When I recall the memories of softball thoughts of laughter, long bus rides, juicy gossip, unimaginably embarrassing incidents and food comes to mind? lots of food. The tastes of Gatorade mixed with salty sunflower seeds will surly never taste so good again. I remember like yesterday the expressions we saw on our coach's faces, Mr. Bales and Jim Poulton, anger, joy, or the worst of all, disappointment. I can still close my eyes and fall back into my routine of aiming, stepping and letting the ball roll from my fingertips, only to watch with complete confidence one of two things, a strike or a hit ball casually thrown out at first base. I felt at complete ease when I stood upon the mound, and even to think of it brings me back to a special place where I feel not only aware but in complete control of my surroundings. .
My softball coach, Mr. Bales believed in the theoryPractice makes perfect?, and so we not only practiced everyday but usually had games every day except Wednesdays. It was a tough routine, but one we all grew to love. For our away games we rode a bus, the bus ride there was always fun, doing each other's hair and talking about who did who or what last night. It was the ride home, dealing with the outcome of the game that caused us either to rejoice in our victory or to scrunch down as far as we could in our seats to avoid the gaze of our enraged coach. Although this may not seem like fun to the reader of this essay, I truly do miss every detail. Mr. Bales was a tough coach, but ultimately easy to please, he only wanted to win. Jim, on the other hand was quite a softy, but I liked him and with good cause, he was my personal trainer and taught me many useful skills.
I was the starting pitcher from freshman year to senior year, and I am very happy to say that I was an important factor in our winning, or less conceitedly, playing of games. Although I enjoyed the attention I received and I am disappointed to say that I used it for all it was worth during the first two years.