I really only have one hobby. One hobby that matters. One hobby that, knowing I'll be hobby-ing that day, wakes me up a little faster and in a good mood. I'm very thankful and a tweed bit proud to be coming up on the 25-year hobby-playing marker. Softball, my friends, sweet softball.
I didn't realize what a true gift (not my talent, but the fact that I'm STILL playing) it was until my game last night. You see I play with a bunch of, how you say, older gentlemen. Yes, a girl infiltrating the boys club. Take me and about 3 others out of the equation and the average age is about 50+. One of the guys I was warming up with asked how long I've been playing. Giving it a little thought, I realized I started at about 6 years old (officially, on The Honeys) and I'm now inching 31. That's 25 years. Holy smokes. That's the kind of time frame these men talk of. "Yeah, I've been married for 25 years." or "Yeah, I've worked at (fill in the blank) for 25 years." I was all of the sudden on their playing field. I can talk the "25 years" talk too!
Some people have their fishing or scrapbooking or running or whatever. I have, and always have had, softball. I approach my games now with the same excitement and the same intensity as I did 25 years ago. I'm still nervous the entire game. With every batter I'm frantically figuring out where to throw before the ball gets to me, and praying I don't look like an idiot if and when I get my shot.
It's doubtful that I'll continue my hobby for another 25 years (though who knows!), but maybe I can hope for an offspring of mine to catch the fever so I can at least watch from the bleachers and do a little vicarious living. At present, however, it's not looking too good. I tried to give a simple lesson in throwing overhand to my 3 year old and somehow it all ended in a meltdown. Her, not me. I guess I can learn to like ballet.
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