A little rusty...

One day, you're making dinner reservations for some rich bitch and you hear about the company softball league. Great! you think, some fresh air and a chance to show off my natural athleticism!
You were a great ball player back in the day, i.e. ninth grade, and you think you haven't aged one little bit and can still hit and run, catch and throw with the fervor of a 13-year-old tomboy.
So you put down on the sign-up form that you're a Triple A type player, one rank lower than pro, cos hey, you carried the all-girls team back in 1993.
Then you show up for the first game. You toss around a few balls before the game, the first you've thrown in nearly a decade, and they're naturally a bit rusty, but just get me on the field, you think. It'll be just like junior high once the game starts.
Oh, but no. It's not like 1993. In the span of nine years, the baseball glove you once cherished, signed by the San Diego Chicken, has become a little snug. And a huge hole has formed in the middle of it, letting each and every grounder hit to you glide right through it.
And the batting, forget it. The first swings of a bat in nine years. You think you're keeping your eye on the ball? Not a chance. Swing after swing the ball flies by. If you do make contact, it's only a little grounder and an intrepid third baseman or shortstop has thrown you out before you make it three-quarters of the way to the bag. You pray the first baseman drops the ball so you can claim a weak base hit.
By the seventh-inning stretch, you're warmed up. This won't be so bad, you think. I can do this.
Your team is down by one. All you need is a good base hit and let the team take care of the rest.
But then those nine years jump up and bite you in the ass once again. You lose by one.
It's not as bad as it could have been, you think. But it sure as hell wasn't as good as you remembered, either.

That's how my night went. How was yours?
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