The reason why fantastical daydreams about a softball city championship never come true: they skip the bad parts. You see the team gathered for pictures hoisting a plaque over their heads, you hear the roar of the crowd after the final pitch smacks into the catcher’s mitt, hell, you can even innately smell the place, a colorful combination of freshly cut grass, unearthed dirt, and over-applied sunscreen. You picture all of that in your head, and you think, wow, this is what I imagine I’ll remember about the real deal. But the truth is, the reality is much more mundane.

Now, I don’t actually play softball. You might have gotten that impression from that first paragraph, but I was really nothing more than a spectator, a blip on the atmospheric canvas. But I was an observant blip. I blended into the crowd as a loyal friend, somewhere in between the spectrum of fans that has “I thought we were going to the mall, you liar” on one end, and rain-snow-tornado dedicated, orange and blue face painted, I-live-softball mom on the other. I was just an average Joe, or an average Ryan to be more exact, baseball cap turned backwards, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched slightly off-center on my nose. In other words, if your eyes passed over me as you scanned the crowd, you didn’t do a double take.

I liked it that way. When you don’t attract attention, a lot of the time you get to be invisible, you get to see people for how they really are. Trade “Excuse me sir,” for “Are you blind ump?” It’s a basic rule of the human condition, give people enough time to feel comfortable, and cook ‘em under the sun for long enough, and they all start behaving like angry sailors.

I’m no exception. You know what comes to mind first when I think about that game? My neck sizzling in the sun like a piece of bacon in the oven. The later in the day it got, the redder my neck, to the point where the space between my hair and shoulders looked like the Kenny Rogers Roasters sign from Seinfeld! If you don’t get that one, think really red. I coupled that pain with an inoperable knot in my shoulder that defied the traditional laws of one-handed massage therapy to make-voila!- a thoroughly irritated Ryan.

To make matters worse, the stainless steel bleachers were just uncomfortable enough that no matter which way you moved- I’ll go back…argh ouch no it’s digging into my butt…how about forward…oh god all the circulation to my lower body is gone-you were perpetually antsy. It didn’t help that the little kid behind me was a bit of a jerk too, kicking my back in well-timed intervals and hiding behind her mom when I turned around. Her mom would apologize and assure me it wouldn’t happen again (which I knew wasn’t a promise she could keep) and I gave a wan smile in return. In all honesty, I felt bad that she had to supervise such a monster, you know, one of those kids that needs a leash to be corralled. The least I could do was to pretend she had it under control.

Cole sat next to me for most of the game, and our conversations went mostly along these lines:

“Hey dude, do you remember blasting I Just Had Sex out of the car windows last night? That was so funny!”

“Yeah man, I really felt like all the people on the street that heard it were disgusted and oddly intrigued at the same time. Great stuff.”

“Haha yeah.”

Long pause.

“Wow, there hasn’t been an out in ages.”

“That’s softball, I guess.”

Riveting stuff, I know.

The start of the game was exciting enough, with a synthesized organ blaring out the national anthem with haste, steadfastly refusing to take any pauses for effect as are standard in modern renditions of the song. The crowd and the players were unified, hands over their hearts, caps pressed to their sides, every head turned towards the billowing banner of red white and blue that hung just beyond the right field wall. Then, the starting lineups were announced to rapturous applause, an underwhelming “Play ball,” was called, and the players threw on their facemasks and grabbed their gloves as they took the field for the final installment of the city playoffs.

The game itself seemed to be being played in slow motion, as if someone had slapped a Matrix filter onto the field, and Lane’s player’s bats were dodging softballs like Neo was dodging bullets. I wish I could say that the atmosphere was electric, that the crowd swelled with every pitch and the players threw themselves into the game with a sense of dire urgency. But I’d be lying to you. Truth be told, I counted more yawns and people checking their watches than emphatic cheers or laser-eye focused fans. What they don’t tell you about sports is that they aren’t always exciting. Sometimes you’re so used to seeing highlight reels on Sportscenter that you forget what it’s like to watch someone take a ten-pitch at-bat. Hint: it’s long and boring.

And so, slowly and begrudgingly, fans of Dolphins and Indians alike trudged through innings two through six, which I liken to the meatloaf you have to eat before your mom lets you get your cake. The cake in this case, is inning seven, or “The Final Inning” (cue Hallelujahs). The whole crowd was on its feet, Dr. Kenner’s shrill screams pierced the air like knives, and there was palpable intensity in the competitor’s eyes. Thump. Thump. Thump. Lane’s first girl goes down, three pitches, three strikes. Crack, crack. Two hits in a row…shake it off ace. Whiff. Out number two. Lane’s final chance to defend their city title is standing at the plate. Thump. Thump. Whiff.

“OUT! That’s the game!”
And as the team gathered for pictures, and the crowd roared, and the smell of the ballpark wafted into my nose, I started to believe in storybook endings just a little bit more.