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By Ben McCarty
News staff writer
June 27, 2009
Oh, put me in, coach — I’m ready to
play today; Put me in, coach — I’m ready to play today; Look at
me, I can be centerfield.
— John Fogerty, “Centerfield”
Centerfield is one of those
positions that can either make a player look really, really
good, or really, really bad.
Diving catch into the alley — good.
Having a ball fly over your head because you ran the wrong
direction — bad. I’m not the most athletically gifted, and those
requirements are usually a must to play center.
But, seeing as how I can no
longer throw the ball accurately from third base to first base,
can’t catch a throw at first base, and am too tall to bend over
to field balls at shortstop of second base, the outfield it was
for me this year in church league softball games.
I figured it was a safe position.
My struggles to keep myself
injury-free have been well documenting in this space.
I figured in the outfield, it
couldn’t be too bad. I mean I could dive and at the worst I
might get the wind knocked out of me or get some grass stains.
Grass stains and a few deep breaths
are no problem compared to swelling welts after being nailed in
the leg by a ball or gashing your knee open while sliding.
Then I saw the dog poop.
I have no idea how it got
there, considering the “No dogs on the field” signs, or who on
earth would let their dog poop in centerfield.
But no matter, the poop was there.
“Uh Kirby,” I said turning to my
Kaptain and boss in right field. “Just so you know: If a ball
hits just a few feet to my right, I’m letting it roll to the
fence and it will be a home run.”
The pile of poo looked close to
mummification stage, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
In every sport involving a ball,
whether it is baseball, softball, soccer, basketball or Sepak
Takraw, there is one cardinal rule: “Don’t take your eye off the
ball.”
I propose an exception: “Never take
your eye off the ball — unless there is dog poo nearby.”
For the rest of the game, I made it
my goal to a) not get hurt and b) not come away smelling like
dog poo.
That made every catch a little
interesting. I would look up for the ball, look back for the dog
poo then looking back for the ball.
The strategy worked surprisingly
well — no stains and no injuries to report. I even got a small
measure of revenge on the dog poop in my last at-bat.
I hit a deep fly ball to
centerfield, right over where the dog poop had intruded on my
space. Seconds later, the ball, unlike the dog poop, left the
field of play.
Next time, I’ll just have to
remember to wrap my glove in a garbage bag, so I can hit home
runs and help clean up.
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