A sucker for triples

I hate sounding all mature after five months of trying, but playing has become different. I realize that I took a lot of things for granted back when I played. As a kid I just knew how to play, the skills and the tactics were embedded by years of practice and repetition. They were never a subject of second thoughts. Now most of this knowledge has gone and before I start moving, I have to break up every action in steps. I'm aware that I am playing. Remember? It's my ass again. And there's a checklist of steps stapled to it.
I've always been a sucker for triples. Now that I'm reading about defense, I suddenly realize why. Home runs cause disappointment, but triples cause devastation. In fact, I love them even better now, the elegant hit causes so much hurting.
A home run is a fact of life. It's between the batter and the pitcher and there's nothing the team can do. There's the pitch, there's the crack and there it goes. It's always a boost to the game, but a short lived one. Once the ball is over the fence, the crowd celebrates the player. Home runs are about power. But if you see, say 4 home runs in a game once a season, it becomes... boring.
Like home runs triples are also about results, but they've got this killer extra called 'the play'. No matter where they are hit, they are always long balls. I like them mid high and low. The long ones hardly reach the height of the fences, they shoot right out of the infield but lose speed later on 'till they almost float into the cushions. The low ones keep their speed if they reach the outfield gutters in four, five mighty bounces. Bonus points for touching chalk, double for touching bases.
Let's take an average triple. A line drive up the alley between center and right field, in the gutter. Second base and short stop line up for the play at third. The right fielder throws it to the second, who relays it to third. The runner slides head first and he's just safe. While played by the book, this action leaves another tense situation coming up, an overdose of adrenaline in everybody who saw that triple and six pissed off fielders.
The pitcher is glad that he survived the screaming line drive and realizes he is out of credit. The second baseman blames himself for missing the line drive and for the poor throw at third. The shortstop blames the outfielder for not going through him for the play at three and he just hates second base. The outfielders blame themselves for lining up wrong, 20 feet to the right and it would have been a base hit. Third base missed the tag out because of a bad throw and he is goddamn grumpy. The team is in a shambles. It has become nine individual problems. Triples are about intimidation.
Now isn't this beautiful? One ball, one hit and we have this drama in the making: the pitcher who can't settle for less than a strike out. The batter who senses a two base hit and a heroic rbi. The crowd is still excited while the next batter is coming up. There's shouting from the dugouts. The coaches are gesturing. The batter steps up to the plate and digs his right foot deep into the gravel. Need I go on? There is no such thing as a boring triple and sometimes they last forever.

Always hustle

There was the training, but of course there was also the team meeting. We headed off with a short and formal meeting. We play in the 6th (and lowest) regional division of our national league. That is really the bottom of the pit. Last year they missed 1st place by a game. We need to get out of here a.s.a.p. If we get our pitching somehow sorted, I think we have a chance.
After some general club and team rules, Coach brought up topics of a more specific nature. Like bench brawls. It has never happened in the last seasons, but we're playing in a different district this year with a couple of redneck villages. 'Always look out for each other. Make sure you help out if somebody is surrounded. Never leave him alone.' I really hope it isn't that kind of league. Anyway, there's no way I'm gonna lift a finger against anybody, are you mad, this is baseball we're talking about. And I don't think we ever need to, because Coach can work himself up to the most intense infuriation I've ever seen. I consider this an invaluable talent for a coach.
Then there's the there will be only after-batting-practice- pre-game-smoking behind the dumpster at the parking lot rule. That's a league rule. Coach is probably the most avid smoker of us all, but there's no smoking for him while in uniform. "It looks pathetic" and it does.
And "There's no walking between the lines. Always hustle." And hustling we did, eager as we all were to get it going with the exercise.

After the training the sixpacks came down from the bar upstairs. Shower beer time equals instant male bonding. Steam came from the showers and the room was blue with smoke. As everybody was walking around talking to whoever was closest, stories traveled through the room, went under the shower and came back to dry. There was talk about the fysiotherapist who was definitely supposed to be a hot chick. The Coach apologized to the Bench for the size of our dicks, which was a true observation and a very courteous gesture on our behalf. Half of the guys used the cold shower excuse, somebody muttered that he left the real deal at home. We marvelled over the new tattoo on one of the guys wich read DUCK ROCK in huge type. There was Spanish chattering going on. Talk about bats and other equipment. The door opened and more sixpacks arrived. I heard belching. Somebody was shouting into his phone that he would be home later. This is going to be a great season.

No speed, no pace, no nothing

It's been two days since our first training and I feel like I've been punished. I got my nasty alright. I feel my body is filled with old, overworked fibers. My head's still up, make no mistake, all in all I'm quite satisfied with what was still left. But the aftermath is humiliating. The body is still very much pissed off by all that sudden enthusiasm. There's also vague familiarity about all this near-aching stiffness that accompanies me everywhere I go today. It's not a bad feeling, it feels like I'm playing baseball again.

Training roundup, starting with the bad news. My foot and the leg work are horrible. No speed, no pace, no nothing. Still, I tried to do what I can, as the training progressed, it became more and more difficult to push myself.
Endurance in general is problematic. Twenty minutes of running exercises at the beginning, kept me on top of my breath for the entire two hours.
Tiredness causes mistakes. An increase in off target throws, missing a cue in position play, not following through all the way with hitting. Tiredness causes underperformance.
Batting was uninspired. The stiffness must go first.

