The Perfect Day by Dalton Ruer It's the inner voice in each of these athletes that determines their fate, not a screenwriter or director. They alone are prepared, or not, to control the 8" between their ears as calls go for and against them. As the wind catches a ball for good or bad. Will an error unravel them or will they accept it as resulting from mathematical odds? Will they face the next pitch that the pitcher hurls? Will they relive the ball that the umpire called a strike in the last pitch for the rest of the day? Will they have the fortitude to rise above the frigid temperature or will thoughts of tournaments in the spring mingle with the reality in front of them?
The movie begins as the sun begins its ascent over a luscious field of grass covered with dew. One by one, a camera brings the golden sun kissed and freckled faces of young women into the frame. As it pans out, you see the broader canvas. These aren't individuals; they’re a softball team. Soon you realize they are but one team of many, warming up for the battles ahead. Heartwarming orchestra music draws you in. As the prelude fades, you hear the determined voices of the coaches and the players. Leaders. Warriors. Encouraging, motivating, assuring one another that on this day, they will prevail. The camera slows as the crescendo builds and rests on the heroine. Having completed her mental preparations, she removes her ear buds and puts them away. She knows deep down, she’s got this. She pumps her fist and storms out of the dugout. Her metal cleats on the concrete overtake you. You are in the game with her as the umpire shouts the familiar battle cry, "Play ball!"
Those mental ghosts danced before me throughout the morning as game after game was played on the eight fields surrounding me. As the clouds continued their easterly dance, the warm Georgia sun kissed the fields and the players on them, those that were battling, enduring game after game. One by one, players’ cheers were replaced with tears. Their dreams of taking home the trophy had unceremoniously faded like the sun.
I assure you, the picture differed greatly from the cliché Hollywood story I painted for you. As I approached the cloud covered, frost bitten fields in Duluth, Georgia late in the fall of 2011, I could see my breath. Players wore layer upon layer of clothing, clinging to warmth before their games began. Their red faces were a result of the cold and the wind, not the sun. I'd like to say a heroine stood out like a woman among girls as they walked to the field. Alas, that was not the case. At 7:00 AM, every player was a mirror image of the others. Undaunted and focused on their mission, for sure, but untested and unproven.
Late in the evening, I prepared myself for the championship game. My body warmed only by memories of the day. Great plays by great players. What Hollywood screenwriters miss is that Championship games bless only one team and discard the rest. One of the teams had a high national acclaim. The other, a local team without accolades, one that I loved personally and respected professionally. While they won and lost games over the years, they never let me down. On this particular evening, they played in such a way that caused me to jump out of my - 26 -
