Amateur Hour No. 2: Hitting vs. the BG softball pitching staff's finest hurlers
By: John Turner
Issue date: 4/10/07 Section: Sports
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Softball is supposed to be easy. Softball is what 60-year-old men do on Sunday evenings before going out for drinks. By virtue of the name - softball - there should be nothing hard about it. Especially for a guy, right?
I couldn't have been more wrong.
As practice ended, BG women's softball coach Shannon Salsburg announced there would be a special guest. That was my cue, as I entered the dugout and told the team what I intended to do.
Some laughter and wide eyes. Thanks ladies, that does wonders for the ol' self-esteem.
As most of the team prods at me about a lack of coverage in that day's newspaper, Jeanine Baca kindly offers me a helmet and her batting gloves. It was a bit like the scene from Gladiator, as those poor souls pick out their armor, only to be brutally killed minutes later.
The first pitcher is ready. I grab a bat, take a couple practice swings and I'm off.
The plan is for me to face each of their three most talented pitchers in succession - a firing squad, if you will. The pitchers are Emily Gouge, Hayley Wiemer and Sharon Palma. Combined, they've had more no-hitters than I've had girlfriends.
I played baseball in high school and all growing up, nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to face.
Anthony Baca, Jeanine's dad, stands behind the backstop and offers some last-minute encouragement. I listen carefully and dig into the batter's box with a newfound determination and purpose as the remaining players cheer me on in the dugout. Standing 50-feet away on the pitcher's mound is Gouge. She starts her delivery…
Whoosh.
Holy s---.
Instantly my mindset switches from "please hit the ball," to "please don't hit me." Three feeble swings later and I've struck out without coming close to hitting the ball.
My mind generated dozens of questions as Wiemer warms up. Can you back up? What does your change-up look like? What the hell is rise-ball? Why didn't I wear a cup? None of it matters anymore, except for maybe the cup thing - I really should have brought that.
In a matter of minutes I'm taking my helmet and batting gloves off wondering what just happened. What happened was I got struck out three times without posing any threat to hit the ball - not so much as a foul tip. At least when I played BG's Martin Samarco in basketball I scored three times.
A moment of silence please for my once promising baseball career.
As I walk off the field, still bewildered, Anthony Baca reminds me I gave it my all and had some good swings. Despite the encouragement from my new friend, I couldn't help but be disappointed.
Then I remember I'm still writer, a writer who had the good fortune of not paying the ultimate price for forgetting a cup.
See video from this event here at BGNews.com
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