Both of our games were rained out yesterday. I had a feeling they might be when I woke up to a curtain of rain, but I got out of bed promptly at 7 am and packed my gear just in case. Rain comes and goes in Vancouver; you have to be ready at a moment’s notice to get out in the sunshine or you’ll have seasonal depression until July.
That doesn’t mean I was enthusiastic about the prospect of getting drenched. As I was getting ready, I kept going down the carport to smoke and play amateur weatherman. I would hold out my non-smoking hand to feel how hard it was coming down and telling myself I was pussy for not wanting to go out in it.
The hardest part about playing ball in the rain is planning what you’re going to need on the field. On a sunny day, getting ready for softball is like planning a day at the beach; all sunglasses, lotion and liquids. On a rainy day, you have to pack to be warm and hot, in case the sun gives the forecast the finger, and turns the field into a Turkish bath.
On a nice day, I’ll show up to the field with two panniers full of gear: I keep my cleats, glove, and balls in one and my shorts and jersey in the other. I look like a Sherpa assisting rich white people up Everest by the time I get to the field.
The longer it took me to get ready the less I wanted to play. I imagined us sliding across the field in our cleats, digging trenches in the grass like Monster Trucks at a rally. Then I imagined what it would like behind the plate, trying to keep my knees in the wet gravel, the rain soaking through my cap, curving the bill into a frown. It wasn’t pretty. Although I was looking forward to wearing my baseball pants since they make my ass look great.
The closer I got to leave, the more I kept checking my phone for text updates from my coach. I had just put my shoes on when he texted to inform us he would know if the game was cancelled in fifteen minutes.
I tried not to get too excited. I love playing softball, but there’s a certain point on a rainy Sunday morning when you think, “This would be a great day to drink coffee and watch Netflix in my pajamas.”
I killed time by Skyping with my boyfriend who is out of the country on business. It wasn’t long before Coach texted again to apologize and say both games were cancelled.
Apologize for what? I felt like a kid that faked an illness to get out of school.
But like school, we’ll have to make up those games next Thursday evening. I hate playing in the evenings after work just a little less than playing in the rain. And we’re playing at Brocton Oval in Stanley Park, which I always go in circles trying to find on my bike.
Over the course of the day I would check Facebook and see status updates from the WESA page; photos of teams in their uniforms, getting drunk on Caesars instead of high on life. Today there was another text from our coach apologizing to the team members that didn’t get his text and showed up to the field in the rain. If I had been a little more eager when I woke up, that so would have been me.
We have a week off practice. It’s nice to have a break and catch up on things around the house, but I’m worried about forgetting my bullet points from our last practice. If I were a real keener I would get myself a bat and some balls and practice by myself, but to quote Homer Simpson, “I’m not running for Jesus, Marge.”
Spoken like a true champion.