Saturday, April 03, 2021

Diamond Grrrrrl, 1981

Round #4 of tattoo removal is in the books. It is currently a blistered mess. May I just say, once again, that getting a tattoo removed is ONE BILLION PERCENT more painful than getting a tattoo. That is all.

The other day, I was interviewed by a student at the college I attend a few years (okay, decades) ago. His assignment was to interview someone who was part of sports history at the college-now-university. Seeing as I was on the inaugural softball team, I was a good catch (pun intended) for the assignment. I was delighted to be part of this endeavor. Someone has to tell the tale of the purple-pin-striped ladies of yester year; why not me?

In order to help you gain understanding about the times:

  • Field hockey was coming to a close. (If you don't know what field hockey is, I just made my point.)
  • Coaches were professors who coached in addition to their full teaching load. No one was "only" a coach, as is true in today's world.
  • Recruiting was getting a phone call from the biology professor, who had nothing really to offer but the chance to play softball and the opportunity to get a degree at a small liberal arts college (paid for by you, not some scholarship).
  • Fundraising meant raking people's lawns for cash.
  • Women's teams got the "left-over" times and places to practice. Men always got priority, no matter the sport or season.
  • Equipment was scarce, as funding for something like Division III women's softball at a small liberal arts college wasn't exactly flowing. For instance, we had five helmets and a few bats. 
  • Classes ALWAYS came first. 
  • Away games were accessed via a 15-person passenger van, team and equipment squeezed in wherever there was room. Thankfully, we only had five helmets because we never would have fit.
  • The softball field--which was a cement-hard, rock-covered infield with some beat up grass for the outfield--was semi-surrounded by a falling-over snow fence and featured two picnic benches as the bench. 
  • The coach, a biology professor, worked on the infield--raking by hand--between classes.
  • The inaugural season took place in........ 1981.

  • I think this bullet-pointed information scared the piss out of the poor student interviewing me. I mean, field hockey? Professors as Coaches? 1981? He probably spent part of the interview trying to figure out how I was still alive, seeing how long ago 1981 was. Hell, his parents might not have even been alive in 1981.

    The student interviewing me asked what my favorite memory of the softball team was. This was a really hard question because there are SO many fun, favorite, touching, silly memories. I had to quickly sort through the memories of which I could and couldn't share. There are some things that need not be documented for posterity. (Blogging, yes. University history, no.) 

    How about when the first season culminated went to Texas to play in a post-season tournament--and got POUNDED, CRUSHED, HUMILIATED by women who towered over us and definitely weren't in their first season of softball? That was pretty funny and VERY memorable. Of course, the trip to and from Texas in that 15 passenger van was more memorable than the actual game, but I couldn't tell my impressionable interviewer about that, lest the guilty be identified. Let's just say fun was had by all.

    Or, maybe it was our post-season trip to Greenville where we got pounded, crushed and humiliated AND sunburnt to a crisp? I don't mean kinda sunburnt. I mean painful, blistering, can't move sunburnt. We could barely open our sunburnt eyelids let alone play softball. Perhaps the recollection of the disgusting motel, with pillows that smelled like beer and definitely weren't clean, would be more interesting. It was, to this day, the grossest place I've ever stayed. Ignorance is bliss; we slept on those beer-smelling pillows without missing a beat. 

    Or, maybe it was that I still hold the college record for having the most stolen bases in one game (six), despite being the slowest person on the team? (True on both accounts.) My sorry ass chugged around the bases. I was not meant to steal even one base with how slow I am. It was a total fluke but still part of history. 

    Or, maybe it was how our coach senior year would do giving-signals-moves that would make Michael Jackson envious and embarrass the hell out of us? 

    Or, maybe that my Olivia-Newton-John headband was the envy of all, near and far?

    Or, that last moment on the softball field, after my last game at the college? Ah, that one stands out. I remember standing on the field, alone, third base line... watching the giant snow flakes fall silently to the ground as everyone walked away from the diamond, back to the building. I purposefully took a moment to etch that memory into my brain. Not a favorite memory, I suppose--but, a very clear, fond memory. 

    I went with Greenville. 

    I gave him a few personal stories to consider. How I started as the back up catcher, then hung out in right field and finally settled in at third base. How I never hit a home run; heck, I'm not sure I ever hit anything more than a double. How I broke my wrist, which was problematic for my education, not my time on the softball field. As an art major, it's not a good idea not to break your dominant hand. How I got to be the co-captain my senior year... mainly because I was the only senior, not because I was a commanding presence on the field. How I'm really, really glad there were no cell phone photos or social media posts. 

    I tried not to sound ridiculously old while still painting an accurate picture. That said, I sounded ridiculously old while painting an accurate picture. 

    Once I had completely exhausted his ability to listen to one more word, I inquired if I had succeeded in providing the information he sought. He assured me I had. I could only chuckle when he expressed surprise at a variety of things said. "Professors as coaches" seemed to have the biggest impact. I assured him that knowing there are full-time coaches now is just as foreign to me. 

    He thanked me for my time. I thanked him for his time. I wished him well, hung up and chuckled....

    I didn't tell him his current professor at the university was the other co-captain during my senior year.

    And...

    ... I might have failed to mention that his current professor, this alum who was the co-captain during my senior year.... is my wife. Heh heh.

    Told you I was glad there weren't cell phone photos or social media. 

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