Swing, batter, ouch

I used to pitch. I practiced at least four days a week during the off-season, five or six days a week during the on-season. When it was too snowy to be outside, my mother (pitching coach and practice catcher) and I would practice either in my high school gymnasium or, if some basketball team (other than my own, that is) was practicing, in a cement-lined hallway that was, in retrospect, far too narrow and low-ceilinged for us to really have used.

There were a lot of ricochets and bounces. My mother is one of the bravest people I know.

I began pitching in junior high and continued straight through high school and summer ball. Much as I didn't want to pitch in college, I was coerced (read: ordered) by my varsity softball coach to keep practicing so I could be the third-string pitcher.

I was taught to do what the coach tells you, whether you like it or not. So despite the fact that I knew I was not a college pitcher, I kept pitching. Won't get into how I actually did during those college pitching appearances.

Between the fallball and spring seasons, my collegiate pitching coach and I practiced in a racquetball court. There were a lot of ricochets and bounces there, too. So I was pretty quick with the duck and cover.

With the exception of that one college year (hereby known as the V Gets Into Her Head Seasons), I didn't get particularly rattled when I pitched. I knew I wasn't anything particularly special as a pitcher, but I could get the job done and knew I had a good shot at out-thinking the batters. I was a smart pitcher.

Whether it actually went to the places I intended is neither here nor there, thank you.

The only thing that ever made me nervous was the possibility that I could get a ball hit right smack back at me. And sometimes that would freak me out. I'd had nightmares about it. Fastball in, fast shot back at my head.

There were a number of close calls, actually. During a high school game, a Lady President (hey, that was their name - just go with it) fired a shot. Really good line drive that found my glove about six inches from my left ear. The only reason I caught it was because I was bringing my glove around from behind my back. I wasn't moving to the ball - the ball came to me.

During a summer season, against the Lady Devils, a really imposing batter who had already made me a little nervous sent a hard ball right back at my stomach. I still don't know how I caught that one. My parents said after the game that I had a Betty Boop face right after the hit - huge eyes, mouth forming the tiniest little "O." Then I checked to see precisely where I would have been hit.

There were the quick one-hoppers that I blocked with my body - no big deal there. And the other one that was hit to my right that I accidentally knocked down with my right hand. My coach yelled at me for that one - "You could have broken your hand!" - but it was instinct. And I didn't get hurt, so it was all good. Got the out, right?

But all things considered? I got off lucky.

Which is why, upon seeing Matt Clement get a vicious line drive to the head tonight, I called my parents right away. When my father answered, I said the only thing that came to mind.

"THAT WAS WHAT I WAS ALWAYS WORRIED WOULD HAPPEN TO ME!"

He didn't seem surprised that I called. It was actually his response that surprised me.

"I know. I was always kind of worried that would happen to you too."

I paused. It made sense, though. He couldn't have told me at the time because I could have been a basketcase on the mound.

"Remember that time -"

"The shot to the stomach?"

"Haha - no, I was thinking the time I barehanded it."

"Your coach was ready to kill you..."

Hope Matt's doing OK.