When I quit playing competitive softball several years ago I left cold turkey.

I didn't linger around to watch the others play or offer to hang on as a coach or casual fan.

When I left the game I left for good.

The life of a softball junkie is tough when you're a married man with kids.

The game has broken up more than one marriage - so after nearly 20 years of traveling the state and Mid-Atlantic region in search of championship trophies and the thrill of competition, I hung up my old Rawlings glove and walked away with no regrets.

I didn't miss the pulled hamstrings and sore muscles a 40-year-old-plus man could get from a 10-game tournament weekend of games. I didn't miss the strawberries on the rear, the bruises on the shins and the limping to work on Monday - nor the stress the game brought to the home life.
Nope, when I quit I didn't need to watch others do what I had done for so long. Other things would have to fill my competitive gap.

But the other night, after the final game of my son's fall-ball Little League game, I walked down the hill and to the lights of my past.

The request of a former teammate had stoked my interest.
While getting ready to coach my son's baseball team, the old teammate approached me and offered me a chance to join his 50-plus travel softball team next spring.

He talked of competing in state and national tournaments and his passion for bringing back some of the old guys for another glorious run definitely caught my attention and caught me by surprise.

At first I begged that I couldn't play anymore, I was too old, and I hadn't swung a bat in over five years, but the lure of his offer at least made me consider the idea.
That's when my son and I walked down to watch the fall league games.

Surprisingly some of my former teammates were still playing with the young guys, despite being older than me.
Even the same old umpires were working the plate.
But after watching a few innings my mind started to wander off to injury land.

The rockets these guys were hitting with their $300 bats made me wince. Playing the infield would be out of the question - but whose arm would I borrow to make the throws in from the outfield, because that's shot as well.

Each time a batter took an extra base after a hit my hamstrings would involuntarily twitch to remind me of my age.

Some guys age well athletically and some don't, I thought to myself, looking for an excuse to say no.

Right now I don't know what I'll do, but sometimes it's just nice to walk away from the present day world and take at least a quick little walk in the past.

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