Home Alone

Every June since eighth grade, my daughter has insisted I watch the NCAA Division-I softball World Series with her.  But she doesn’t live here anymore, so, out of habit as much as anything, I watched alone.

Oklahoma beat Florida two games to none in a best-out-of-three format.  Why does the premier event in all of women’s softball (unless you think the pros count, in which case explain to me the packed stands in Oklahoma City, site of the Series) settle on three instead of seven games?  The whole point of women’s softball is to offer a sport the equal to baseball—as witnessed by Jessica Mendoza comparing one of the Oklahoma pitchers throwing 74 mph from 43 feet to Aroldis Chapman throwing at 100 mph from 60 feet 6 inches—so it would seem the final series should have the same number of games as the NCAA men.

Maybe it’s just as well Clare wasn’t here.  That way, she didn’t have to listen to me complain about the left-handed catcher and why offering equivalences isn’t really a compliment or an indication of true equality.  If the young woman can throw 74mph with a windmill delivery, let’s put her on the mound and see if she could throw a baseball submarine style.  I’m sure Branch Rickey would have done it, to which my daughter would say most softball players don’t want to be baseball players, and then we’d raise our voices…

God, I miss those fights.