Playing Ball with the Lesbian Housewyfe: A Non-Sporty Lesbian’s Strategies for Skipping Softball

My mother looked across the formica countertop. “Softball. You want to play softball.” She sighed with resignation, and continued to chop the carrot.

“Everybody else is trying out!” I persisted, meaning the cool girls, the jocks, the ones who left me in the line until a teacher made someone pick me. I stood there patiently, embarrassed and not wanting to play anyway. Kickball, dodgeball, and volleyball all meant the same thing to me.

Pain.

Pain in my side from dodgeball, pain in my toes from kickball, pain on my wrists from volleyball. Swelling and bruising and broken blood vessels etching their way across my white inner arms. Standing on the volleyball court praying that no one would strike the weakest link in the chain.

That would be me.

The smallest, weakest, and, if I had already been playing some sort of ball game, injured. Of course, I was book-smart, but that doesn’t count on the playing field. I understood the rules of the game. I understood that you had to play a sport to get some respect, and maybe some friendship, from the cool girls.

Unfortunately, that understanding did nothing to improve my hand/eye coordination.

So, there I was, desperate to be cool, pleading with my mother to allow me to play softball. Looking back, I can only imagine what went through her mind at that moment.

We never had enough money, and this would mean a uniform fee and a team fee, along with tennis shoes and baseball gloves. Driving me around the Arkansas summer in our un-air-conditioned car, bats and balls and glove scattered across the backseat with my younger brother. The inevitable fight for “who gets the front seat” each time we entered the car. (The term “shotgun” was not permitted in our pacifist household.) Sullen trips home after my team lost and sniffles if I didn’t get to play.

Sporty greatness was beyond my imagination, but maybe I could at least be good at it. Who knew? Perhaps my latent talent for softball just needed to be tapped! This could turn out to be my “thing.” So much better than singing in church (lame!), or reading at an elevated level (You think you’re so smart—Lame!), or writing poetry (super-fruity lame!).

Maybe God would let me be good at softball.

I could throw a baseball. Dad and I played catch occasionally and I could always hit his hand. (Though now I suspect that he moved to catch rather than me hitting the target on my own.) Softball had potential. Plus, if the ball hit me, it wouldn’t hurt that bad, right? Soft. Ball.

My mother relented and drove me to sign up and get my t-shirt. She grabbed the practice and game schedule and planned my summer.

I’ve heard that war consists of long periods of boredom interspersed with quick moments of sheer terror. My entire softball experience can be summed up with the same words.

And yet, I played. I practiced and went to games and stood in left (or was it right?) field like a good least valuable player, trying my darnedest to catch or retrieve and throw that ball back to the infield. More often than not, the ball bounced off my outstretched glove while I flinched at the surprise of impact. Time to retrieve!

Were my eyes closed at the time? Of course! Can anyone can catch one of those things with their eyes open?!

Out of pity for the other players, my coach placed me where I could do the least damage.

In right (or was it left?) field, I contemplated the dandelions and the grass or watched the stands or just stared at the bench, wishing I could sit down. My book and my fellow players were there and that meant reading and cheering. In left (or was it right?) field, I never cheered. Cheering reminded people I was there. If I stayed quiet, they would forget I existed. Maybe then, no one would hit the ball at me.

The last time I remember playing softball as a child, I had decided that catcher would be the perfect position. The pitcher threw the ball, the bat swung and if the player missed, the ball came across the plate the same way every time. Easy-peasy catches every time!

Out in right (or left?) field, the ball zoomed at me from all over the place. If I happened to catch sight of it, my little legs ran as fast as they could take me (which wasn’t very fast) to get there in time for the ball to bounce off my glove. Then, holding the retrieved ball, I would run back toward the infield, only stopping when I was sure I could huck that sucker far enough to reach second base. The coach instructed me to throw to second base. And, as a good girl, second base always received that ball.

Most of the time from just a few feet away.

Anyway, there I was between the batter and umpire, amazed at how far away the pitcher was placed and how far behind the batter I had to be. After hearing that bat whiff over my head once, I moved back a little further. The umpire caught the first six pitches, and then began to attempt to teach me how to catch. Sure that I had actually found my calling, I was determined to catch the next one. Here came the pitch, and I lined up on it with my glove outstretched in front of my face. The bat whiffed and, as had happened so many times before, I miscalculated.

The ball whizzed by my glove and whacked me right in the face. I went down like a sack of sand.

