So, I’d been itching to get back on a baseball diamond, you know? Just for fun, nothing too serious. Then I stumbled across this thing called “3 Rivers Baseball.” Sounded kinda grand, kinda official. I figured, “Hey, this could be it. Some good, organized fun.” Boy, was I in for a ride.
Getting Started: The Initial Dive
The sign-up process itself should’ve been a warning. It was all a bit… vague. Emails took days to get answers, and the info about schedules and teams felt like they were making it up as they went along. But I was optimistic, thinking maybe it’s just a relaxed vibe. Relaxed wasn’t the word I’d use later.
My first “practice,” if you could call it that, was an eye-opener. We show up to this field, and it looked like it hadn’t seen a groundskeeper since the Nixon administration. The grass was patchy, baselines were crooked. And the people? A real mix. You had guys who clearly played in college, and then you had folks who looked like they picked up a glove for the first time that morning. Me? I was somewhere in the middle, just trying to figure out what was going on.
The “Organized” Chaos of It All
Let me tell you, the term “league” was used loosely. Very loosely. Schedules would change with less than a day’s notice. Sometimes you’d show up, and the other team wouldn’t. Or they’d have, like, six players. Umpires? Oh, that was a whole other adventure. Sometimes it was a seasoned pro, other times it was just some guy they pulled off the street, probably bribed with a hot dog.
Equipment was another thing. You were pretty much on your own. Some teams had decent gear, others were sharing helmets that looked like ancient relics. We once had a game delayed because we couldn’t find enough actual baseballs. We found a couple of softballs and some tennis balls, but yeah, not ideal for a “baseball” league.
And the rules? Seemed like they were optional, or at least open to interpretation depending on who was yelling the loudest. It wasn’t malicious, mostly just… disorganized. Everyone was there to play, but the framework around it was shaky, to put it mildly. It was like a bunch of kids organizing a pickup game, but with adults who should know better.
My “Practice Record” Through It All
So, what did I “record” from all this? Well, my batting average wasn’t Hall of Fame material, that’s for sure. But I did get a lot of practice in patience. Tons of it. I learned to just roll with the punches. Game cancelled? Okay, more free time. Ump made a crazy call? Just laugh it off, mostly.
I also documented a lot of funny moments. You wouldn’t believe some of the plays, the arguments, the sheer absurdity of it all. There was this one game where a dog ran onto the field and stole second base. Literally picked up the bag and ran off with it. We had to pause for a good ten minutes while we chased it down. You can’t make this stuff up.
Despite the chaos, there was a weird sort of charm to it. You met all sorts of characters. And when you did manage to play a decent, uninterrupted inning, it felt like a real victory. My “practice” became less about refining my baseball skills and more about navigating this bizarre little world of “3 Rivers Baseball.”
Honestly, it wasn’t the polished, well-oiled machine I first imagined from the name. It was messy, unpredictable, and often frustrating. But, you know, I still went. Week after week. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, or maybe, just maybe, there’s something to be said for showing up and playing ball, no matter how weird the circumstances. It definitely gave me stories to tell, that’s for sure.