The best news is that we've got new staff and support at our team. We're the 5th and lowest team on our club, but we have the luxury of a 2nd coach, a fysio therapist and a score keeper. Now that is not bad. The 2nd coach will take care of the pitchers and the catchers, and during games he rules the bench, so I will call him Bench from now on. I tried out at 3rd during infield practice. It went fine, no mistakes grounding, no extra steps for throwing. I waited for almost every ball, though, let it bounce towards me, instead walking into it. I really needed those extra 2 seconds of air.
Throwing from 3rd to 2nd went well, I still've got some speed left. Let's see next week what's left of it, when we're going from deep 3rd to 1st. A moment I fear and look forward to at the same time.

The best $2 I ever spent

It's been a long time since I've been so excited over a purchase. I know, I'm spoiled rotten. I don't want much but if I want something, I make sure that I exactly know what it is that I want. That is the fun part. The catalogues, the stores, the advice from friends. The joy lies in the preparation. It so seldom happens that I walk into a store and get completely blown out of my socks.
But that's exactly what went on when I found these stirrups. I love stirrups. Low style no less. Oldskool. Wow. I never even dared to hope to find a pair of maroon ones. They match my original shirt & jacket. Yes! They were there in my hand and they were mine for what ... $2? What the hell was that all about?
The guy who sold me the stirrups said that he admired somebody who dared to wear these. I laughed there and then, but on the way home that remark got me thinking. Dared? Is there a problem I don't know about? Suddenly it dawned on me that the $2 tag had to be considered a subtitle and not a price level. In sports stores $2 tags read: next week I'm in the trash.
But why? Don't they realize there is no baseball without stirrups? Back home I read this quote about the real world and my world was shattered. Baseball without stirrups. Think about it for a minute.

"Stirrups are socks worn by baseball players
up until about the early 1990's when baseball
players started wearing their pants like pajamas."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_stirrups

Good memories (are bad for you)

I never gave it any consideration before, but coming to think of it, I must have played more than 500 games over the years. But what do I remember? I remember the teams, the fields, the uniforms, the friends and the first pitching machine but the actuals games? I almost forgot everything. I got this handful of memories of spectacular situations. Apparently I carefully selected them to define myself as an ex-ballplayer for the sake of my current personality. But the hours and hours of nothingness that defines the genius of the game, the endless sequences of fly balls and infield outs, the way a bad hop can hop, the thousands of pitches I must have seen, everything is gone. The nastyness of hard work, panic and being outclassed it's not there anymore.
What I actually remember is a Youtube page with thirty 5 second videos. All the movies are digitally enhanced, the original characters are replaced by their digital counterparts. They are not only more athletic: their dialogues are heroic, witty and they have no acne.
This playlist of moments of perfection is short but boring. I know it was my decision to select and remix my memories, all be it an unconscious one. I just know they came in handy when my current personality needed to define himself as an ex-ballplayer. And then it's easier to tell a single story in its digitally enhanced version, in stead of one about the genius of nothingness. The occasions are so rare.
Now that I start playing again, I realize how dangerous this has been, this utopia of perfect plays. That is like buying a car and being disappointed that it didn't come with that hot broad you saw in the ad. What I need now is a whole lot of nothing. And the nasty stuff has to come back too. The thoughts in the head when you've got two strikes. The fumbles when you're playing on a wet field. This whole idea around what I am through the stories I have remembered needs to be re-thought. I have no problem with that, there is no price to pay. There's only nasty. I need nasty. So bring in the nasty.

My Ass

Right after the 3rd ball of my 1st batting practice, for the 2nd time in my entire life, I was aware of my ass. No, it's not that ass I'm talking about, that one is skinny and it's doing fine. I am talking about my proverbial ass and that one has become huge.
My ass is busy when I'm playing: I have to hustle it in, I have to get it on the base, it cannot be struck out and I have to get it behind the ball when the ball is coming my way. Back when we played lightfooted and without a care during summers that lasted forever, I was in control of it. Even better, I was one with it. I was in fact my own ass. It was around that time that the great thinker Bootsy Collins declared "Free your mind and your ass will follow". It basically meant that if you didn't know what he was talking about, you were doing the right thing. Those days are long gone by now. My ass has taken over and I have to deal with it.
The pitcher threw a high inside slider at a very gentle pace. Instead of stepping out and going for a pull into leftfield, I did nothing but leaning in on it. I watched in amazement how the ball bent down and had to step back and turn away to avoid being hit. I sprained something long and deep inside my leg. The sharp pain faded quickly, but the stiffness stayed. This was defeat, diving away for a called strike. I couldn't take care of my ass anymore! My ass should have been on 1st by now and together we should have been one. I knew what to do but I forgot how to do it. I was watching myself play instead of playing the game. It felt eerie.
Since the throwing, the batting and the fielding turned out to be a highly satisfactory 'unspectacular' during the first rounds of training it became clear that if I have to take care of my ass, the legs and the extra breath need improvement. From the looks of it I am going to meet my first devil: endurance training. My god, it looks unavoidable. But then again, who am I trying to kid here?
Some suffering needs to be involved even if it means that I am going to be one of those autistic wacko's in the park, with snot dripping down their sweaty faces and that self obsessed gaze, carrying around their waterbottles. Maybe I should really get into it and try to be the most self obsessed wacko around. What's left after public sweating and snot dripping? I could take it a step further. Maybe introduce incontinence. Organize contests who can leave the longest trail. Ok enough already, I'm obviously the last one who realizes I'm just one of them.
Bootsy will again be a great motivator when I try to change from a watcher to a player again, building enough confidence not to care about my ass. I'll use his mantra on my bike, mile after mile after mile: "Free your mind and your ass will follow". Bootsy will always take care of my ass and he is the high priest of wacko's.

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