I fill a unique position on

our church's league softball team.

It's probably best described as the "give the pastor a jersey in

case we have nobody else at the game and, if he doesn't play, we forfeit

the game" position. Which, frankly, is the position I prefer.

I played church league softball in high school and, my senior year,

earned a .704 batting average. Remember, however, that this was slow

pitch softball and not baseball. Still, I was a pretty good player. In

those days, I played first base and very little got by me.

It was about 1986 when two things happened: (1) I stopped competing

in karate tournaments and (2) I pretty much hung up the cleats where

softball was concerned. I preferred, and still prefer, to watch and to

cheer and to encourage.

However, a couple of weeks

ago, circumstances forced me to the field one last time.�Our church

was scheduled to play New Hope South in a 7 p.m. game. Now, we have

24 players on roster, but, for many of our guys

who work outside the immediate area, 7 p.m. is a really early game. At

7 p.m., we only had seven guys on the field. I put on my jersey, making

me the eighth player. Although church league softball calls for ten players

on the field, a game can be played with only nine.

"Father David, you need to pray in another player," one

person said.

"No," I replied, "I

need to pray in TWO players!"

The ten-minute grace period

passed with no other players in sight. We lost by forfeit to New Hope

South, the first time ever we'd suffered

that kind of loss. Still, the guys wanted to play so we entered into

a "practice game" with New Hope South.

I was assigned to play right

field and bat last, as befitting my current lack of talent. Right field,

I soon discovered, receives very few balls

hit to that area, which was fine by me. I kinda felt like those kids

in T-Ball who play the outfield; it's a good time to meditate, pray,

or take a nap. Eventually, it was my turn to bat. It had been about 15

years since I had held a bat in my hand in a game situation, and it felt

a bit odd. There were two outs and I was fully prepared to make the third.

The pitch came, I swung and

... crack! Well, "plink" was more

like it since we didn't use wooden bats. In any event, the ball

raced down the third base line and I realized that I was actually going

to have to run! Now this body hasn't been subjected to running in

years. I don't have the body of a runner. I have the body of a walker;

I walk to my car and drive. It felt like it took me 90 minutes to get

to first base. Somehow, the first baseman juggled the ball and I was

safe. Before I could catch my breath, the next batter hit a grounder

to the infield and I had to run once more. I was thrown out at second

base and the inning ended. I didn't have to run anymore. Praise

God.

The New Hope batters, however,

chose that inning to hit two high flies to (you guessed it) right field.

Did you ever have one of those nightmares

where you are running for all you've got, yet it feels like you

are running in tar, in slow motion? That's not a nightmare. That's

reality in right field for an old guy who has no business chasing balls

hit by 20-something athletes. I didn't get to them in time, of course.

In fact they bounced past me so I had to turn around and run after them.

I tried once to throw the ball to home plate like I used to but wound

up doing a girlie throw and bouncing the ball to first base.

Then I had to bat again. This

time I got a good solid hit that dropped about ten yards in front of

the left fielder and made it safely to first

base within the allotted 90 minutes. Another player's hit forced

me to run once again to second base where this time I was NOT thrown

out. The next player made an out, however, and, soon, mercifully, the

game was over. Again, praise God.

The next day was when I paid

the price. My knees were swollen, my hips hurt, my ankles ached, my

shoulder was sore and I could barely roll out

of bed. Walking downstairs was impossible. For those who think it's

cool being married to a nurse, think again! Mostly, she reminded me that

I was 53 and not 19, that I was in no shape to play ball, that I was

being stupid ... well, you get the idea. I crawled back into bed and

hurt all morning.

And the score? What score?

Who cares? I still have swollen knees! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get some Ben Gay and go read the

latest newsletter from the AARP. I think I've retired from softball.

[Father David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal

Church on Ga. Highway 34 between Peachtree City and Newnan. The church

offers Sunday services at 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. He may be contacted at www.ctkcec.org

or at [email protected].]