Soft ball. A soft ball is the head of a dandelion gone to seed. A soft ball is a wad of cotton used to clean your face. A soft ball is the perfect stage to add the pecans and vanilla to your pralines. A softball is not a soft ball, and when a softball knocks you out, that’s when you have to take it like the smallest, weakest girl on the team and call it quits.

Without consulting me, my parents stopped ferrying me to practice and softball magically disappeared. Later, one of the cool girls taunted me with the truth, that the team had stopped telling me where the games were. I was embarrassed, but realized something important. Freedom from a horrible nightmare brings relief with only a tinge of guilt. It’s hard to say I’m not strong or fast or brave enough, but after you wake up on your back staring at a hot blue sky, pick yourself up, drag your black eye over to your mother, and cry all the way home, you find the words pretty easily.

Only love explains why I am now standing in the pouring rain behind home plate once again. Without even considering the impact of softball in my life, I went and got married to someone who was a jock. I still can’t figure out how that happened. Due to her full-body embrace of athleticism, I found myself once again immersed in the bosom of the great lesbian community: the softball field. Lesbian Law #23: “Each lesbian must attend a minimum of two dozen softball games in her lifetime. At least one half of these must be in adulthood.”

Oh yes, if you won’t go willingly, you will end up dating or even marrying someone who will drag you to them. It’s just God’s little way of saying “Gotcha!”

As for my current plight, the umpire yells out “Strike Two!” and both the batter and I look at him with a silent plea. Call this game. Please call this game. We’re all soaked, the rain isn’t letting up, and the ball is now officially impossible for even the good players to catch. He nods for us to play on and I throw the ball back out to the pitcher who has come halfway from the mound so she can catch it.

I throw like the wretched little non-jock I am.

They needed a girl today on this co-ed community team, which is why I’m playing at all. We arrived at the field to the news that the team was one girl short. If I didn’t play, the team would automatically lose. They looked at me like if I played, that might change the outcome. I stared back, knowing their predicament and having no pity, ready to head off to the bar, my favorite part of the softball game. Didn’t they remember the last time I played? Or did they just not care if they won or lost, only that they got to play the game?

Then, Stephanie’s eyes met mine and I knew I couldn’t let her down.

“You don’t have to …” She said, with a plea in her eyes.

“Right.” I replied, and held my hand out for a glove.

“OK!” The team captain leaped over to the umpire to let him know we were all here and ready to play.

They told me where to go and there I stood, sullen, sure that all of this was a terrible mistake. I was in the catcher’s position. I guess everyone remembered the never-ending innings from the last time I played, balls whizzing by me in left (or was it right?) field once the other team realized I couldn’t catch. More dodgeball than softball.

When the rain began to drizzle out of the sky, I was sure I was free, but the umpire doggedly held his ground until lightning zinged across the sky.

Never before and never since have I seen such a beautiful bolt of electricity.

I turned to the umpire. He sighed and pushed back his mask. “All right,” he relented and called the game.

That was the last softball game I played.

There are ways to avoid actual sweat and still stay in your wyfe’s good graces. For instance, you can temporarily revoke Lesbian Law #22:

“Everyone gets a chance to play” in the middle of, well, any game, thereby ensuring a victory for your team and a little bit of relaxation for you. This strategy lacks any sort of guarantee, though. Unfortunately, most lesbians respond to this generous offer by saying, “It doesn’t matter if we win or lose. You just go have fun” (which is, actually, Lesbian Law #32). They don’t realize that if you never entered a playing field in your entire lifetime, it wouldn’t be long enough between games. Therefore, I am passing on the fruits of my wisdom, also known as:

LA’s Femme Tips for Surviving Sports

Tip #1: Always wear a dress and heels when attending any sporting event. You’ll look and feel great and, in the event that the softball team doesn’t have enough women, there is no way that you can play.

Tip #2: Lesbian Law #21: “The duty of the femme at sporting events is to bring the refreshments.” Good cookies and a special knack for margaritas are always a socially acceptable substitute for actually participating in any game. The margaritas just need enough tequila for the rest of your teammates to forget you’re there.

Tip #3: An enthusiastic cheerleader is worth three good infielders. If you can get your teammates to believe this, you are officially home free.

Remember Lesbian Law #1: “Never underestimate the power of a Lesbian Housewyfe.”

I make great cookies.

Photo by LA Bourgeois