ISO Softball

I dug out divets in the soft sandy ground surrounding the large black mat used as home plate. I glanced up at the pitcher, preparing myself. Keep your eye on the ball. I put my bat up and the pitch is up. It’s slow and over the plate. I swing and connect, glancing to see a grounder heading past the pitcher and sprint towards first base. Safe.

Whew. I’m quite happy to get on base. After not playing any form of baseball/softball since T-ball as a seven year old I’m quite bad. Luckily a softball is pretty big and most of the other people playing aren’t exactly softball champions as we’re playing in the non-competitive league.

About a month before I had gotten a text saying there is going to be a softball tournament at ISO (International School of Ouagadougou) and that Peace Corps is going to have a team that we could join if we were interested. I was a little bit worried about the softball thing, but really excited about ISO. ISO has green, beautiful grass, a nice pool, lots of English speakers and a ridiculously priced American restaurant. How ridiculously priced? Well if I ordered what I wanted to every meal for a three day weekend probably more than half of my month’s salary would be gone. But in America terms probably a bit more pricey than a Perkins.

The thing I loved most about ISO was being on the green, wonderful grass. Playing Ultimate Frisbee barefoot on grass is one of the things I look forward to the most on my monthly weekends there. Though I’ve had an aversion to all things baseball I decided it would be worth it to get on that field for a weekend. And it turned out much more pleasant than I was expecting. Softball is FUN.

With raw competition coursing through my veins I took a look around from first base. I had been the first hitter of the inning and this was the third time this game I had gotten on base. I was quite proud of myself as this was a much needed departure from my normal hitting. And our team needed every hit it could get. It was the bottom of the last inning of the semi-final (which happened to be the fifth). After getting off to a rough start (11-0 at the start of the bottom of the second) our team had made a comeback and now it was 9-11. We had three outs to get two runs – three would send us to the finals.

Next up to bat was Tim, our only lefty on our team of 15. Crack. A grounder sends me on a quick sprint to second. Our next batter misjudges a pitch, which is really easy to do. After three games I don’t quite still understand what a strike looks like. We have a giant black mat placed on home and if the ball hits there it’s a strike. But sometimes it isn’t. And the mat is very large. Unfortunately for him we start off with a strike and a ball, making the count 2-1. The next pitch is up. It’s headed for the mat. Whiff. Our first out.

The next hit sends me scurrying to third. I greedily eye home plate. Batter up, the pitcher winds up. Please get a hit, please get a hit. And I’m off down the home stretch. I demand all I can out of my legs atrophied from months of laze. Two more steps. And I’m past it and running up the batting cage. YES!

Unfortunately Tim doesn’t quite make it to third. Two outs. Bottom of the ninth (fifth). Bases (almost) loaded and at the top of our batting order. The anticipation is palpable. I’m suddenly very glad I’m not up to bat. Very glad.

I miss the first pitch, but turn around to see the umpire calling a strike. 2-1. My heart is in my throat as I watch the next pitch is thrown. It’s maybe a little short. He’s swinging. Strike.

After a good team shoulda-coulda-woulda session we headed to the pool to drown our sorrows. After a few hours of excellent sunbathing, swimming, and a couple good cocktails I felt like a hundred bucks. But I still wouldn’t have minded taking that trophy home.