Oliver is on a mission to figure out what he wants to do with his life. He is trying various career options and then reporting on his findings. Oliver recounts his experience as a softball catcher.
An older gentleman in an orange tracksuit handed me a flyer outside a Walgreens. “Wanted: catcher for a softball league. You play both ways.” I thought about telling the man that the internet existed, but I was more curious about the job than arguing about dial-up connections.
“Why do you need a catcher for a softball league?”
“It’s a senior league,” he said. “None of us have the knees to play catcher anymore. It pays $35 a game.”
Good enough for me, I thought. I could get behind this. I’m sure that the senior citizen crowd was just itching to get advice and guidance from a 26-year-old college graduate with a varying resume and a mission to find his life purpose.
Maybe catching would be my calling: softball catcher and spiritual guide for elders.
I showed up in a vintage 1930s Philadelphia Phillies uniform with catcher gear I purchased online for more than my allotted $35. Everyone else was in T-shirts that looked like modern softball uniforms. The teams were the Turtle Trotters and the Diner Specials.
I approached the group, a co-ed team and announced, “I’m your new catcher! I’m sure you have lots of questions for me.”
No one said a word, and then the same guy from Walgreens (I think) said, “You know where home plate is? Start earning your keep.”
I thought I would wow them later and set them up behind home plate. This 104-year-old woman went to the pitcher’s mound and yelled toward the umpire and me, “I don’t need to warm up!” So he called the first batter.
The umpire, also a senior, put his whole weight on me as the first pitch came in. It was a perfect strike, but the umpire’s weight shifted, and I missed the ball. I chased it to the backstop.
“What, you couldn’t catch that?” The pitcher yelled. “Morty, where’d you get this guy?”
“Walgreens,” yelled the second baseman.
“You should have gone to CVS,” she said, as I tossed the ball back to her.
She threw the next pitch. Another perfect pitch down the middle.
“Ball,” The umpire yelled.
“Ball?” I said, turning around. “What?”
“Are you saying I can’t see,” the umpire said. “Because I can’t. I’m 92!”
“Then why did you call it a ball.”
“I just felt like it.”
“As a professional catcher, that offends me,” I said.
“Did this kid say he was a professional? What’s he calling us?” The third basemen said. “Let’s get him.”
Before I knew it, they were all pushing me. It was a bench-clearing brawl against me. In retrospect, I think I may have said some other things over the course of the at-bat that really set them off. But it’s not worth wasting ink on that now.
As I ran away, I tripped over my gear and got a swift kick from the umpire. I rolled over and ran to my car. I yelled over my shoulder, “You owe me 35 dollars!”
I sat in my car and watched for a few minutes. The game continued with a random player standing behind the backstop and chasing the balls down after they were thrown. He better not get my money.