Lost in Translation

I didn't bother translating the Norwegian story. It was not an attempt to be exclusionary or even to showoff. (Look at me! I speak Norwegian! Because I don't really. I write Norwegian, because I have a teacher and husband who help me.) I tried the translation, but it just didn't really work in English. It was a mix up of words that sound similar in Norwegian, but not in English. Påske, vaske versus Easter, wash. Sometimes things just don't translate well. You can translate them, but something gets lost along the way.

Take baseball, for example.

Last summer, some friends of ours invited us to a game of baseball. I declined, because, well, because I hate baseball. (I'm sorry, Aunt Suzanne! My aunt = huge baseball fan.)

I think it stems from elementary school gym classes. I can't think of a more tortuous sport for shy children to play than baseball (or softball). It's quite cruel, if you think about it. Take a child who is deathly afraid of being the center of attention, push them out onto the field alone, bat in hand, with the instructions to swing at a small ball thrown by a pitcher with bad aim. Meanwhile, all of their classmates stare on -- their eyes like lasers boring holes into the shy child's back. Maybe that last part's just me, but I get all sweaty remembering it.

Well, Norwegian baseball is not like American baseball. In fact, it's called Slåball, literally Hitball. It's similar to baseball in that there is a ball, bat, bases and teams. There is a runner that runs to bases, while another team tries to get the runner out. How you get the runner out is the difference. In Slåball, you beam the runner in the back with the ball as he/she runs for dear life to the safety of the bases.

A few days after the game, my friend had made the comment that she'd never run so fast in her life for fear of being hit with the ball.

"Hit with the ball," I asked.

That's when the rules of the game were made clear to me. I am SO glad that I didn't play that day. Can you imagine? Me, bravely pushing aside the traumatic childhood memories, playing the game in the spirit of good, friendly fun. There I am at bat. I hit the ball and casually run to first, when, WHAP!, I'm smacked in the middle of the back with the ball, traumatized anew as an adult.

I'm wondering if some Norwegian was over in the U.S., saw the game, thought it looked like fun, but clearly not understanding the rules, brought over this new version. Or maybe the Norwegians just developed on their own version, completely independent of American baseball. Or maybe someone just thought it might be funny to see other people pounded with a baseball. I wonder. Sounds like a fascinating and lucrative research project to me. Want to take it on?

In any case, a word to the wise, Americans, if you're invited to a game of baseball by Norwegians, it would be in your best interest to clarify the rules first!