Let me tell you about my day over at Collins Hill baseball – what a mess. Woke up early Sunday thinking, hey, gotta get some baseball action in. Dragged my old gear bag out of the closet, smelled kinda funky, like last season’s sweat never left. Should’ve known right then.
Loaded everything into my beat-up sedan – mitts, couple of balls, my trusty metal bat, cleats. Drove across town, humming some tune on the radio. Got to Collins Hill field around 10 AM sharp, sun already cooking. First thing I noticed? The outfield grass was patchy as heck, like a mangy dog. Infield dirt was hard as concrete, cracks everywhere. Grounds crew must’ve taken the day off. Again.
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The cast of characters waiting around:
- A rookie umpire squinting at his rulebook, sweating through his shirt.
- Two assistant coaches arguing over the lineup card, papers flapping in the wind.
- Half the players kicking dirt, looking like they forgot their coffee.
Coach blew his whistle, all weak sounding. “Alright fellas, warm up! Double-play drills first!” We started shuffling around. I’m feeding balls to this kid at second base – kid boots two easy grounders right off the bat. Literally. Throws go sailing into right field. My arm starts groaning just watching. Next thing, we’re trying batting practice. Pitcher, some lanky guy with glasses, keeps hanging curves right over the plate. Got a few good cracks in myself, I’ll admit. Felt good to smack one over the left fielder’s head, even if he wasn’t paying attention.
Game time rolls around. Scorekeeper, bless her heart, clearly new. Kept messing up the inning count, flipping the wrong panels on the scoreboard. We’re down early – usual stuff, walks, errors, dropped pop fly right behind the mound. Dugout got real quiet. Manager started muttering about ‘effort levels’. Yeah, right.
Late innings, tension’s thick. Their cleanup hitter steps in. Big dude. My knee started twitching just watching him wiggle the bat. Threw him nothing but garbage pitches outside. Guy still managed to poke a single through the hole. Crowd – all eight folks – groaned. We clawed a couple runs back on pure luck, bloop singles and such. Then, bottom nine, two outs, tying run on second. Big chance.
Guess who pops out weakly to the pitcher? Yep. Game over. Lost by one. Packed my sweaty gear feeling like I ran ten miles on concrete. Drove home replaying that last at-bat in my head. Should’ve swung harder. Or earlier. Or maybe just stayed in bed. Collins Hill baseball, man. Some days you win. Most days, you just smell the dusty infield on the drive home. Still love it though. Crazy, right?
