Eat your heart out Bon Jovi

There aren’t many times in your life where you get to play the hero. This was one of those few, shining moments. Let’s ignore the fact that this is division two, intramural, coed softball. That’s not what’s important. What’s important is this: with two batters left to go, we are down by three runs. Elimination is at stake. This was is for all the marbles.

Enter Chelsea Mazar. With ice water in her veins, she coolly steps to the plate knowing that for us to win, she cannot make an out. Like a seasoned combat veteran, nothing could faze her. With the team counting on her for its every breath, she heroically lined a single into center, plating two runs and bringing us within one. And so the plot thickens.

With Chelsea on first base, up I walk to the plate knowing that she has to score for us to tie, and my run equals victory. With the left side of the outfield playing just shy of Riverwoods, it would take a laser guided missile to get it over their heads. With right field virtually open, I take my shot. Swinging at a pitch that should have been ignored like a door to door salesman, I lined the ball to right. As soon as I hit it, I knew we had lost. The other team’s right fielder stood poised to catch the liner and end our season. But this is why they play the games. Whether it was the sun, nerves, fate smiling upon us, or the fact that the right fielder just sucked, the ball caromed off the glove and it was as if we had received a last second pardon from the governor.

I raced around first, exhorting Chelsea with all the breath I could muster that she needed to score. As she rounded the bag at third, the ball flew into the infield. It was one of those beautiful moments where you are calculating the distance of the runner from the plate, the fielder from the runner, and determining what is to happen as the play unfolds before your eyes. It appeared to me, the exhausted runner between second and third, that she was going to come up just short.

With the flip of the ball from the cutoff man to the catcher, our season would come up ten feet short. But the throw never came. Instead, the relay man decides that a throw to the female catcher is too risky. He decides that he can run to the plate and tag Chelsea before her foot touches safety. He gambled, and he lost. Both players arrived at the same instant, and in a cloud of dust, I could see the outstretched arms of the umpire signaling that we had just tied the game.

The other team was furious. The fielder thought he had her. His outrage transforms him instantly from softball player to irate defense attorney. As he argued his team’s case, I realized that he had forgotten all about me. If I could sneak in amidst the fracas, we steal a win that should not have been ours. I go for it. Halfway home I’m praying that this guy is too caught up in his argument inches from home plate to see me coming. Thankfully, he realizes what is happening too late, and the look of shock on his face as I slide safely across home is priceless. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

Against all odds, we’re still alive and well. Just living on a prayer.