Perspective

Several weeks ago, I received an email notice that the LGBT Congressional Staff Association was trying to form a team to compete in the Stonewall Kickball League.  “What could be more fun than a gay kickball league on Sunday evenings?”  I thought.  So I decided to add my name to the roster, paid my $25 fee and eagerly awaited the start of the season.

At 39 years old, I was determined that I still had the juice to play team sports, and nothing seemed more simple, easy and fun than kickball.  Here’s the best part – our team was to be called Pink Gingham, a name thrown out to all of us by the late President of the LGBT CSA Chris Crowe.

Chris, at a mere 29 years old, was to join us on the kickball team but tragically passed away just as the season was to get underway.  While I wasn’t close friends with Chris, I remember giving him an informational interview several years ago when he was trying to find a job on the Hill.  He was remembered by friends for his kindness, wonderful humor, warm personality and dedication to the fight for equality.  At our second kickball game, we all signed a team t-shirt for Chris which was presented to his family at a remembrance ceremony on the Hill. 

The news of Chris’ untimely death was a shock to all of us, and it served as an all too vivid reminder that our time on this earth can be cut short at a moment’s notice.  Perspective.

Kickball turned out to be an activity that I would look forward to each week.  Most importantly, it was a great opportunity to meet new people, many of whom I have probably seen numerous time but never really knew.  Pink Gingham took the field each week with a strong sense of purpose, but never quite seemed to capture a victory.

Channelling the chief of staff in me, I decided to emulate the feared red team known as “Sit on my Base” which would arrive on the field each Sunday night in high heels sporting air horns and vuvuzuelas.  They were obnoxious to be sure, but they were damn good at kickball, and their antics seemed to provide a hearty dose of team spirit and campy theatre.  I traveled out to Virginia and armed myself with whistles, an air horn of our own, pink string in a can, noisemakers and yup, pink lip stick to be used as war paint under our eyes.

I purchased these materials particularly for our match with none other than the “red team” and much to my chagrin, the game was cancelled because of a wet field.  I don’t need to tell you what happens when throngs of gay kickball players show up for games only to find out they have been cancelled, especially when the field is adjacent to Jrs Bar and Grill.  You remember my friend Jr?

The surprise stash of goodies would have to wait until the next week when we would finally face off against Sit on my Base.  When Sunday arrived, the tension in the air was palpable as Pink Gingham and Sit on my Base prepared for battle.  Thinking they would trounce us, they grew nervous when we remained tied at the bottom of the third inning.  We never did win that game, but we learned a thing or two about team spirit and never giving up.

Fast forward to last weekend – an evening of double headers for most teams to make up for the cancellation from weeks ago.  We tied our first game against Ball Busters and then went on to challenge Rogue Ballers.  To say that this team did not like our whistles would be an understatement, but I loved the fact that our loud charades really got under their skin.

And that’s when it happened.  Sometime in the third inning (the details are a little fuzzy), I went up to kick and after blasting it into the field, I began my sprint to first base.  One stride, two stride and then SNAP!  It felt like someone slammed an aluminum baseball bat into my right calf.  Limping in agony, I made it to first base where I was thankfully replaced with a runner.  Stupidly, I finished the game which ended in our first win of the season.  Pink Gingham Pride at last!

On Monday, I would find out that I had likely torn my calf muscle and on Tuesday, it would be confirmed by an orthopedic doctor.  Painful could not describe how my leg was feeling.  I was placed in a pneumatic boot and told I would need to wear it for at least 3 weeks, likely to be followed by a less intrusive special orthopedic shoe.  Dread came over me – no kickball, no gym, no training sessions, no walking to work.  After spending 2 years losing nearly 50 pounds, this was bad news indeed that prompted anger and depression.

On Wednesday evening after dropping off my prescription at CVS, I was walking along the sidewalk when I heard a young voice say, "Excuse me."  I turned to see a young probably around 8 year old girl riding her bike and quickly moved aside to allow her to pass.  As she did, she said to me with the attitude of Wanda Sykes, "Yuht, cuz you wouldn't want me to break your other leg."  Taking a beat to register this sistuation, I finalled responded, "You're rude."  Once she had gotten just far enough away from me, she turned and gave a nasty face.  Reeling, I looked around for parents to scold this young girl, but of course, none were to be found.  Just when I thought she was gone, she came back by on her little back and in a sicky sweet tiny voice said, "Hola," and disappeared out of sight.  I am not sure I have ever been taunted by an 8 year old!

The next morning, I boarded the train at Dupont Circle and immediately noticed a very buff, good-looking guy at the front of my car.  I could only see him front the waist up and he was wearing a muscle shirt which layed bare his giant biceps and numerous tattoos.   He had short cropped black hair and was the focus of many a lady (and well me) on that train.  Once the train had made one stop, he moved from where he was standing and walked down the aisle to take a seat.  And that’s when I saw.

Everything was physically perfect about this young man, except for the fact that he was missing a leg and instead had a prosthetic.  Admittedly, I tried not to stare, but I was shocked because it was not at all what I expected to see when he moved from out behind the first row of seats on the train.  I was sure he would have powerfully built legs to match his arms.

I am guessing that he was either a current member of our Armed Services or one of our proud veterans.  I wanted to go over to him and thank him for his service, but not knowing if this was in fact the case, I remained silent.

I thought a lot about that young man all day and decided that however frustrating my current debilitated state is, no matter how painful it can be, no matter how long it takes to recover, I still have my leg, and I will live to play another kick ball game, walk another mile, train another time. 

Perspective is exactly what we all need every now and again, and kickball gave me a double dose that I will never forget.