Posted By startswithanx on November 3, 2009

I joined a kickball league about a month and a half ago. Sixty dollars to do the same shit that used to come free at recess. Except this also comes with a team shirt, three parties at a local bar and you can hold a beer while playing the game. That’s right, organized sports for grown folks.

Here’s the thing. Yes, I like to have a good time. But I also like to win. Sometimes the two don’t always mesh.

We play on Wednesday nights. Not last Wednesday, but the one before, I had a wake-up call. Some of the players on our team have a bad habit of making an out and then holding onto the ball with a dumb smile. It’s like they want to stand there and absorb what it feels like not to fuck up or something.

Problem is, while they’re sheepishly taking their bow and doing the whole “Aw, you guys. Stop it!” act, the other team’s base runners are making their way home.

There’s a kickball rule that says as long as the pitcher has the ball, the base runner can only advance one base and that’s only if he was already in forward motion when the pitcher obtained the ball.

Knowing this, I yelled at the top of my lungs  — after our first baseman let the opposing team score on us as he soaked up the glory of his out — “REMEMBER! GET THE BALL TO THE PITCHER. AS. FAST. AS. YOU. CAN!!!!

It was one of those yells that I had to punctuate with a lot of finger pointing cuz the bulging eyes might not have done the trick, but I didn’t think anything of it. Just trying to get everyone on the same page, right?

When we finally make three outs and our team’s back on the sideline, the first baseman “confronts” me.

First Baseman: Hey man, listen. I’m just tryin’ to have a good time out here, ya know? I’m doin’ the best I can out there.

Wow. Suddenly I knew what the take-no-prisoners, asshole coach (ahem, Rich Rodriguez) who humiliates his players as a pastime (cough, cough, Bobby Knight) feels like when his butterfingered, clumsy second stringer musters up the courage to tell him to go to hell.

Me: Huh? Well, yeah, I know. You made a great out on first.

But the asshole coach in me wondered how he’d ever learn if I didn’t leave him with a final thought.

Me: You just gotta get the ball to the pitcher after those outs or else we get scored on.

I’ve been trying to use a gentler approach. Pitching my voice a little higher and clapping instead of finger pointing. Sometimes I just take a deep breath and don’t say shit at all.

I hope it sticks otherwise I could wind up sitting in some circle where I share my feelings once a week with middle-aged men who beat up little league coaches.

Categories: this happened