Clumsy Girl {vol. 2.}

As a Clumsy Girl, generally I never ever participate in sports that involve hand-eye coordination, especially those of the flying ball variety. {did you just giggle at the phrase "flying ball" like I did?  maybe not because you probably have a more mature sense of humor than I do.}  Anyway... today I'm going to tell you about something tragic.  That something tragic is what I will call The Year of the Softball.  My mother, like all good mothers, said to herself "we have to find something Rhianna is good at!" and so she enrolled me in a plethora of activities and sports for Child Rhianna to participate in to find her "niche" or whatever.  Spoiler Alert - softball is not the thing that I'm good at - I have never & will never be known as the Girl That's Good at Softball. 

Rhianna:  Aged 9/10?  I don't remember?  It doesn't matter?  It was pre-puberty - let's go with that.  So, Rhianna:  aged PrePubescent is forced to participate in a summer softball league in her hometown.  The team:  The Tigers.  The colors:  Purple & Gray.  This is the best thing I can say about The Year of the Softball:  I look really good in purple -- it's hands-down the color that looks best on me.  I have exactly one friend on this team.  A blonde headed girl as short and young as me that's not very into playing this sport.  I forget her name, I wanna say it was Brittany - or Ashley - that's what most girls my age are named.  We'll go with Brittany.  The other girls on our team, nice enough as they were, were very competitive and took this sport seriously.  Brittany and I mostly sat on the bench and tried to look small & hidden so as not to get picked for something in the league "where everyone plays." 

So yeah, I'd go up to bat at least once a game.  The most action I got from batting was when I was "walked" to first base because it was hard for the older girls to pitch in my tiny strike zone.  This is not to say that I never struck out.  If I wasn't walked, I struck out.  I don't ever remember actually hitting a ball.  Sometimes I tried, usually with the balls that should have been "balls" because they were too far away - I tried to hit these balls because they were not so close to me and didn't make me cower in fear.  Whatever.  When our team had to play the field part - did I get to just lounge around in outfield like I wanted?  No.  Because for some reason the girls I played with were relatively good and playing in outfield meant you had to be good at catching fly balls.  Where did they put this small redheaded girl that cowered when the ball came near her?  Surely not in the infield - those are important places!  And like I've already said - not the outfield - she can't catch a ball for the life of her.  They put me as the catcher.  Um... what?  Yeah.  I had to be the catcher.  Every once in a while I would catch the ball, but mostly it was me scurrying around to find the ball the girl did not hit and throw it back to the pitcher.  {side note:  I can actually throw a ball pretty well.  Anything to get that ball away from me, right?}  More than once when I was catcher I got hit by the ball because I couldn't scurry fast enough, and ONE TIME, ONE TIME OH MY LORD.  One time I got hit by a swinging bat.  Let me tell ya about it:  late in the season, I decide to "try."  I get really excited because our pitcher pitched a perfect ball that didn't scare me for once, I decide I won't hurl my body away, I will catch this ball that is clearly not in the hitter's strike zone in my glove.  I reach up, gallantly, and let me tell you it was gallant on my part - I remember this incident in slow motion and it was glorious(ly bad), I start to catch the ball, but the girl at bat decides that she is going to swing at this ball, the bat - in full swing - hits my hand lifted gallantly in the air to catch this ball that was clearly out of her strike zone and my glove flies off, the tears come to my eyes, and my little body cries out "UUUUGGGGHHHH" in full Charlie Brown style.  They have to stop the game.  My coach comes over and takes me to the dug out.  A mom comes over - not mine - and brings ice to put on my hand.  I choke back tears - so angry that a few actually escaped.  I am out the rest of the game.  Come to think of it - that's a benefit.  I make excuses to get out of the few games left of the season.  My mom makes me go to one more.  I get put in the outfield.  I let the other outfield girls run to the ball if it makes it to the outfield.  I decide that without a doubt, I hate softball.

One last thing about softball - I thought I escaped the torture with the last game played.  No, no, friends.  I did not.  The last event in The Year of the Softball was a pool party to celebrate the end of summer and the end of that dreaded sport.  This seemed harmless enough.  If nothing, I can swim.  I was a competitive swimmer then remained a swimmer throughout school.  Everything was fine.  Brittany and I kept to ourselves in the shallow end - Brittany couldn't swim well and since she was my only friend I had to stick with her there.  One of the older girls from the deep end called out to her friend in the shallow end, she had just got in the pool near me and Brittany.  The shallow-end-friend yelled out for the deep-end-friend to toss her some goggles.  They were the ugly big kind of goggles that non-swimmers wear - you know the ones that cover your nose too - prepubescent Rhianna scoffs at those because PrePubescent Rhianna has been a competitive swimmer for 4 years already, what do those "softball girls" know?  Anyway, deep-end-friend tosses those goggles but deep-end-friend clearly has lost her ability to throw things since softball has ended because those goggles hit me right in my right eye.  Thanks to my high cheekbones, they SMACK very loudly and tears come to my eyes, my little body cries out "UUUUGGGGHHHH" in full Charlie Brown style.  The girls stop swimming.  A mom helps me out of the water. {side note - my mom wasn't there.}  The coach goes and gets ice.  I sit out of the pool time fun until my parents come to get me.  I do not care because at this point I have way more fun talking to the adults there than half-heartedly splashing in the shallow end with can't-swim-Brittany.  I get a glorious black eye that lasts for about a week. 

I never play softball again.

Clumsy Girl Tip:  Never play softball.  {or any sport involving flying balls.}  {question:  did you giggle that time when I said "flying balls"}