Why Real Men Play Fast-Pitch Softball

When I was a boy in New York City, I played organized baseball. Every summer, I was wearing the uniform of whatever school I attended, and you'd find me on the diamond. It was fun, but I also took pride in mastering a game that was difficult to play. I was a perennial all-star: I fielded well, I could bunt and steal bases, I had a good arm. I thought I was pretty good. When I reached college though, I couldn't play anymore, since it became impossible to live at home, maintain my studies and take on the demanding practice and travel schedule a collegiate team would require. So, I looked around for another outlet for my summer skills. And I found it in fast-pitch softball.

My older brother had joined a fast-pitch team some years before and as a youngster, I loved to go with him to watch the games. Unlike the softball games I saw in the parks and schoolyards in my neighborhood, where the pitcher underhanded toward the batter in a lazy arc, the pitchers in this league toed the rubber with purpose, and with a rocking, windmill motion, brought the ball to the plate in a major hurry. This was a serious game, with serious, skilled players. I wanted in. So, at age 16, easily 20 years younger than most of the players in the league, I entered the world of fast-pitch softball, a dying game in New York City, but as I was to later learn, elsewhere in the country, the only game the highest skilled softball players wanted to play.

My first game found me at second base. I was always an infielder, so I was not uncomfortable at the position. At least, not right away. The first batter hit a sharp grounder to my right. I reacted well, back-handed it on the run, planted and threw the runner out. A big cheer from my new teammates-this kid was good! I settled in for the next batter, feeling elated. The feeling didn't last long.

That was because fast-pitch softball is played by real ballplayers, and these guys had played at all levels of expertise. My education commenced with the second batter, who taught me about the speed of fast-pitch softball. He bunted. I raced to cover first, but too late. The third batter taught me about positioning, because as the runner broke to steal, he promptly punched the pitch right through the area I had vacated to cover second. The fourth batter was obviously convinced that that first fielding gem was a fluke, and hit one directly at me. I bobbled it, and he was safe. The fifth batter saw how well that worked and had the same idea, and the rest of the inning is a painful memory.

It took several seasons to master the subtleties of the fast-pitch game, but no time at all to realize that it was softball at its best. In the hands of the windmill pitchers I faced, a fat, round softball was a dancing bullet. I saw no lazy arcs; I saw pitches that rose like air-escaping balloons or dropped as if rolled off a table. Fast-pitch softball was just that, at 70 mph, and most pitchers wasted no more than one pitch on me in their strikeout sequence. Eventually, I countered with well-placed bunts, and even learned to consistently make contact against the less-skillful hurlers. But I never lost respect or affection for this high-class game. And when I looked at even the highest levels of the slow-pitch game, so popular with the homerun lovers, I couldn't understand why a real player wouldn't run to the challenge of the real game of softball.

Nowadays in New York City, the closest you can come to the real game is called Modified, where the pitcher is restricted in his arm movements, and sometimes there's ten men on a team. It's a pretty good game, but it doesn't compare to the action and expertise you can find if you travel to the Midwest, for example, and watch the traveling fast-pitch squads during their weekly tournaments. As far as I'm concerned, real men (and women) play fastpitch. Everything else is a boring imitation.