Here for It by R. Eric Thomas

Author:R. Eric Thomas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-02-17T16:00:00+00:00

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As the first practice approached, I went to a Modell’s Sporting Goods to get all the things I needed for my first day of Man Practice. They required that I have a glove and recommended cleats and baseball pants. I love a costume, so the last two were no problem. The glove was a different story. Apparently, there are many different kinds and sizes of gloves. The sales associate asked me all these questions about size and features and I just stared at him blankly. Finally, I said, “Honey, let’s not do this. I’m feeling faint. Just give me something to put balls in. That’s what he said, by the way.”

So I had successfully procured a glove. EJ told me that I had to prepare it before using it. “Like a cast iron pan?” I said. “You want me to season my glove?” He seemed to have no idea what I was talking about but went along with it anyway. He gave me some lotion and told me to moisturize my glove and to tie a string around it to keep it closed. “My glove is wearing night cream? Is that what’s happening?”

He sighed. “Yes. Can you just do it?”

It seemed simple enough, so I acquiesced.

As I dutifully lotioned my glove every night (shockingly, not a euphemism), I began to panic. I really didn’t know how to play softball. I really was going to look like a big gay idiot out there. So I did what I always do when I don’t know something: I got on Wikipedia. After reading all night—or for a good twenty minutes between commercial breaks during Desperate Housewives—I had learned the following about this thing they call softball: (a) you throw underhand, (b) the balls are bigger, (c) that’s what he said. Here’s what I still didn’t know: how to throw a ball, how to hit a ball, how to catch a ball without screaming, how to get a home run (although I’m a pro at getting to third base).

At the first practice, they made me the catcher. Probably because when they asked what position I preferred, I replied, “Seated.” And it was there that I discovered my true gift. See, when you’re the catcher in slow-pitch softball, you’re only marginally in the game. Like Waldorf and Statler’s box seats on The Muppet Show, my comfy perch behind home plate gave me the perfect vantage point for watching the field and making snarky comments about the game in an attempt to mask the fact that I had no idea what the hell was going on. Occasionally, I would be required to catch a ball or something—which I invariably failed to do—but for the most part I was free to make all the puns I wanted out of the comic gold that is nine gays, a big stick, and a ball. And my teammates, God bless them, actually laughed.

Somewhere along the line my behavior began to turn on me. I think maybe it was the day I was assigned to center field during a practice.

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