I sat out most of the game but kept my-self busy warming up our leftfielder, Steve Cox, a lawyer, between innings. Cox was another one I could throw to, but when shortfielder Jerry McGrath, a stockbroker, unexpectedly called for the ball, my throw to him soared toward Lake Michigan. I had no chances in the Wrigley infield, thank heavens. And I got on base once on an error.
Les Lapins Sauvages and our vanquished opponents repaired to a jolly tavern just outside Wrigley's centerfield bleachers, for a few postgame beers. I was emotionally drained but, outwardly at least, in good spirits. My mind was made up. This was the end. I held a glass aloft with my traitorous arm and toasted my own decisiveness.
I know I'll miss the game. All of us retired players do. Slo-pitch Softball has given me some wonderful moments. I think. The trouble is, when I look back, all I can remember are ground balls rolling between my legs, pop flys popping out of my glove, strikeouts and, finally, those ghastly, humiliating wild throws. Maybe the game wasn't so good to me, after all.
Geez, I hope Moose doesn't book us into Yankee Stadium next year.