I Love the '80s, Part I: Softball 

I thought I'd share a few photos & stories from the '80s over the next few posts, for no other reason but that I can....that, and because I've been digging through old photos to make a card for the wife and that's got me lost in the 80s. Ah, here's a keeper. Waiting between softball games, enjoying a moment in the shade, nineteen-eight-something- something. Ripped t-shirt neck, a high-fashion move forever linked to the 1980's. Real Chuck Taylor high tops, BEFORE they became fashionable. Asymmetrical hair swooshed over like a tidal wave. This photo SCREAMS 1980s. For the record, I have a broken jaw in this photo, so if I'm looking a little more chip-munky than usual, it's just the swelling in my jaw, not some weird case of the mumps. You might be wondering why we are wearing different colored uniforms. I just told you--I have a broken jaw--I can't be playing! On the bench style dictated the wearing of the black, ripped t-shirt. I had to look good, you know, and I look so much better in black than white. Softball in the 1980's wasn't just a sport; it was a way of life. Every weekend was spent away from home, playing softball on some softball diamond somewhere near or not-so-near. The only goals was to qualify for "State." Work didn't matter (um, did any of us have "real" jobs back then?), the lawn didn't matter, the laundry didn't matter--well, besides having a semi-clean uniform. No pets--we were never home. No vacations--who can leave town with all that softball going on? No prime-time TV--we were never home. We played three nights a week plus weekend tournaments. Somehow, we ended up playing at four different local diamonds, with each diamond featuring its own delights. "The Ace" featured the grossest soda on the planet (we are convinced they used water from the river to make it), the biggest bugs in the universe (of which would fall down your shirt and into your bra) and, the most primitive of diamonds. "The Forest" featured the hardest infield ever made--I think they used cement when making that one. Sliding there meant a summer-long strawberry on your leg, sure to bleed every game for the duration of the season. "The District" field was a blinding hell-hole: when the sun was setting, batting averages plummeted. "The Players" featured a really nice infield (soft, warm sand) and a bar where many a dance was spontaneously held, quite to the dismay of some of our friends. The parking lot was a ball of dust, so that made playing a bit difficult when everyone was leaving from the previous game. Tournaments meant road trips. Lots of road trips. I don't know how we paid for all of this because we really did have sucky jobs with sucky pay. I think we could afford it because we stayed in the grossest, cheapest hotels we could find, we'd come home for the night whenever possible (thus saving hotel costs), we brought our own food/coolers or ate fast food, we carpooled for gasoline-saving purposes and we didn't spend money doing anything fun because we were at the ball park all day. The furthest we went was Louisville (at least I think that's the further we traveled). That doesn't sound far but trust me, that was far enough. All that fun in the sun led to one too many sunburns. There were times we were so fried we couldn't sleep at night. Big chunks of skin peeling off...a sport in itself, a dermatologist nightmare. Those who were drinking beer tended to be that much more sunburnt, but they didn't care because they were drunk. The wife and I were sober but still sunburnt, so I guess that makes us sun-stupid. Those were the days before people actually wore sun screen, so it was not safe-sunning. (Didn't we use baby oil back then so we would get tan?) Of course, all that softball-playing left us with a billion stories, of which about one percent are able to be shared in a public venue. You'll have to settle for a photo or two. That's it. Otherwise, I'd have to kill you. These days, we go out to the softball field two or three times a season, and trust me--that's enough. I can no longer chug around the bases, nor do I want to. We have two dogs that need love, a lawn that needs tending, jobs that actually require our attention, TV reality shows that need to be watched. I don't know how people our age continue to play. Maybe that's why I don't know many people our age that still DO actually play. Let's see: no strawberried-bleeding legs, no bugs in my bra, no three-night a week commitments, no sharing gross hotel rooms with six of our closest friends. I'm all good with that.