I was a Roadrunner the first time I got my name in the local paper. Of course we didn’t know of things like budgets, but they must have been pretty minimal for our girls’ summer softball league. We were more divided up than chosen into teams, and then gathered around unmarked cardboard boxes, from which we were handed our “one size fits some” t-shirts. It wasn’t befitting of our state, nor the sport, but we proudly squeezed and drowned ourselves into our new “Roadrunner” tees. We weren’t given hats, nor gloves. Some of us even brought our own bats. Mine was golden aluminum. I balanced it atop the wicker flowered basket of my banana seat bike, that held my hand-me-down leather glove, and proudly “beep-beep”ed my way to the designated field each Monday and Wednesday afternoon.
They must have put everyone’s team picture in the sports section of that Echo because we hadn’t won a game all season. But seeing myself, in fuzzy black and white, alongside my friends, it felt like winning. And it was.
I don’t remember each summer’s logo. Eventually we would all become Cardinals in Junior High. And Senior High. Some of the memories get a little fuzzy now, but I’m still friends with most of those “birds.” That news won’t make the papers, but oh, how it still feels like winning.
