Softball On Monday Nights

Growing up, my dad played on a softball team called the Minute Men.

I remember going to the games, sitting on the bench with the guys, and running out to collect the bats after they hit. Some of those guys still play softball or over-the-line today, but that team itself has long since come and gone.

What hasn’t gone away are the friendships.

A few of those guys still get together for lunch every month or so. Whenever my dad comes home from one of those lunches, he tells me who showed up, where they went, and what everyone has been up to. Some of the guys have passed away. Others have moved. But the ones who are still around keep showing up.

Now I’m older and I play on my own softball team.

Ironically, we didn’t start as a softball team at all. More than ten years ago we were an indoor soccer team. Back then everything was competitive. There were arguments with referees, heated games, and an obsession with winning.

It’s not like that anymore.

Now we’re a co-ed team-pitch softball team playing in the lowest division on Monday nights.

Sometimes we win.

Usually we don’t.

In all the years we’ve been playing together, we’ve only won one championship.

But that’s not really why we’re there.

The team has changed over the years. People have come and gone. Most of us are married now. Most of us have kids. Sometimes those kids come to the games. Most of the time there isn’t anyone in the stands.

We show up thirty minutes early, take some swings in the batting cages, warm up, play for an hour, and then head back to our normal lives.

Some games are immediately after work when everyone is rushing to get there.

Other games don’t start until after the kids have gone to bed, and we’re all wishing we were already asleep too.

But we keep coming back.

Season after season.

I don’t know exactly why everyone else plays.

Maybe some miss their younger baseball days.

Maybe some enjoy the competition.

Maybe some like the exercise.

For me, it’s about the friendships.

It’s about maintaining relationships that have been part of my life for so long that I don’t want to watch them slowly disappear.

Sure, part of me still enjoys pretending I’m twelve years old and back on a baseball field.

But mostly it’s about the people.

When we first started playing together, none of us had the responsibilities we have now.

No spouses.

No kids.

No mortgages.

No school events, birthday parties, sports practices, work obligations, church meetings, home projects, or endless items on a to-do list.

Back then we were looking for something to do.

Now we have too much to do.

That’s why things like softball matter.

Not because they’re important on their own.

Because if they aren’t on the calendar, they get replaced by something else.

And when the time together disappears, the friendships slowly start to fade with it.

Not because they matter any less.

Simply because relationships require time.

The Minute Men went through the same thing.

Eventually life got busy. Bodies got older. The softball games stopped.

But now they’ve figured something out.

The lunches are on the calendar.

Each month somebody picks the restaurant.

Whoever can make it shows up.

Because that’s what keeps friendships alive.

Showing up.

I don’t know how long we’ll keep playing softball on Monday nights.

Hopefully long enough for my boys to come watch a few games.

But I do know that if softball ends, it will need to become something else.

A lunch.

A poker night.

A monthly dinner.

Something.

Because friendships don’t survive on memories alone.

They survive because people continue making time for each other.

I need those guys in my life.

And I hope I can be someone they need too.

So for now, I’ll keep showing up on Monday nights.