The hard and fast of softball

'Twas a hot summer day in Ottawa. A colleague at work asked me whether I'd like to play for his team in the Nortel Softball League. After coming to Montreal, I'd made this sort of terse promise to myself not to indulge in trifles such as softball. I don't know whether it was some sort of reaction to N. American society. A kind of possessiveness toward cricket, maybe.

Most cricketing minds exhibit this cynicism, a mildly superior air. In Montreal when we used to practise on the astro-turf near McGill's Arthur Currie Gym (they had the field hockey games at the '76 Montreal Olympics there), at the end of the alloted time for cricket practice, we used to hang about and watch softball games. We used to snigger and smirk. No strategy, no elegance, we used to say.

A few months back, my answer to my colleague's query would have been a supercilious 'No'. But, four winters in Canada have now taken their toll. My answer was a weary, resigned Yes. And next week, on a Wednesday, came the first game. I didn't have a baseball glove. Neither did I have a baseball bat. Both, since I still look down on baseball and softball. To state my exact thoughts: No cricketer worth his salt needs a glove to catch a softball ball. And as far as the bat went, I mean how can you bat with a club? It almost amounted to treason against cricket.

I quickly banished the thought of ever buying a baseball bat. It was a feeling not dissimilar to what Gandhiji must have felt when he was asked to break his vegetarian vows. My teammates laughed when I said I was taking the field without a glove. I swear I heard at least a few chuckle in the background. Our opponents were to bat first. I was asked where I'd prefer to field. Almost like Dravid sometimes says about his preferred spot in the Indian batting order, I said, "Oh, anywhere." I was quickly banished to the outfield, far right field, if I remember correctly. I was being hidden in the field, a testimony to my glovelessness.

Some nice, well-meaning soul in our opposition offered his glove, but I stubbornly refused. A combination of the grittiness of a Sidhu and the restrained arrogance of a Tendulkar grew in me. Some friendly slugger I mean batter, hit the ball in the general direction of right field and I sauntered in, fielded and threw in the ball in one motion. An act quite foreign to Nortel's Corkstown fields. Cricketing audiences might have nit-picked at my throwing action. The onlookers at Corkstown talked in hushed tones. Somewhere between the Caribbean Sea and North America's east coast, there is a drastic shift in sporting perception.

After a while, I was asked to come into in-field. A grudging sort of move. A mild acceptance. A girl asked me between innings, how I could field with bare hands when she'd difficulty stopping the ball with a glove. I smiled modestly and said the key was to bring the ball in, in one smooth motion. She looked at me as if I was explaining the Indian rope trick.

When my turn came to bat, I had to choose between a variety of equally dangerous looking clubs. I quickly discounted one named after the Louisville Slugger. It had a touch of the barbaric. I chose one from the others and strode out to bat. Thoughts of straight-battedness did not bother me. There were no thoughts of settling in and biding my time either. No getting used to the pitch. I was there to slog. Pure and simple. Still getting used to the gladiatorial feeling, I missed three in a row and was quickly back sitting on the benches. But, not to worry, I'd eight more chances, well, actually lesser since everyone in the team bats and an innings is three outs. By the next innings, I'd got out of my trance and swung the bat in the manner of a V B Chandrashekar and got to first base. It wasn't to much avail since our team's batting wasn't strong even on paper.

In Nortel's softball league, you can actually ask the pitcher to slow down. The pitcher throws underarm in the first place. But, evidently not satisfied with small regulations, there is the provision in the rules for a slow-down request. The first time I heard the request passed on to a pitcher by one of my teammates I couldn't believe my ears. But, everyone on my team chimed in to support the batter's claim that the pitcher was underarming too fast.

I've begun to believe that I've seen everything.

One day after seeing me throw underarm, a teammate asked me to pitch. The feelings that go through a cricket bowler's mind when he lobs balls in, underarm to a batter who looks like he's been equipped with the latest in battle-axe technology are a mixture of helplessness and surrealism. You are bound to get slaughtered all over the place, well mostly, left field. It's like Kirmani bowling to Mansoor Elahi. It's also uncannily like feeding the batter gulab jamuns.

You don't see the slips go down. You don't feel the momentum build up before the final leap. You don't pass the umpire. You don't feel the lurking urge to bowl a yorker. You can, however, alternate between a slow lob and medium-fast lob.

One day, a batter swung at a medium-fast lob and the ball caught the outer perimeter of the bat and came at a fastish pace toward me at right field. It wasn't very different from an uppish slash toward deep gully. Ever since I caught that ball, my teammates never question my catching ability. Somewhere deep in their softball subconsciousness, cricket now occupies an exalted state. Not a welcome feeling entirely, but an uneasy acceptance.

One other day, I was the second baseman. The batter swung at one hard, the ball merely bobbled out somewhere between first and second base. He was sure he'd get thrown out at first base. But in full knowledge of this impending doom, he still had to run. There is not the option to run based on judgement. You are forced to run if the ball is in play. I believe, in softball as in baseball, the batter needs to be in possession of a certain masochist tendency. But what the team hadn't bargained for was a double play. I neatly stepped on second base as I threw to first base. Two batters gone at one shot. I'd been fully accepted into softball fold.

My teammates started querying me on cricketing intricacies. Their sporting curiosity had been piqued.

In later matches, our opponents didn't question my glovelessness. When I went into bat, the pitcher was asked to keep it high. "He's a cricketer, don't ever get it low, keep it high" was the refrain.

At the end of the season, I still have the same disregard for softball and baseball. Their lack of variety and spontaneity continues to worry me. My colleague refers to me in daily conversations as gloveless. A few more people in Ottawa have a grudging appreciation of cricket.

That much has changed.

Softball