real baseball, before the big-bucks boys got involved.
That tradition is alive and well in Palo Alto. There are 47 teams playing under Palo Alto Recreation's adult-softball program, League Director Chris Neier reports. That's nearly 700 players -- husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, co-workers, friends -- with hundreds more onlookers and supporters, all deeply engaged.
We PAW Packers were rookies in a league of seasoned veterans -- some have been playing for 20 years or more.
Our fateful day -- or night -- occurred April 9, a cool Wednesday evening at El Camino Ball Park. After recruiting players (many of whom didn't know squat about softball), the PAW Pack was ready, more or less, to take the field.
Butterflies danced in my stomach. I wore my bright blue Palo Alto Weekly jersey with pride, the number 10 silk-screened in white on the back. Determined to look the part, I'd purchased a Boston Red Sox cap several days earlier. The rest of the team arrived. We eagerly, anxiously awaited the word of the umpire to "take the field."
It was nearly 9 p.m. when we got underway. Towering lights shined above us.
Our team was first at bat. Crackling nerves and bewildered anticipation that had built up in me for weeks now churned inside like so much magma. For some egomaniacal reason I had assigned myself first at bat .
The lanky, bearded pitcher -- clearly a seasoned veteran who was going to kill me with humiliation -- stared at me with beady eyes. I clenched my bat. Sweat dripped from my brow.
We faced a team called the "Sap Labs." Their manager urged them all to shift several feet to the right, certain this lefty would send the ball that way, if I connected at all. The pitcher waited, stepped forward and let a slow, arched pitch drift above home plate.
I swung, heard a subdued "crack." I watched the ball dribble down the left baseline. The third baseman snatched it up effortlessly and threw me out. Dejected, I walked toward the dugout with a bowed head. Then I heard a sound I did not expect: my teammates applauding.
There was Frank Bravo, our computer guy, clapping and spouting words of encouragement; Nikki and Michael patting my back, rubbing my shoulders, making uplifting comments; my brother, Nathan: "Good job Ty, you'll get 'em next time."
And I realized why I wanted to do this. The team, made up of oddball Weekly employees, friends of friends, siblings and such, coming together -- not to win, but for the sheer enjoyment of doing something together, as a team.
We lost that game by an unmentionable margin. But the camaraderie that's developed is worth more than a thousand wins. The man in charge of advertising, the ace reporter, the promotions assistant and her energetic friends, the shy young woman in classifieds, the woman behind the arts pages, the witty courier, my brother.
Whether we win or lose, the fact of that closeness remains. These people are my friends, these are my teammates, this is our spirit. Starlit nights on a subtle Palo Alto softball diamond. Forty-seven teams -- 700 players -- one fantastic feeling.
Tyler Hanley is assistant to the editor at the Weekly. He can be e-mailed at thanley@paweekly.com.
