The Under Review - Issue 4 | Summer 2021

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even if it didn’t square with traditional notions of femininity. I knew her only in her Swing Away years, and
this gave me a deep understanding of what it meant to live joyfully as an independent woman.
She bowled regularly with her girlfriends and was the commissioner of several local leagues. In 1985, she
was inducted to the Springfield-Clark County Ohio US Bowling Congress Hall of Fame.
Once she retired, she made the 90-minute drive down to Cincinnati for home games seven to ten times a
season. Always by herself: beer, score card, sunshine, Ohio River just on the horizon.
She joined the Rosie Reds – Rooters Organized to Stimulate Interest and Enthusiasm in the Cincinnati
Reds – a philanthropic and social organization that supports youth and college baseball in the city.
We went to Reds games together as a family – Dad, Mom, Grandma, and I – where there were nonnegotiable
traditions: you took your glove, you paid attention, you scored the game. When I chose my
favorite player, Grandma and Dad both approved; Eric Davis was in the 40-40 club. I came home with a
poster, added a huge wad of chewing gum to my batting practice ritual, and started swinging
indiscriminately at every ball that came my way.
On special occasions, I was allowed to spend the night at Grandma’s. She let me play with everything at
her house – the adding machine, the costume jewelry, the organ. In the summer, I ran around outside or
swam in the neighbor’s pool. When we came back to the house and I was crispy from the chlorine and the
sun, we stepped down into the cool, dark basement. I stared at all the Cincinnati Reds memorabilia on the
walls behind the bar—heavy on Tony Perez, her favorite player—while Grandma made me a plate of cold
fried chicken and potato chips. She always let me have a small juice glass of beer with my late lunch, and
forty years later, this is still my favorite summer afternoon meal.
***
Playing softball taught me the importance of finding my fit: I wasn’t fast and I didn’t have much of an arm. I
was too skinny to throw with any kind of velocity, but I was consistent and reliable. I was a decent second
baseman; I could make the stops, and I always knew where my first and second plays were. As I grew taller
and slower, a better fit emerged: I had long arms and legs and could stretch from the first-base bag like a
champ.
In the batter’s box, I figured out that skinny didn’t matter; it was all about timing. I was patient, and I could
wait for my pitch.
I’ve taken a pitch or two since: jobs and partners and cities that weren’t quite right.
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