly ball might cause some trouble. But if the Department of Homeland Security asks, you didn’t hear it from me, okay?