The rookie

By Stanley Musielewicz of Little Falls

It was after supper, and, although I was more than ready to relax after my work day, my wife Geri told me that she would take care of dishes and things, if I was willing to take our nine-year-old, third grade daughter Amy to her first softball practice. That sounded like a “dad” thing to do, so we threw the ball gloves into the car and headed across town to the practice field.  

Mom had done her part, by paying attention and getting our daughter signed up for girls’ summer softball. The sport was big in our little town, with maybe 70 percent participation, enough for eight well-manned teams. It was third through sixth grade girls, which meant that there was a huge spread in experience, talent, and ability. It also meant that players ranged in size from three and a half foot tall, 40-pound twerps (like my daughter Amy), to five and a half foot tall, 100 plus pound hulksters.

The elementary girls’ summer softball league was run by the school athletic director who was also the varsity girls’ softball coach. She had a passion for the game, and I am sure she used the summer league program as an opportunity to scout for new talent, to look for a natural, to check out the rookies.

It took an extra minute to get to the ball field, as we got stuck in “rush minute” traffic. Yeah, our little town did not have a “rush hour” (at any time, ever!).  I had to wait for two vehicles to go through the intersection at our one and only stoplight before I could make my left turn. That was the definition of a “rush minute” in our town. A few more vehicles at the light, and it would have been termed a traffic jam.

While on the way to practice, I decided that – rather than fight traffic to go back home, and fight it again on the return trip, I’d just stay there for the hour, and even offer to help out. I knew the coach, Chuck, from church and school. He had fifth and sixth grade daughters, as well as an older girl. He was well versed in this coaching thing with years of experience.

When we arrived, I greeted Chuck, and then offered to stay the hour and help out a bit. I told him that I could shag balls, throw to the girls, hit pop-ups, polish the bats, sweep off home plate… (anything to avoid another “rush minute”). 

“By all means,” Chuck exclaimed. He was ecstatic, and could hardly believe another parent actually took interest in the sport, and was willing to help him out. For a moment I thought he was going to hug me, but he just smiled. He was saving his hugs for those moments of real excitement in professional sports; the only time when grown men (I mean, real men) give themselves permission to hug other men.

Then too, I wanted to make myself clear to the coach. I was not there to promote my daughter, to minimize her bench time, or to win any favors for her. He was the coach, and he was to play her as he thought fit!

After another practice or two, it was time for league games. Coach Chuck, (in his experience and wisdom), saw fit to play my daughter as second baseman (to my surprise). Now, fifth and sixth graders were typically the pitcher, catcher, and infielders. Third and fourth graders played outfield positions, and saw some regular bench time. But the rules were that all girls played in each game, they all batted, and they all had fun!

In one of those first games, with Amy playing second base, the batter hit a pop-up. It was aimed right at Amy, and she did not have to move at all as she waited for gravity to bring the ball down to her waiting glove. But, the sixth-grade first baseman, got concerned. The ball had been hit right to a third-grade rookie. She took it upon herself to step in and help out her young teammate.

The first baseman went running down the base line to help make the play. The hulking girl was twice the size of my twerpy daughter. She got there just in time to make a flying leap, right across Amy’s face for the catch. But Amy stood her ground just like a “Joan-of-Arc.”

Now, this right-handed girl had to make a leaping, back-handed catch, which she did... almost. The ball hit the pocket of her glove, and then popped back out into the air. And despite being nearly trampled and pummeled, the astute little Amy easily followed up on the play, and caught the ball.

Amy immediately pulled the ball out of her glove, and held it high. It wasn’t to be boastful or cocky. It was just to show the umpire, some 85 feet away (at home plate), that the ball had indeed been caught, and that batter was out!

A game or two later, Amy was again in her usual second base position. The batter hit an infield pop-up, and I could tell right away that it was going to fall right into the middle of the triangle of first base, second base, and the pitcher’s mound.

The pitcher stayed on the mound. The first baseman, went to first base for the play. That left it up to second-base player Amy, to make the play. But as the ball reached the peak of its arc, neither Amy nor either of the other two girls made any movement toward its landing spot. As assistant coach, I was just ready to make my move. I was going to step up and tell Amy that it was her ball. She had to go for it!

Now, in the major league games that I have watched, I’ve seen players catch dozens, maybe even a hundred pop-ups. They run up under the ball, then signal other players to stay clear, that they were on it. They would take a step up, then a step back, a little right, then back left. Then both hands come up to make the catch.

That is how I’ve seen it done, but that was not Amy’s way of doing it. No, she just laid back and watched the ball go all the way up, and start to come down. And as I took a step forward, and started to open my mouth to yell some instructions to Amy, she took action. I did not utter a word.

At precisely the right instant in time, Amy broke into this little-girl trot toward the middle of the triangle. And then, in mid-stride, not missing a step, she brought up her glove, and “thwap,” caught the ball one-handed, inches from her left ear. And then, still in full stride, she continued her trot past the pitcher’s mound. She took the ball out of her glove, dropped it onto the pitcher’s mound, and continued on to the dug-out. Her catch was the third out, the side was retired, and it was time for the team to come in for their turn at bat. And she knew all of this.

Amy was most of the way to the dug-out before the pitcher and first baseman picked their jaws off of the ground. Then they, and the rest of the team followed her in to the dugout.

For just a fleeting moment, I thought – maybe I should instruct Amy on the art of catching pop-ups, the way the big guys (the professionals) do it. Then I thought, naaaah… let her do it her way. My little nine-year-old rookie appeared to be a natural.