At the end of every softball practice and game, the Rangers sit in a circle and discuss. We anticipate the familiar closing chant of “Rangers!” and the camaraderie of our ending break, but mostly we anticipate the answer to the question: Are we dragging?
Indeed, the mix of sand, silt, and clay that creates our infield must be periodically raked to level the dirt. The process requires all eleven players to drag (hence the name) three metal grates throughout the infield. Beginning at the center, we gyre around the pitcher’s circle until almost all of the diamond is patterned in smooth, concentric spirals.
The lucky ones get to the rakes first and get a shorter turn, while the more patient wait and persevere through a tougher exercise. It’s a tedious process, but it’s essentially nothing when done as a team. Still, that doesn’t stop us from groaning upon realizing we need to drag.
The latest bond has created the opportunity for many different sports to receive renovations to their fields, softball being no exception. Soon, both the baseball and softball fields will be renewed to only turf.
Which means no more dirt. No longer will we have to rake the fields before a rain, nor will new lines be drawn with chalk before each game.
I should be relieved about this, yet I am not. The tedious process has become a custom, a practice that is both arduous and character-building. So much of my love for this sport requires the dirt of the diamond that I never realized before the threat of turf came creeping on me.
I’m going to miss how my clothes get dirty when I slide. I like sliding. I’m not very good at it, but I love the way my uniform reflects my slide into home plate or dive back to first base. It’s like a battle scar, in a way—it shows commitment. Eventually, the stains will come off in the wash, but I wear them throughout the games with pride.
I love the smell of the diamond dirt. It isn’t much to be admired, especially combined with late-spring sweat, but it’s certainly nostalgic. It reminds me of mid-summer baseball runs, playing T-ball with my brothers as my dad plays John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” on his oversized speaker.
I’m going to have to bring my knee down to prevent the ball from rolling all the way to the fence. I’ll say goodbye to my metal cleats and my proud uniform stains. No longer will I uphold my tradition of “seasoning” my glove with cut grass in the outfield. It will just be plastic.
It’ll still be the same game, the same girls. Eventually, they’ll leave me too.
I’ll enjoy my metal cleats, stains, and the real grass while they last. I’ll appreciate how heavy metal grates hone my arms and temperament; I’ll breathe in the smell of mid-summer T-ball and Fogerty’s familiar clap track.
