Olde Tymers Softball Day League

Starting next Tuesday, July 2, and for the remainder of the season, game times have been moved up 1/2 hour. Start times are now 8:30, 10:00 and 11:30. This change has been made to get the games in before the heat of the day.

Additionally, when the temperatures are over 90°F, games will be a maximum of 7 innings, unless one extra inning is forced due to a tie.

Harry Banks gives his thoughts on senior softball.

GRANDPA GAMES

A Monologue

Harry Banks

I keep trying to reconcile my identity as an independent-minded perennial student with my life as a competitive, one-of-the-guys, ballplayer. I play senior softball with some men who behave as though they still have those 18-year-old reflexes. Those antiquated bodies fool no one, least of all the spouse who apprehensively says, '"Of course, I'd love to come to your game today!” as she visualizes the sun beating on the hot metal shadeless stands. Once, while playing for the Stars of Yesterday, I slid into second-base on my stomach, only to hear later that evening that I had looked like a beached whale.

You would assume that all of us burning-out super novas would just be happy to be alive and well, able to run (okay, hobble) around the bases. But no. Some spirited joy surfaces upon leaving home in a clean colorful uniform. Yet, that joy subsides when rolling onto the gravelly lot at the playing field, itself a scrawny unkempt spread of so-called grass surrounding a balding infield. Budding anxiety is fed by thoughts of hitting 0 for 6, and making two or three errors in crucial situations, knowing at least one grumbling, got no-other-life, teammate is going to reference your errors during, after, or weeks beyond this game. These thoughts can suck the sweet smell of summer honeysuckle right out of the warm air. This game, this senior citizen opportunity for fun and excitement can too easily give rise to serious emotions, casting a pall onto an otherwise beautiful day. And, sensing just how low down in the line-up you are going to be placed, these thoughts bring an abrupt halt to one's blue-skied youthful exuberance. Competition will now rear its often ungamely head.

The competition begins with getting parked in the right spot for a quick get-away after the game, continuing with the sun-block saturated guys jockeying for the more shaded dug-out. The verbal harassment begins, braggadocio over the defeat last week of the Senior Moments by the Potent Pissers, a victory sweetened when the former called the latter the Weakstream Urinators. When play commenced, it did not take long for an argument to ensue. There, grizzly 250 pound men scream vociferously over safe-or-out decisions, balls or strikes, and catch-or-trap calls, recapitulating Little League tantrums where serious thought is given to picking up one's bat, ball, and glove and storming off the field swearing never to play with those "cheatin' bastards" again. These are mostly fathers, nay grandfathers. Fully grown men with fully grown stomachs, refusing to talk to one another after being separated by unappreciated umpires.

Grandpa games are not without their long lasting effects. A 55-year-old now walks into the pizza parlor with an obvious limp, acquired as a third-baseman fell onto his tibia after a wonderful slide. A 65-year-old graybeard now has a patch over one eye that caught an errant throw. John, now with Alzheimer's, is no longer "really" with us. Last week's pitcher for the Oldlimpians has an ankle and shin that looks like a large purple eggplant that was also hit by an errant throw to the first baseman. Vinnie can no longer throw overhand, Sal cannot raise his arm above his shoulder, and big power hitting Rodney has not let his hip-replacement surgeon know he is back playing softball. And Harry, sticking his glove hand in front of his line of vision, caught a line drive with his jawbone and has been eating out of a blender for the past month. Clearly, "*** happens" when a game becomes "life" to a bunch of senior citizens.

These are not just expressions of poetic license. This game, despite its injuries, is still about our team's ego versus yours. Life, with all its ace inhibitors, statins, insulin, aspirin, and nitroglycerine pills is coming to aid the side that God is on. Victory and vindication to the verbally assaulted will soon become part of the evening prayers of the thankful.

The perceived need to win is not easily modified by age and experience. You would think that a guy who caught shrapnel in the mouth in Vietnam would just be happy to be out in the sun, soaking up a peaceful life of friendly competition. But as one vet said, sometimes the petty arguments of the game keep your mind off the killing fields. Anyone of us granddaddies could be in a hospital, tubes up our nose, an IV needle in the arm, or on an aspirator-respirator-ventilator, certainly not raging over a ball or strike call. Yet, being grateful would just be an erroneous assumption.

The emotionally best team I ever played with was a bunch of WWII and Korean War silverbacks that started each game with a prayer of appreciation just before the "play ball" command. It went:

God give us the wisdom to protect ourselves and our opponents from serious harm. Allow us to play our roughest and toughest, but share the knowledge that there, but by the grace of God, go I, an example to all our grandchildren.

The Russians have a saying: "Live a hundred years, learn a hundred years." Fortunately, we ballplayers still have time to work on that.

The 4th of July picnic will take place on Thursday, July 4th. A one-pitch tournament will be held with the game(s) starting at 10 a.m. The number of games depends on the number of players who show up. After the game(s) there will be hot dogs, sausages, burgers and drinks provided. Families are welcome to come and enjoy the games and the picnic.

Please get there by 9:30 so teams can be formed and games can start at 10.