by Paul Drockton

Created on: March 06, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Stacked Cards

There were two sports that mattered to the bungalow residents of Parma, Ohio. One was softball. The other was bowling. I have since come to believe that both sports appeal came from the fact that they could be played while somewhat incapacitated from drinking massive quantities of beer.

Parma, had in fact, hosted both the National Softball Championships and National Bowling tournaments.

I dreamed of rising to the peak in both. There was, however, one slight disadvantage I unknowingly carried with me. I had absolutely no depth perception. None, nada, zero. Calculating the distance between me and a moving object was like calculating the distance between Detroit and the moon.

To make matters worse, the most beautiful, the most desirable of young women in our neighborhood were quite athletic and frequently challenged us to a friendly game of softball at Ridgebrook elementary. They were good. So good, in fact, that we rarely expected to beat them. "Beaten by a bunch of girls" was a common occurrence for the manly men that resided on Kenilworth Avenue.

For me, there just wasn't enough time between the crack of the bat and the ball falling in my general area for any accurate calculations. I was forced to rely on gross estimates, which were usually wrong. I eventually became expert at chasing missed balls that had somehow avoided my glove.

Playing catch didn't help. Playing 5 dollars didn't help. In the 3 dimensional game of Parma softball there was no room for a 2 dimensional player. With envy, I watched the James Bond movies. He always got the girl. Probably because of his seldom seen agility on the softball field. It must have been one of the great secrets to his success. I vowed to look for Sean Connery at the next national tournament to be held at State Road Park.

Meanwhile, the more worthy candidates enjoyed blossoming romances with our most attractive opponents. I rode the bench in that game as well. Again the future was laid out for all to see.

I was doomed to a life of solitude. No self-respecting Parma girl would ever consider spending the rest of her life with a man that couldn't hit 300 while pounding down a twelve pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor.

"Sir, I would like to ask for your daughter's hand in holy matrimony," I would say.

After careful consideration he would invite me to join him in the back yard for a game of $5.00. Next to the pink flamingo would be an open cooler filled with ice-cold Schlitz (the first choice of softball players everywhere!).

Nervously,

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