Last night was the best softball game we ever had. Everyone was playing so well. We had excellent play after excellent play. We were on a high.

Then it was the bottom of the sixth and the score was 9-11, their advantage.

The pitcher caught a hit and got the first person out. Then I caught a fast grounder between first and second, getting the player out before he reached the base. That’s two out. One more to go.

I bounced on my toes at my position, waiting for the pitch. Next thing I knew, I had the ball in my hand and I yelled the first baseman’s name, throwing the ball straight into his mitt. He’s out! Woohoo!

People were cheering wildly. Everyone surrounded me to congratulate me for the great play. Or so I thought.

The first baseman ran up to me, demanding, “How are your fingers?”

The pitcher grabbed my right hand and scrutinized the palm. “Yeah, right here,” he said, pointing to the fleshy mound under my pinky. “Better put ice on that when you get home.”

What? I didn’t understand what they were saying. I stood there, thrilled about the play but a little confused as to the feedback I was getting.

I frowned. “Did I catch it with the wrong hand?”

The umpire was in front of me then. He actually crossed the field to talk to me. “I couldn’t believe it myself when I saw it!” he grinned.

“Wait wait. Did I catch the ball with the wrong hand?”

We walked off the field, everyone cheering me with statements like, “You’ll be growing a glove on your hand!” and “You must have stitches imprinted on your skin now!”

“Did I really…?”

Apparently, I did. I caught a line drive down the middle of the infield bare-handed and threw it swiftly to first base.

Now, I don’t want anyone to think I was being falsely modest. I seriously have no recollection of the catch. I remember the pitch and the throw to first, but nothing in the middle. It was as if my brain shut off for the two seconds the ball was in the air and I reacted on pure instinct. It must’ve been amazing.

And all I have to show for it is a blister.