In about 10 years of playing baseball, I saw my future of competing in the Major Leagues go from inevitable to imaginary.

Growing up will do that.

But I had so much fun during my time on the diamond that when it came time to turn in my baseball and bat, I gladly exchanged them for a much larger ball and skinnier bat. It wasn’t the game I grew up loving, but slow pitch softball supplemented my appetite for line drives, double plays and good ol’ fashioned camaraderie.

I spent my last two summers in Illinois playing softball once a week for three months, taking the field with my very best friend Tony, who I had spent several years playing baseball with in high school. There’s nothing quite like manning the left side of the outfield with your best friend, teaming together for putout after putout while exchanging pleasantries after one of us made a nice play. In the batter’s box, hearing that same friend shout my name in an encouraging fashion was always enough to put an extra bit of oomph in my swing. We didn’t always win and we didn’t always lose, but whatever happened out there on the ball field, we went through it together.

Even now, with 1,274 miles between us, Tony calls me with updates on his Sunday-night softball outings. Yeah, we’re sort of passionate about it (on Tuesday, he texted me his season stats through five games).

When I made the decision to become the sports editor of the Powell Tribune, I did so knowing I’d be going at it alone. Naturally, while brainstorming ways to meet the people of Powell, softball came to mind. In a small-town community where sports are fortunately (for me) an important part of life, I saw being a part of a softball team of 15-20 ballplayers as a platform for recruiting new BFFs (best friends forever — do people still say that?).

What I guess I failed to consider, however, was the appeal of softball in Powell. This is rodeo and football country, after all. When my teammate and Tribune co-worker CJ Baker signed our team up two weeks ago, a paltry four teams had enlisted themselves for battle this summer. Because of the low turnout, the fate of the Powell rec men’s softball league was in jeopardy, meaning I’d likely have to appease my appetite via the choppy Internet stream I use to watch my Chicago Cubs lose every year (but maybe not this year).

I love the Cubs, but I knew that without softball, there’d still be a hole in my competitive stomach for dessert — satisfied only by my own involvement in competition.

Luckily, dozens of others finally agreed.

On Monday, after learning that eight squads would be pitching, hitting and fielding their way toward the Powell Recreation District championship this summer (I want that trophy/plaque/other commemorative object), I raised my hands up to the sky as if to thank the softball gods (if there are baseball gods, it only makes sense for there to be deities for its counterpart).

Thank you softball gods, for assuring I didn’t waste $420 on new softball equipment this year. Thank you softball gods, for giving my knees and shoulder another reason to hate me during the week. Thank you softball gods, for showing me — at least for one more summer — that grown men in their late 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s and 60s (?) still long for those days when they knew their futures as major league baseball players were still inevitable.