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The most unrealistic thing about “2012” is that the producers expected us to believe a black man could be voted president in the United States.
Damn. That joke woulda been a lot funnier two years ago.
I think I might be a softball snob. I’ve been playing the game for so long, I have so many expectations and ideals that few people can live up to. I don’t want to go around thinking I’m better than anyone else. I don’t enjoy feeling like something is below me or inferior. But when I see a softball that doesn’t live up to my standards I’m horrified.
During the summer we brought a new guy out to our Thursday night softball team. He had an ad on Craigslist and I figured, why not? Dude said he had experience and could play an “ugly shortstop” if we desperately needed. He sounded like a great fit for our team because he seemed like a good guy and we have always valued character over talent on our team.
But when he came out to the game, it was painfully obvious he was not a good player. His mechanics were terrible, he made bad decisions on the . . . . .
My softball game last week was very strange.
That’s a horrible opening! The game wasn’t strange–it was a softball game. Strange is a 280-pound linebacker singing Ashlee Simpson songs in a mall while wearing a tutu. The game was noteworthy–but certainly not strange.
The biggest (and most noteworthy) event occurred when one of our players dislocated his shoulder while jogging around the second base. Mr. Fudge slipped for no obvious or apparent reason and landed awkwardly on his left shoulder. Everyone knew he was hurt bad immediately after it happened because quickly took himself out of the game. He walked back to our dugout and was in obvious pain; his face was trembling and he grimaced with every breath. “Does anyone know how to pop it back in,” Fudge asked.
Half the team told him to let a doctor do it; the other half was in shocked by the repulsiveness of the question (that sorta bravado is reserved for fictionalized action movies–not overweight, outta shape schleps who play softball). “No way,” someone said. Another person called him nuts. Someone else asked for Dr. Nick. There were a lot of chaotic suggestions thrown out until Wagon spoke up.
“This is what . . . . .
Remember that movie “White Men Can’t Jump?” Rosie Perez broke up with Woody Harrelson and for some reason he was really upset about it. Woody reflected upon the break up by saying “Sometimes when you win, you really lose. And sometimes when you lose, you really win.” Not only does that apply to breaking up with Rosie Perez, it can also be used to describe rec league softball.
In the city which I play softball, there are about 50 teams a night. Since the teams represent a wide range of talent (über competitive tournament squads to church-sponsored rookie teams), the league is broken up into divisions of six teams. The good teams play against the good teams. The bad teams play against bad teams. Every division winner is crowned “champion” and wins a t-shirt at the end of the season (and now you know my motivation for playing).
At the start of every season, each team plays what’s called a ‘classification game.’ The results of that game determine which division you’ll play in. My Tuesday team has been around a long time and we’re in the upper-third divisions of the city. When a new team comes into the league, they . . . . .
I got hit with a batted ball again this week–I feel like I’m a marked man. It’s rare to see someone get hit by a ball–yet I’ve had more balls come at me than a gay porn star. Man, I’ve had a lot of close calls over the past six months. I’ve only discussed the ones that hit me: there’s been a lot of near-misses, too…and as far as I can tell, it’s just me. No one else on my team seems to have balls come their way–I’m the only one.
The opposing team was short a guy so they had to play without a second baseman. After every pitch, the pitcher stepped towards right field in case a ball got hit that way. Most of the time it’s a futile effort–one player simply can’t cover that much ground. But it helps slow the bleeding because at least teams can’t intentionally try and hit it there.
I was standing on second base with our three-hitter up. One the very first pitch, I saw where the pitcher was throwing the ball, the batter was in the box, and the nature of his swing I knew it immediately: He’s going to hit . . . . .
Slow pitch softball is a game with many unwritten rules. We’re not professional ballplayers out there and no one wants to get hurt. Win or lose, no one takes the game home with them. Many players are friendly with guys from other teams. It’s a laid-back affair because we all have day jobs…and most of us are severely out of shape.
One of the unwritten rules is Thou Shall Not Walk with a Ten-Run Lead. Some folks take even more extremely (Thou Shall Not Walk At All). But for the most part, guys are trying to win the game anyway they can. If the opposing pitcher can’t throw strikes, so be it. But once the game is outta hand, the team with a double-digit lead shouldn’t be looking to walk.
Like any rule, there are some exceptions–most notably when the pitcher is so bad, the hitter has no choice. But generally, a batter shouldn’t walk when he has a strike to spare. If the pitch is out of the strike zone, take a phantom swing to extend the count.
The team we played last week wasn’t extraordinarily bad…but their pitcher was. He was walking guys left and right. He probably . . . . .
The gravitational pull that is my giant head pulled in a new object the other day while playing softball. I was walking back to the dugout when someone chucked a bat in my general direction. I didn’t see it–but I heard screams to look out. Instinctively, I crouched down and covered my head with my arms. The bat narrowly missed me, falling in between my legs, ricocheted off the ground, and hit me square in the manhood. I wish I could boast about the benefits of wearing a cup…unfortunately, I’ve never been the athletic support type.
Now the skeptic would say this is proof that my head isn’t that large and it doesn’t have its own gravitational pull. Instead of hitting me in the cranium, the bat fell short. But a softball bat is a heavy object. I believe the gravitational field of my head pulled the bat closer to me–but wasn’t strong enough to fully pull that bat into my head. Kinda like the way comets circle around the sun. Gravity is strong enough to alter the orbit–but not enough to pull the object in.
And that’s what it’s come down to: I’m comparing my head to celestial objects. . . . . .
I don’t know what it is about my giant head–I swear, it must have its own gravitational pull. I was throwing the softball around with a buddy when he threw a ball way out of my reach. I jumped for it, but had no chance. The ball hit a pole six feet behind me–and ricocheted into the back of my head. Immediately, all my friends started laughing because such a thing could only happen to me–or Jose Canseco.
What are the odds? The pole had maybe–maybe–an eight-inch circumference. What are the odds of the ball hitting it? And even less likely–what are the odds of a round ball hitting a round pole and bouncing directly back in the direction it came from? Not to mention, if I didn’t jump for the ball, it would’ve missed my head. The only way that ball bounces directly back and hits me in the head is if my cranium has its own gravitational field. The ball was drawn to my melon like a meteorite to the earth. It had no choice due to an uncontrollable, powerful force–gravity.
My head gets banged on more often than Ricky Ricardo’s bongos. I’m not sure if this is . . . . .
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