33 Years Later: It Refuses to Fold

 Thirty-Three Years Later

To Hell and Back …. And the Game Refuses to Fold

Three decades have slipped by since World Series games were watched at Al's place in Clementi, when mobile phones still belonged to science fiction (they probably still do for some of us), and getting from Serangoon to Clementi required a heroic ninety-minute expedition across Singapore. Empires have risen and collapsed. Governments have changed - occasionally for the worse, more often proving that history has an unfortunate habit of repeating itself. Pandemics arrived threatening to wipe out civilisation, social media empires have risen and collapsed, and Artifical Intelligence now promises to solve every problem except how to hit a curveball.

Yet through it all, one question has remained stubbornly unchanged:

"Who's bringing the bats and bases this week?"

Many of the original conspirators have long since departed this humid ex-British colonial outpost. Cricket still refuses to die, while Ultimate Frisbee, paddle tennis, pickleball, yoga and whatever fashionable pastime the latest generation continue to lure otherwise intelligent people away from the only game that really matters.

Some of our players returned to Canada to rediscover snow. Others to Australia, Britain, China, or the USA in search of  retirement, tenure, grandchildren, or simply lower humidity. The men,  women and youths who once sprinted effortlessly after line drives now compare orthopaedic surgeons, cholesterol medication, and physiotherapists with almost scholarly enthusiasm. Warm-ups increasingly take longer than the game itself. Ankles mysteriously give way chasing routine fly balls. Backs seize up after taking a few swings in the on-deck circle. We have even gathered to play memorial games for teammates no longer with us an important reminder that while innings may end, friendships and memories rarely do.

Yet, in one of history's stranger anomalies, the game—and more importantly the community—refuses to fold.

Like  migratory birds with remarkably expensive airfares, former members continue to arrange family holidays, conferences,  expeditions, academic sabbaticals, and improbable flight connections around Saturday softball—now mercifully played in the morning.

Coach's departures have come to resemble Billy Martin's managerial career under George Steinbrenner. Just when we assume the dynasty has ended, he reappears without warning, reorganises the infield, corrects everyone's batting mechanics, reminds us to "simplify, simplify, simplify," and leaves us wondering how we ever survived without him.

Gloves that should probably have been retired twenty years ago are dusted off once more. Arguments immediately resume over " Saskatchewan rules", whether the infield fly rule actually applies to our version of organised chaos. In truth, few of us care much who wins anymore. We are simply grateful for another Saturday in the sun - to lose a routine pop-fly ball against the clouds, sneak a single through the infield, and or strike out spectacularly and earn the privilege of buying the next jug. It’s a weekly reminder that muscles we forgot existed are still fully capable of screaming in agony the next.

Apparently, some traditions survive longer than governments. And unlike governments, this one still manages to bring people together.

The Great Demographic Revolution

Rickey and Chris deserve much of the credit for keeping the league alive after 2004, occasionally disguising the inevitable shortage of players with the equally noble pursuit of ten-pin bowling. Somehow, despite careers, marriages, children, relocations, and the occasional global pandemic, the game endured.

Compare today's roster with the class of 2000 and the transformation is remarkable. The expatriate professors who once formed the backbone of the community have gradually given way to a new generation of Singaporeans. Former NUS students and Montfort alumni now return as teachers, engineers, entrepreneurs, nurses, civil servants and parents, bringing with them the same enthusiasm patiently cultivated by those who first introduced them to the Game.

Perhaps the clearest sign that Saturday softball has outlived all of us is that the nervous teenagers who once hid in right field or volunteered to catch because nobody else would are now arriving with children of their own. Some of those children have become regular players, proving that softball, unlike cricket, appears to possess a hereditary streak.

The newest recruits now come from Montfort, Yio Chu Kang Secondary, YISS, and elsewhere, often arriving early at Lor Ong Lye, Montfort—or, in earlier years, Parry Field—to take extra swings, shag fly balls, and simply enjoy the game. The gloves are newer, the knees older, and the jokes no better. Yet the ritual remains unchanged. Veterans patiently explain why one should never run on a caught fly ball, why the cutoff man matters, and why Coach's enduring advice was always to "simplify, simplify, simplify."

Baseball has always possessed the remarkable gift of generativity. Every newcomer eventually becomes the veteran passing the game to someone else. That quiet transfer of knowledge—from one generation to the next—is perhaps the real reason this little Saturday gathering has refused to grow old.

The game may look less international today, but its spirit remains gloriously cosmopolitan. English is still the common language, the banter still crosses continents, and the softball merely provides the excuse. As ever, the real game begins after the final out.

The Faculty Club Is Gone. The Cheap Beers and Post-Game Ritual remain.

The old Faculty Club, once regarded as the unofficial Hall of Fame of Saturday softball, has disappeared into history. Mr Chua and Joe, a relic of the ancients. Yet, cheap beer remains both an archaeological necessity and the closest thing our league has to a performance-enhancing drug.  The post-game debates remain remarkably intact, this time at Coach’s Corner@Holland Village or at 684@ Rebelterritory Ave 8.

Only the venue has changed. Entertainment remains guaranteed after the game.

What Endures

Looking back over thirty-three years, one realises that nobody ever stayed because they wanted to become the next Tarik Skubal or Tony Gwynn.

People stayed because somewhere between dropped fly balls, impossible catches, rain delays, post-game meals, and endless good-natured abuse, strangers quietly became teammates, teammates became friends, and friends became family. For some, it was a “home” away from home – both geographically and proverbially.

The scorebooks have faded.

Many of the faces have changed.

Some of the legends are now remembered more often than they are seen.

But every Saturday, when somebody inevitably asks, "Can I play?" the answer has remained unchanged for thirty-three years.

"Grab a glove, kid!"

After thirty-three years, nobody really needs to be told the rest.