It was summer 2013. Sweat beads pouring down my face, I glanced up from the dugout bench, sun in my eyes — ready to take the field. The air, already sticky in Fairmount Park that morning. It started as an ordinary game for me — little action, the PA 6 Shots were trailing our opposing team.
I grabbed my glove and jogged to the outfield. I hadn’t caught much sleep the night before and coach suggested right field — less action for a hungover player.
Now before you pass judgment, I had friends in town visiting. It was my duty as a proud resident of Philadelphia to show them the sites and my favorite eats in Center City. And, well, the night ended much later than planned.
Despite the pounding headache, I paid close attention to the infield. My team chanted loudly; it’s our way to boost morale: “C’mon Shots, we got this!” I hoped for a quick inning as I craved a cold Gatorade and Tylenol extra-strength.
I joined the City of Brotherly Love Softball League in 2012. And prior to joining, it had been some time since I swung a bat. As a second-year rookie, who played only a handful of games the year before — due in large part to time constraints — I had much to prove this season to my team. I had to earn their trust and prove to them I’m in it to win it. And that moment would be today.
With two outs and no runs scored, I wiped my brow and thought, I’m in the clear. An uneventful inning — we’ve kept the opposing team at bay and most balls hit haven’t left the infield. There’s been little action for the outfield, especially for me. That, however, was about to change. To my dismay, the next person up to bat swung hard — a deep fly ball to yours truly.
Whether I liked it or not, this was my moment of truth. The crack of the bat sounded, my eyes focused, straining to watch the ball as it hurled toward deep right-center field.
Sweat poured from my brow. I readied myself into position — attempting to gauge the exact spot where the ball would eventually reach its apex and begin to descend toward me. Looking up — squinting due to that pesky sun glare — I heard my team chant for me: “C’mon, you can do this, let’s make this out number three!” All eyes were on me. This brief moment felt like an eternity.
I could feel the chunks rise, much like my anxiety level. I’m not thrilled being the center of attention. But, I knew this was my moment. The moment I needed to prove myself and to overcome any bashful behavior on the field.
And then silence fell. I focused intensely, fixed on the softball flying above my head. Nothing but concentration, nothing but me and that ball. It felt as if minutes were passing, not seconds. This was the defining moment.
With my glove poised, I back-peddled at least 10 feet, stretching my arm as far as I could reach, extending it high and far. I felt the intensity vibrate down my arm, right hand cupping the glove opening. I pulled the glove low and to my face. And for this moment, I was a winner on that field. There in my glove sat the off-white, grass-stained softball.
I couldn’t believe I did it. I for sure thought I didn’t back-pedal enough, like many times in the past. But this time the ball didn’t clear my glove. A season of practice paid off.
With the last bit of energy, I let out a huge cheer that stopped the game: “I caught the ball!” Everyone on my team began to clap and cheer with me. My teammate in center field ran over to hug me; we were jumping up and down like kids. I felt a true connection with my team; even the simplest of gestures and nods of “job well done” elevated me to such a grand level.
And for a short time, the celebration in right field stopped the game. I relished the excitement as I exited the field. I guzzled that Gatorade and high-fived anyone within an arm’s length.
We came to lose the game that day, but I won that moment in the fifth inning. A personal triumph that softened the blow of the day’s collective team loss. I left the field that afternoon exhausted, but confident. I grabbed my bag and turned toward right field — summer haze rising from the grass that grows in the Dairy Fields that sit in the shadow of the Center City skyline — and said to myself: “You did it.”
James Scarpella plays for the PA 6 Shots and has been a member of the CBLSL for three years. He is originally from New Jersey, has lived in Philadelphia for four years and loves British television.
