Hot Shower, Hot Tea

Cold. Wind. Rain. Not hard enough to call off the game. No thunder. No lightning. No deep puddles of mud. Just slippery grass. Slippery home plate. No fun.

We stupidly got to the playing field 45 minutes before our game was scheduled to start. We sat in the car for awhile until some more people showed up. We stood around outside in the chilly drizzle, tossed around a wet ball or two. Our team captain kept checking the league hotline to see if we were rained out. We weren’t. So we hoped that the other team wouldn’t show. They showed. We played. I played both games in right field. Cold and wet. Miserable.

I didn’t make it on base once. I had my moments of jokes, of trying to express some lightness, some humor. They didn’t last. My ear started echoing. My nose started to run. I was getting sick of my male teammates telling me how to play the outfield, which I had already been doing for an hour against the same team. I had a pretty good idea of where I was supposed to be, of where the ball was going to go depending on who was at bat. I felt talked down to, and that annoyed me on top of the rain and the chill. This wasn’t going to be anybody’s best game. I just wanted to go home, get warm.

I don’t know what our league was thinking, having us play. Two hours. In the rain. Some of us without cleats out there just trying to run after the balls without slipping and breaking our necks. Without catching a cold or something worse. If I get sick, a certain softball league will be hearing from me. Because that was just cruel. I’m on this team for fun. We’re not a winning team, so really, what else is there? Yeah, fun. Playing in the cold rain is no fun. No fun at all.


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