My mind stayed home, but my body went out to play

By Jim Pfiffer

I made a terrible, life-altering mistake.

I joined a senior men’s softball league.

Now, on paper, it sounded like a great idea: Get some exercise. Reconnect with the golden days of my youth. Bond with other delusional men in their sixties, trying to prove they’ve still got it by playing a sport originally invented for fourth-grade girls in gym class.

I stay active. I hike, kayak, bike, and I lift weights (fine, they’re 3-pound dumbbells that look suspiciously like doorstops, but hey, it’s the effort). I figured softball would be a gentle reentry into team sports.

How could this go wrong?

Well, let me count the injuries.

I used to be a decent player – fast, coordinated and agile. At least that’s how I remember it. Memory is a funny thing. It turns out my skills aren’t just rusty – they’ve decomposed. Muscle memory? It has Alzheimer’s.

Hitting? I’m 0 for eternity. Fielding? I flinch like bees are attacking me. Throwing? I resemble a T. Rex playing fetch.

My reflexes now operate on a two-second delay, and my “catlike agility” has been downgraded to “confused houseplant.”

My brain, though? Oh, it’s still a cocky 12-year-old. It keeps shouting, “C’mon! Let’s dive for that ball! Let’s run full speed! Let’s slide into second!” Meanwhile, my body is screaming, “WE’RE MADE OF GLASS NOW, YOU LUNATIC!”

My teammates are supportive. In the same way, hospice nurses are supportive. They cheer me on with phrases like:

• “You’ll get it next time!”
• “We believe in you!”
• “You DEFINITELY belong in right field.”

Right field: the traditional home of players who shouldn’t be allowed near sharp objects, let alone fast-moving balls.

My batting position is so low in the order, I need a miner’s helmet to find it. I only bat more than once if we play a doubleheader.

And the injuries. Oh, the injuries. I hurt my back tying my cleats. I pulled a hamstring reaching for a Gatorade. I twisted my ankle when I stepped out of my truck. The last time I ran to first base, my legs stopped working halfway there. I had to finish on pure inertia and despair.

My medicine cabinet now resembles a CVS explosion. It’s stocked with every over-the-counter remedy known to mankind: Advil, BENGAY, Icy-Hot patches, herbal pain creams, heating pads, ice packs, compression sleeves, and a half-full bottle of tequila with a sticky note that reads, “Emergency only.”

But don’t worry – I can still run! Just not in a straight line. Or stop. In the last game, I collided with the first baseman, the umpire and a kid selling popcorn.

I still slide. Not voluntarily – it just happens when I trip over invisible objects or forget how my knees work.

And I always keep my eye on the ball – right until it smacks into my shin or sails past for strike three.

I won’t give up, though. Not until my teammates stage an intervention or I wake up in traction with my wife telling me, “I told you so.”

If that happens, please visit me. Bring soft foods, a Curious George book, and maybe a Wiffle ball. I’ll be in the room marked “Fall Risk.”

Bonus Softball Myths:

• The Softball Lie: A softball is not soft. It’s like getting hit with a grapefruit made of cement.
• The Hit-and-Run: Should be called the “Run-and-Pray.”
• Can of Corn: Supposedly means “easy catch.” But last I checked, a flying metal can of corn is more of a lawsuit than a metaphor.

Get more Jim Pfiffer humor on his Facebook page and his “Full of Wit” blog, https://fullofwitblog.wordpress.com/ .