The Hubbs is playing slow-pitch softball with a bunch of co-workers this year. I have a few feelings about this:
- Good for him;
- Hey, I want to play too; and
- MAN the house is quiet after the kids go to sleep!
Actually, I’d probably benefit more (mentally and likely physically) from an hour of yoga once a week more than I would from playing softball — even though I could totally be that girl on the co-ed team. You know, the one who can actually play better than most of the boys.
And hot damn but that just sounded totally cocky.
I suppose I should explain myself: I used to play fast-pitch softball on a B-league traveling team when I was in high school. I was the pitcher, and I was good. I can say that without feeling like an egomaniac, because its true. And because I worked really freaking hard at it. I was also a decent hitter — normally 5th in the lineup on the traveling team. I took pitching and hitting lessons once a week. I practiced every day and two times a week I met with a personal trainer to work on endurance and “explosive power.”
My personal trainer was this huge Hawaiian dude named John who had all these signed pictures of celebrities thanking him for getting them in shape. He loves to torture people. “Warming up” usually meant 10 minutes on the stair climber set to “high”. You ever try doing weighted squats when you can barely feel your thighs before you even start? He used to make me hold the “superman” pose with a 15-pound medicine ball balanced on my back for 2 minutes at a time. Then he’d tell jokes/stories/chat while I struggled to breathe and not knock the damn ball over. Good times.
But back to the Hubbs.
His only experience was playing beer-league softball when he was in college. He broke his leg during a practice because someone had left an errant ball in the outfield and he stepped on it. While running. They had to put pins in his leg to fix the break.
10 years later, and he’s back.
He dove for a ball in his first practice and came home with gravel raspberries along the opposite leg and elbow. When I asked him how he got hamburgered on the the opposite side that he dove to, he showed me. Basically, he dove and rolled. Internet, he doesn’t know how to dive. I’m praying he never tries to slide either, because god knows I’d have to pick him up from the ER.
He had his first games yesterday — yes, games. Doubleheader. He was sprinting to first after he made contact with the ball and got himself a lateral glute strain. His first hit during the first game of the season and he pulls a glute. He’s got heart, I’ll give him that — he played both games and pitched during both of them.
When he walked in the door, I rolled my eyes at him. “You’re not limping are you?”
He just grinned. “Yeah.”
Rolling my eyes (again) as I attached buttons to the girl-child’s Halloween costume: “What did you do THIS time?”
I then played 20 questions with him, asking things like: Did you stretch? What stretches did you do? What did you do after you pulled it? Did you stay in the game? And what am I going to do with you?
I checked out his leg, gave him some motrin and sent him into the shower with directions to really soak his leg with the massage setting on the showerhead and to put some white flower (an Asian oil that’s similar to tiger balm) on his thigh when he got out and to massage it really well. At the same time, I popped an ice pack in the freezer.
I suppose I should have been more sympathetic. I should have offered to massage his leg, to get him a drink, to get a pillow to prop his leg on. But that wouldn’t really make his leg feel better. It needs rest, ice, and stretching.
So I continued to work on the Halloween costume (I think its done!) and got him an ice pack when it was cold enough.
I also posted a couple things to my personal Facebook account, basically saying that I need a bubble for him on game days. Something along the lines of a hamster ball with bubble wrap on the inside.
He tweeted this about 15 minutes later:
The nice old lady who sold me a big stack of pain relief products at CVS this morning had more sympathy for my softball injury than my wife.
I’m picking him up some Tiger Balm and hot patches today on my way home. I’ll also try to be a bit more sympathetic. Its either that or challenging him to a crab-walking race.