Bottom of the last inning, one out, we were behind by two runs, a teammate was on first base and I was in the on-deck circle, worrying. In two prior at-bats, I'd grounded out meekly to shortstop. If the batter got on, I'd be on the spot to produce. If he didn't get on base, I'm more on the spot because I'd be the team's last hope. And this was softball, for Christ's sake.
I was playing centerfield for Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital team, comprised of guys from its Laundry and Housekeeping departments, and a mortician. We were hardly official as no one in the hospital knew or cared. We used its name because we all worked there. We didn't have uniforms or coaches and brought our own gear. We were playing an all-black team from Aluminum Shades Co., and their spiffy uniforms made us feel like tramps.
Their pitcher was six-three and angular. He looked six-eight when striding with high leg-kick toward batter. And he wasn't lobbing underhand cream puffs. He threw overhand in hardball fashion. I preferred hardball, but it was easier to gather enough coworkers for softball. Some were in their thirties, married with kids and weren't fit for hardball.
Not me. I was 17, living at home, working full time and the proud owner of a black '57 Chevy coupé. I started working as hospital janitor on weekends during high school and full time during the summers. Since graduating two months prior, I'd been enjoying work and my car but lamenting that team sports ended at age fifteen.
Although not good enough to make my high school's teams, I played lots of baseball, basketball and football with pals on neighborhood sandlots. Plus four years of Little League and three years of Babe Ruth League baseball, and a year of Pop Warner football.
"Is that it?" I'd wonder while swabbing the hospital's terrazzo floors. "Do guys get married because they're too old for sports?"
Aluminum Shades
