My field of dreams became a nightmare of a comeback

  Someone once described retirement as becoming a teenager again – you have all the time in the world with few responsibilities … except this time you have money.

   So as I planned my summer of playing golf, running the sunrise basketball game at the local gym, taking out the trash and mowing the lawn, my brain was jumpstarted by the idea of playing senior softball.

  The appeal was instant for a former high school baseball player, son of a coach, former sports editor and the Cleveland Guardians devotee who watches 150-plus games each season. Did I mention I manage a fantasy baseball team online? Just part of the addiction.

  My spouse refers to me as “Ado Jimmy,’’ a jab based on “Oklahoma!’’ Think Gloria Grahame in a hoodie and ballcap.

   “You’re just the boy who cain’t say no,’’ she often says with an eye roll. Guilty as charged – a teenage boy trapped in the body of a 67-year-old.

   After the first informal workout with these boys of autumn, there was plenty to digest:

THE BAPTISM

   When we gathered on the artificial turf of the fieldhouse, I was brimming with rustiness and confidence, although I hadn’t played seriously since June 1975 at Morristown Central School. For those weak at counting three strikes and four balls, that’s 50 years.

  I expected my fitness and experience to shine through. I studied a group of 20 or so men, all over 65, all in caps, one in cleats, a few in baseball pants, some with batting gloves, and all adorned with wrinkles and age spots. I didn’t underestimate them; I overestimated myself.

    My performance was painful to watch and my right shoulder was killing me. It’s almost impossible to throw in an overhand windmill fashion thanks to an old Buffalo State rugby injury. My throwing resembled a World War II doughboy tossing a grenade. Between pitches, I couldn’t make a clean throw from home plate to the mound.

  In six at-bats, I managed two weak groundouts and four strikeouts. Strikeouts in slow-pitch? That’s lame.

   All sorts of memories percolated to the top of my brain. Don’t lunge in the batter’s box. Keep your hands back and your head still. Don’t overswing.

   I can remember umpire Norm Emerich of Hammond teasing me: “Jimmy, you’re a triple threat. You can’t hit the fastball, curveball or changeup.’’

 MY TEAMMATES

    These guys are a hoot. They never miss a chance to deliver a barb, no matter how good-natured or cutting.

  “You should be sponsored by Ridge Donuts,’’ said one clever veteran. “You’ve got a big hole in your swing.’’

  Yelled another: “Would you prefer a pinchrunner or a quad cane?’’

   You can tell that despite their age they retain some skills. Some can’t run, but they judge line drives or flyballs with ease. Bending over is difficult, but they merely backhand the ball and throw it with one hop across the infield.

    In the field, I felt like a first-year Little Leaguer. I booted a routine grounder at short. I handcuffed myself on a liner to left and dropped it. I had trouble seeing the flight of flyballs under the harsh lighting. Thank you age-onset diabetes. Most guys asked how long it had been since I had played. Would I join them in May for  the summer league? Everyone remained encouraging.

   The one thing these guys all shared was their lifetime of ailments. One guy had both knees replaced, and one artificial knee crumbled. His kneecaps resembled a display at JOANN Fabric.

   Another beat cancer and lost 50 pounds. He can run like the wind, but at our age it’s more like a gentle breeze.

   One fellow explained how, with a broken leg, he was turned down by the Navy and Marines after graduation. Undeterred, he joined the Army. It never checked his leg. His reward was to serve in Vietnam.

STICKER SHOCK

   The Wednesday league fee that these guys want me to join is a bargain, only $45 for the season, less expensive than a high-end round of golf or two persons at the movies with drinks and popcorn.

  Then the other shoe (cleat?) dropped.

   “You’ll need to bring your own bat,’’ advised John, who knew the landscape. “They’re not cheap. The cheapest is $200.’’

   My former golf partner, Jim, a teammate on this adventure, agreed to find us gloves. He found $50 gloves at a discount sports store. They were stiff and needed oil to soften the pockets. So we devised our own hit-and-run strategy. Jim would look for used bats on Facebook Marketplace or eBay; I would go to a big-box sporting goods store to search for glove oil.

   Once inside the store, I spied all the tapes, eye black, batting weights, weighted practice balls, batting gloves and fielding gloves we would never need. The prices beaned me:

• One pair of leather batting gloves, $25.
• Wooden fungo bat, $80.
• Cheapest softball glove, $99.
• Softball bats ranging from $100 to carbon-fiber barrels at $299.
• Wooden baseball bats, $69.

   The pricetag on a  wooden bat astounded me. As a boy, I would accompany my father, Fran Holleran, to the Adirondack bat factory in Dolgeville, a 15-mile drive from his parents’ home in Herkimer, N.Y.

   He could stretch his athletic budget by paying $2 per bat at the factory rather than $3 each if they were shipped. With each visit, we were granted a tour to see how the ash billets were turned on lathes to pro ballplayers’ specifications for length and weight, wrapped with a small blue band, treated over a flame and stamped Adirondack Big Stick.

  The 1960s were our golden era when the Spilman boys, my brother Matt and Herbie Lake would gather in our backyard with baseball bats and wiffle balls. The game lasted until mealtime or my mother hung laundry and frowned upon dirty wiffle balls marring the clean bedsheets.

   With a wiffle ball with raised seams, you could throw every imaginable pitch: fastball, curveball, changeup and knuckleball. The hardball bats allowed you to build bat speed. Still, I never mastered the art of hitting.

Slow pitch is supposed to be easier. Just eliminate the strikeouts.

     Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/