post-game commentary
For most of my childhood and well into my teen years I played softball – you know, baseball for girls. I think my parents initially put me in it to strengthen my motor skills (Me, clumsy? Ba!), but I really grew to love it. I made some amazing friends and have many a fine memory of watching my mom and dad sitting with the rest of the parents in their Canadian Tire lawnchairs behind the bench, cheering on the team. After a few years of minimal skill, I found my groove at shortstop: everyone knows the real action happens between second base and third.
If your team was good, you made it into the championships at the end of the year– this probably happened three or four times throughout my time in the league. The best thing about it was that they would let you play the championship game at Rosalea Park. The diamond was slightly bigger, the gravel somehow crispier and the city had even built extra-high bleachers for fans – assuming that if you’re playing at Rosalea Park, you’re probably good enough to garner a little audience. The cherry on the cake, though, the thing that made every game at Rosalea memorable, was the scorebox. An old fat guy would sit up there and call out your name when you got to bat. If the game was really important, they’d have a camera up there so they could broadcast the game on local cable. Playing at Rosalea Park was playing for keeps.
Last week my Dad was out for a walk and snapped these pictures:
The field is grown over. The scorebox long abondoned.
The memory of a clumsy, curly-haired girl catching a pop-fly will always remain.