We were all horrible that first year. I mean, like a slapstick comedy. People were falling all over the place, no one could hit, no one knew the rules yet, and the dugouts were stacked full of boyfriends and brothers desperately trying to explain what the hell was going on. If two girls were running for the same ball in the outfield they would inevitably run right into each other, causing both to fall over backwards ‘ and neither to catch the ball. What would have been a single base hit in any other game became a home run, and the few people who actually knew the rules seemed like superstars to the rest of us.

But, we stuck to it. Horrible as we might have been, the games were always a ton of fun. Slowly terms like ‘cut-off’ and ‘foul-tip’ began to make sense. We hired real umpires, got coaches, and by the time the second season was in full swing, we were actually playing real softball.

Last week, while at a pre-season game, I found myself thinking: ‘Hm, we’ve gotten pretty hardcore.’ Maybe that’s why I reached out to catch a ball with my un-gloved hand. I’m not quite sure what I was thinking. Actually, I’m quite certain I wasn’t thinking at all. As you might expect, catching a softball flying full force with a bare hand is not a great idea. In a word: Ouch!

So, now I’m out for at least a week with a bad sprain, pondering our league’s rise to competency, and looking hilariously badass with my wounded finger. I must admit, I could not have picked a better finger to injure’

That’s me looking as badass as I’ll probably ever look.