Little Miss Not-So-Independent pt. 2

Episode 2: The One with the Super-Athlete

The other night, my friend Casey asked me to play softball with the city league team she is on because they were short a girl. (She remembered that I had played in high school, and intramurals & church leagues in college.)

Casey & I ran so late that when we arrived, I literally walked straight into the batter's box. (Someone tell me why the newbie was 3rd in the batting order, please.) So, without having touched anything softball-related in six years, I found myself with a bat in hand, staring at the pitcher. Of course, that attempt was just pitiful, but I'm happy to say that by the end of the second game we played, I was getting on base and scoring. Much better...you know, it really stinks to be mediocre at something you used to be pretty good at.

I digress. Have I mentioned yet that this was a coed softball game? Coed games are not something I would recommend for feminists. I was playing outfield, as I usually was, and getting a good workout merely from the fact that we ran close in for the girl hitters and back towards the fence for the guys. It's not sexist. It's just smart play.

Well, it turns out that Casey's team was also short a guy, so we were playing with only nine, instead of the traditional ten in slowpitch softball. About 15 minutes before the end of the second game, one of the team's best players managed to make it and ran straight out onto the field, playing the position next to me. He was FAST. Ridiculously fast. If the ball was hit, he was there before I could even figure out where the ball was. Fast.

However, he forgot to look to see who was hitting once and started running back towards the fence as if a guy were up to bat. So, what did I do? I yelled at him, "IT'S A GIRL!!!" He yelled back thanks and trotted up towards the infield.

Pretty sure the girl at bat did not appreciate our side conversation.

But sure enough, she hit it just like a girl...short.

Part two of this story is when we headed in for our last at-bat. I managed to get on base, which loaded them with 2 outs for The Super-Athlete (this is very Sandlot, for fans of that movie). With 2 outs, of course, I was supposed to run on contact. Having seen the Super-Athlete in action, I knew he was going to hit it well and I would have to run my tail off, with him right behind me.

I'm sure you've seen those games where the girl is trying to run, not to score, but just to keep from getting run over by the super-fast guy who would've crossed home plate 10 minutes earlier except for the tortoise female in front of him.

That was us. As I crossed home, the Super-Athlete arrived about .75 seconds after me. At least he was able to come all the way home and not get stranded at 3rd base. Now, THAT would be embarrassing.

How does this relate to Little Miss Not-So-Independent?
Because guys are stronger and faster. Period. And I like them that way.