Top Gear

Spanking new gear, same old Cubs bullshit.

A free gift that came with my package, one of those ionic titanium necklaces that's supposed to enhance athletic performance. More bullshit, in my opinion. It's called eight hours of sleep each night and training.

When I started playing ball in fourth grade, I was given a glove thin as a wafer, flat as a pancake and told to play third base. No, it wasn't the streets of the Dominican Republic -- I had a proper shirt, shoes and went to games in a school bus -- but didn't have any real gear to call my own. In middle school through early high school, it was the same thing -- standard issue equipment from a selection of Mizuno and Louisville Slugger bats to mitts. You picked one that fit, whether you're catching, playing the infield or patroling the outfield. At least I didn't have to pull a Shoeless Joe Jackson -- I had my own cleats. But they were soccer boots because that's what everyone wore for softball. We just weren't sophisticated enough to wear actual spikes.

Things looked up a little towards the end of high school. I actually had my own glove now, a 12.75-incher that worked for catching, even though my pitcher Shulin was a flamethrower (I played very well with fire). I developed the habit of wearing a batting glove under my mitt, but batted bare-handed Mark Grace-style -- I agree, the swing doesn't feel as sweet unless you had control of the grip -- and owned my personal pair instead of sharing like some of the girls did (fortunately, SARS and swine flu were not yet invented then). I now also had metal cleats, which I wore out a couple pairs each season. Still, some things never changed. Shared catcher's equipment. Chin zits? Shared sweat.

After high school and joining the Singapore Recreational Club for club-level softball (my ball club to this day), an identity began to develop. I begin to always carry two gloves, the tighter, compacter infielder's mitt and the roomier outfield leather. A sliding pad came on my much-maligned, injury-prone left knee. Always a wristband on my right forearm. But it was when games didn't carry as high a stake (national school championships, national club leagues, international tournaments) that I really came into my own as a ballplayer. On the recreational slowpitch diamonds of Chicago, you'll know me from a distance -- different-colored socks on each leg, Oakleys as long as you can see the sun, red adidas cleats, a personal Louisville Slugger bat (a lifelong Slugger user, I only recently stepped out of character to purchase a 2008 DeMarini Evo composite shaft). Playing first or second base on my co-ed teams and third base on my women's team, I became a much more physical player, diving into the red dirt, getting down, earning the nicknames of Spazz and Pigpen. But when you play against guys and you're a chick, you need to make a statement. You need to burn them by sailing that homer over their heads. You need to take someone out on the bases. You need to nail their line drives. And so, when the top prize was just bragging rights and a championship sweatshirt, I truly became a better reader of softball, and fine-tuned my game like never before (funnily enough, watching as many as I can of the Cubs' 162+ game schedule each year helped). Going down to the well tonight and trying to recapture the glory days? Guilty.

Today is Christmas Day, because I received a box from North Wichita, Kansas labeled BaseballSavings.com. Inside, a bounty of play ball pleasures -- a new Louisville Slugger Zephyr 12.5" infield glove and red adidas cleats. Shiny, lingering smell of leather, ready to smack some dirt and yellow softballs. Last weekend at the Old Rafflesians Association slow-pitch tourney, I was struck by how well-equipped the high school kids are these days -- they have a lot more stuff to enhance their performance (minus the 'roids) than we did. But still, it's still fun to get new gear, no matter how many years I'm past my prime. The fun of lacing up so the rawhide melds into your left palm perfectly, so the spikes dig into the ground just right moving across the infield or outfield. Feeling a little taller because the studs haven't been worn down, feeling like your range is a little longer because new gloves don't shortchange on you. Hey, this stuff is important when your breakthrough years are over, but at least there's still a lot of breaking in left to do. You can't replace cranky, creaky old catcher's knees or the impossibly foolish belief that the Cubs will win the World Series championship in your lifetime, but at least you'll never miss a grounder or trip on a base. That you can blame on equipment, that is.