In the Pink by Dr. Nancy Golden

If not for the pink t-shirts, it might just have been a perfect day.

The players were likely still sleeping off last night’s rain-delayed game against the Braves when I showed up at RFK Stadium in DC that September morning. That’s OK, because I came prepared to swing for the seats and take grounders at short—Felipe Lopez would only get in my way.

Ha! If only I had that much confidence going into the day. The truth was, despite the fact that the Nationals billed the day as a “Baseball 101 Clinic for Women,” I was still worried that my desire to run around a major league ball field and meet some coaches might be hampered by my lack of certain skills that seemed helpful to the game. Namely: hitting, throwing, and catching. While I have a solid knowledge and appreciation of the game as a fan, the Nats’ previous events designed to increase female attendance, mainly Ladies Night happy hours, required only skills that I had long ago mastered—drinking beer and flagging down waiters carrying hors d'oeuvres. And now my dirty secret was about to be revealed—an avid fan of baseball, my mastery of its play is just about on par with George Bush’s mastery of words containing three or more syllables. And while in reality I knew deep down that it didn’t at all matter if Third Base Coach Tim Tolman found out that I had a weak arm, I couldn’t help but worry: What if I couldn’t even hit the cut-off man?

Waiting outside the Stadium at 8:30 a.m. for everyone to arrive, my co-clinician Kelly and I were assigned to groups and awarded our swag. Some of the freebies were standard fare—a Nats cooler, school supplies, a scorebook, etc. Others were decidedly girly—a pack of baseball cards featuring Nats players and their mothers, and a t-shirt in the girliest of all girl colors, pink. (Which will so perfectly match the pink baseball cap from that last Ladies Night gathering dust in my closet.) At least the wedding planners weren’t sponsors this time around.

But who had time to gripe when we suddenly found ourselves led through the stands and down into the dugout? We take advantage of the requisite photo ops—sitting on the bench, leaning up against the railing, etc.—before our coaches arrive to teach us some baseball. On hand this morning are all of the Nats actual coaches. And even though they were up just as late as the players last night, each one of them acts like there’s nowhere in the whole world they’d rather be than back there on the field that morning. Then again, it is just them and 75 enthusiastic baseball-lovin’ chicks—maybe they actually speak the truth on this one. Okay, so far all I’d had to do was smile, pose, and clap. Now it was time to get to business.

After a team stretch and warm-up in the infield, we break into our groups and head off to our mentors. My opening set of drills is over at first, where coach Jerry Morales goes over signs with us, fields questions about a dubious call from last night’s game, and teaches us how to run with men on base. Morales is such a good coach that I swear I feel myself swell with inner pride as he praises me for a particularly well-executed banana turn around the bag. Next, over at third base, Tolman teaches us how to get in front of the ball, and then hits grounders for us to field and throw back to the catcher. And here’s where any fears of my dead arm dissipate, for women—contrary to what you’ve seen on Gossip Girl and America’s Next Top Model—are actually uber-supportive of one another in situations like this. My groupies clap for every throw of mine that eventually trickles back to the plate like I’m throwing out the tying run of some future World Series the Nationals might make it to when I’m too old to remember any of this. I even take some extra grounders just to get the praise, and wonder how it would feel to really make a play and have 40,000 fans cheering for me instead of 10.

Feeling more confident now, I follow my group into the clubhouse to the domain of Bench Coach Pat Corrales. Stepping through stagnant puddles of water and ducking crumbling concrete, I envision this to be a good spot for a donation jar for the new stadium, its $611 million price tag a bit of a sore subject for the city. Following a brief lesson on form and execution, I enter the indoor batting cage to take my licks. Swing and a miss! Did I mention that the ball is on a tee? That’s okay, because the real victory was that I am no longer afraid to swing for the seats. With a little personal coaching from batting practice pitcher Jose Martinez, I make good contact on my next few attempts, and score myself a double with two RBIs in my head.

Our last lesson is in the bullpen. After catching the view from that really tall bench, we all grip practice balls as demonstrated by Bullpen Coach Rick Aponte and throw off the mound until the lunch bell rings. And that’s it. I’d made it through my clinic without embarrassment, not because I didn’t suck, but because it was readily apparent that nobody cared that I sucked. Thank you, women. And while we’re speaking of women, let me make it abundantly clear that the piss-poor baseball skills described herein belong to me alone and are not some kind of general indictment against female athleticism. Most of the women present knew exactly what they were doing. I just happened to grow up playing sports that have no relevance to real life. (Pick-up game of field hockey anyone? Great, just let me grab my kilt!)

As we enjoyed our post-clinic lunch with Don Sutton and MASN broadcasters Bob Carpenter and Debbi Taylor, I couldn’t help but think how much I loved Major League Baseball’s attempt to pander to women for their attendance. (Please, don’t tell them they had me at “Strike One.”) Sure, sometimes you have to put up with pink t-shirts (c’mon folks, the team color is clearly RED), handouts defining terms like “pop-up,” and swag from perfume dealers and nail studios, but I’ve also enjoyed all-you-can-drink happy hours with the cost of my ticket, appearances by players about to take the field, memorabilia give-aways with excellent odds, and now, baseball lessons from major league coaches and lunch with a Hall of Famer. And all because I have boobs! I used to feel funny about attending the Nationals’ women-only events (what if the tables were turned?) but I’ve learned to relax and enjoy the benefits. I figure after so many years waiting on those really long lines for the bathroom, I must deserve some kind of payback.

I wasn’t able to stay for the game that night, but ending my baseball activities that day on Don Sutton’s stand-up routine and some autographed balls swiped from the bullpen was a nice way to go. I’ll see you back here for the next event. And yes, you tricky bastards, I’ll bring my girlfriends.

Dr. Nancy Golden will see you at the next Ladies Night event at the new Nationals Park in DC. She’ll be the slightly tipsy one, in the red shirt and cap, unsuccessfully hitting on the giant Teddy Roosevelt mascot.