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" Go team! Go team go! Score a goal unit! Beat the opponents, soundly! In the skirmish!*"
*My Apologies to Brian Regan
Sports, or maybe I should say the playing of sports, like in a team environment has never really been my thing.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy watching sports. I enjoy going to a game every now and then and "rootin' for the hometeam". I enjoy hearing my wife get all lathered up over a play at home, or hearing her "oof, oof, oofin' " to the bark of a Georgia Bulldog's cheer whilst she's had a beer or several.
I'd have to say that sports is something my brother excelled at. He got the quarterback's share of the ball-playing DNA.
But I do have a trophy. One trophy. A Most Valuable Player trophy. I earned it playing--of all things-- softball. Church softball. Women's Church Softball!
It's true. Testosterone-ladened, Nut-scratchin', Me, MVP, Women's Church Softball.
It happened a few years ago when I went to one of Leslie's softball games. We got to the field and her team was a player short. Her coach asked me to play. I told him to "go to hell". I hadn't played ball since I was in the second grade. Since I "hacked at the ball like I was chopping wood".
[SIDEBAR]
To those of you parents who feel that teamsports builds character and all that crap, that's a load. What happens if you kid isn't any good, he get's laughed at by the kids on his team, by the kids on the other team, by his coach, by his coaches wife, by his coaches kids, by people in the stands, by the people serving up Fun Dips in the concession stand, even by the damned umpire at homeplate. Your kid learns the harsh reality of sucking at something so extraordinarily bad that he realizes doing nothing, and being DAMNED FINE AT THAT, beats humiliation hands down. Also note parents of said child, if you go out of your way to get the team to make allowances for little Johnnys' lack of abilities you might as well go ahead and get a good defense attorney on retainer, 'cause little Johnny going to snap--in a harsh way-- one day.
I'm just sayin'.
[END SIDEBAR]
Sorry back to the story... Anyway, there was no way I was going back out onto that field to relive the horrors of little league trench warfare. Nope. Nuh-uh. Wuh-uhn gonna do it. No way.
The coach pleaded. "Nope."
The coach, and the other players, begged. "Nuh-uh."
The coach, and the other players, and Leslie cojoled. "No!"
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So I'm out on the field.
I've got a cage over my face, I've got a metal stick swinging at my head, an object being hurled at me as hard as the person (my wife) can throw it, and that son-of-a-bitch homeplate Ump (the Ump my nightmares were made of), humping my shoulder.
I'm the fucking catcher!
"Oops. Sorry 'bout that" I say as I throw the ball--like a girl no doubt-- back to my wife/pitcher and it winds up in right field, "my bad". She bobs her head, like all cool jock types do when they HAVE to acknowledge a dork. The Ump gets closer to my ear and says, almost in a whisper... "You can roll it to her if you like.", that bastard.
Third inning.
Oh crap, now it's my turn to bat. "Just remember swing out, not down... Out not down. Out not down." I kept telling myself while I was in the "on deck" circle. While I was chanting, and sweating bullets from the stage-fright anxiety, the batter ahead of me struck out. She was the third out.
Oh no!? That means I'm first up next inning.
Let's see, can I have any more pressure on me at this point?
I know, how's about a good case of diarrhea... oh yeah why not!? Nothing says over-the-top anxiety like a bout of jet-propelled mud while you're in the catcher's crouch.
Anyway, I make it through the inning, undies still tight and white. I had dug valleys in my shoes with my toenails staving off the beast that was clawing from inside of my belly, but I'd made it through the inning.
My turn to bat. "Out not down."
"Shfloot". The ball is in the catcher's mitt, the Ump calls "strike", all this happens while I'm trying to get my "seabiscuits" arranged.
I look at the Ump like he's a child-molester. "Yer in thuh battuh's box." he says as he looks down at my feet. I step out of the chalk for a second, like I really know what I'm doing. Then step back in. Ready to swing at anything, real or imagined.
The pitcher--a manwoman of firm stature-- sizes me up, laughs to herself a little bit, then let's go of one of the meanest, mad-demon, arced pitches she can muster across the plate (yep, it's slow-pitch).
I swing.
"toink."
Oh my god, I made contact. I've never done that before! Oh yeah, I'm 'sposed to run. RUN! RUN TO FIRST! RUN FORREST RUN!!!
The ball didn't make it out of the infield. But it was a fairball. I had a hit, if I could only make to the base.
Now, I may not have been much of a player, but there's one thing I could do well--athletically. I could run. And there's one lesson that I learned on the battlefield of little league baseball... If you get a hit, run it out!!!
So I was at first base, picking my nose, before the third-basemanwoman had gotten her glove on the ball. A hush came over the crowd as they realized I had just gotten to first-frikin'-base. I had beaten out the throw!
The game could've been over right then and I'd been happy, but get this... I went on to a.) steal second and b.) score! Whosyerdaddy? Uhh-huh. That's right... Yeah, yeah, that's right. Uh-huh.
We (I laugh as I say that cause 'we' makes it sound like I'm the team captain or something) went on to win the game. Leslie and the team went on to win all of the games that season.
At the season-ending pizza party, the coach had trophies for all of the players. As he was handing out the awards he called me up and gave me the MVP. He told everybody that if I wouldn't have played that day he would've had to forfeit the game, squashing their winning record.
Surprised, I thanked him and took the trophy without any fanfare-- no speech, it's not what I do. In addition to the trophy, I took home a huge pile of new found dignity.
8/9/2004 10:43:31 PM
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