STRANGER THAN FICTION: PRIDE AND MUSCLES INJURED EQUALLY AS BOSSES LOOK ON

Outside of bowling and shuffleboard, amateur softball is probably America's least active sport, especially if you aren't the pitcher or catcher.

All the other positions only have to move if (a) the ball comes toward them, (b) they make a hit and have to run the bases, or (c) the team runs out of adult beverages and somebody is forced to make a beer run.

And yet, here it is Monday, one day after our annual staff vs. managers softball game, and I am having to use specially equipped restrooms because I can't sit or stand without handrails. Thank heavens my office chair has armrests so I can get out of it.

The saddest part is, I didn't even give my all at yesterday's game. I didn't slide or dive. I actually ran toward a ball that clearly was going over my head.

My teammates eventually "promoted" me from left field to shortstop because they figured the pitcher would get the grounders and the outfielders would cover me on the fly balls. In fact, I learned to duck when the ball came toward me.

Other than catching two freak grounders and throwing them to second base (the position closest to me) and making one single in four at-bats, my only activity during the event was jogging to and from my position on the field and carrying a cooler from the dugout to the picnic pavilion.

Yet I've developed the strangest injuries.

The muscle beneath my right thumb is killing me. In fact, my handwriting completely changed today to accommodate the pain.

I can't move my right shoulder. I have an odd bruise underneath my right forearm.

The central part of my back is immobile. My right hamstring is sore.

And this is just the day after. They say the second day after is even worse!

I'm enduring all of this even though I regularly go to the gym for low-impact workouts. All I can think of is that the sudden, stop-and-go movements affected my muscular and skeletal systems.

Think about it. If you were carrying two 50-pound bags of dog food -- the equivalent of the extra cellulite I'm carting around on my butt and thighs -- would you rather go for a leisurely, 20-minute walk on a treadmill or run from home plate to first base as fast as you could? They'd both be pretty excruciating, but the leisurely walk offers less chance of injury.

But what hurts worst is my pride. The owner of the company watched me duck instead of catching a fly ball headed straight for me. My immediate supervisor was there to see me panting at first base, praying that the next batter struck out so I'd have time to recover my breath before going to second.

I joked that I was saving my energy for the employee basketball tournament, but who am I fooling? I may be 6 feet, 3 inches tall, but my only talent lies in getting jump balls and blocking. I can't shoot, and I sure as heck can't run for any length of time.

The last time I played was in 1992 against my friend's two 15-year-old nephews, who literally sent me to the hospital. I ended up with a severely sprained ankle and on crutches for a week.

I'm even the first one to get h-o-r-s-e.

I'm not sure which employee event it would take to recover my pride. I average about 110 at bowling. I can't really jump high enough to be good at volleyball.

Wait a minute. Remember back in grade school when we played jacks?

I kicked butt at jacks.