Global catastrophes averted as softball season comes to an end

www.offtackleempire.com

Well that’s that. Un-barricade your doors, hose the lamb’s blood off your porch, remove the garlic from around your neck and also from your back pockets. Another adult league softball season has come to a merciful, surprisingly bloodless, conclusion.   

                My team stormed, just stormed into the playoffs last night the owner of two hard-fought, gutsy victories. Well, one of those and one forfeit, but that’s irrelevant.

                There we were. In the playoffs. Well represented too. Our team had more people last night than at any other point this season that I can remember and very nearly everyone was early to boot. Our hopes for advancing to the next round were sky high. And then slowly, sadly, the members of the other team began to trickle in, increasing their roster size from two to the required number of players. Despite the tragic misfortune of the other team’s presence, we, as a team, agreed to play on.

                I settled into my home in right center field. Somehow, even though we had lots of players, that is where I remained the entire game. Logic and good sporting strategy would have me alternating between catching and warming the bench for the five inning contest. I may be better suited for those other roles, but if you’re going to play me and you’re going to allow me to go more than five tiny baby steps from my own dugout, then somewhere in right is really where you want me. The damage I can inflect from there will likely be minimal.

                It was actually a busier night than one might expect in right. The other team had a nasty habit of driving grounders between our first and second basemen, forcing me to charge in, pick the ball up in my glove, toss it to the nearest person who wasn’t me and then jog back to right center. Luckily for myself and my team and the good state of Pennsylvania, the other team only managed to get the ball in the air to right one time.

3 Ways to Survive Thinking About the Destruction of Society... and Softball Recap

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There’s been a bit of hubaloo going on this week about the “mini ice age” we’re all supposedly in store for between the years 2030 and 2040 or there abouts. In case you missed it, allow me, a man with no science background whatsoever, to explain.

                In the year 2030, the sun is going to go on a “stay-cation,” meaning it’s going to take a little time for itself, without going anywhere. It’ll do a few chores around the house, maybe catch up on its Netflix and onDemand and stuff. Lot of John Oliver to watch. Anyway, during this lull in solar activity, some scientists think Earth will cool off drastically, leading to a mini-ice age. Temperatures will be colder, polar bears will be bear-ier and snowball fights will leave the realm of children’s games and be elevated to settle disputes on a global scale. Sort of like what happened with the card game “WAR.”

                The scientist leading the charge on this points to a similar situation which occurred way back in the 1700s. However, other scientists are like “Na-uh, that didn’t happen that way.” In fact, those negative scientists are saying the mini ice age won’t be a thing at all. They claim we need to be way more worried about global warming than we do about the sun taking a decade to find itself.

As is the case when scientists disagree over science, the rest of us are left scratching our heads and waiting for Al Gore or Leo DiCaprio to show up and tell us what to think. I’d also accept the aforementioned John Oliver or the “South Park” guys should those first two options be unavailable.

Even though the mini ice age may turn out to be more of a bust than “Ice Age 2” – face it, that movie was not great – I still took the news seriously and by seriously I mean I went through the usual routine I follow whenever news of a pending global disaster breaks. 

Lock Your Doors, Bolt Your Windows - It's Softball Time

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I swear this isn’t another blog strictly about animals … but can we talk about animals for a second? Have you noticed them acting in a peculiar fashion lately? I’m talking about geese flying south despite the heat? Cats incessantly scratching at their right ear? Dogs leaving their place at your side only to turn up hours later, whimpering softly to themselves in a dark and empty room? Squirrels putting on tiny fedoras, gathering their possessions into a bindle and thumbing it out of town?

                Of course you have. I feel silly even asking. Well, all of these ominous signs can only mean one thing – I’ve returned to softball. See? And you were worried this was going to be about animals. Nope, it’s about softball. 

            Me, the world’s worst softball player, the person who managed to injure himself in an adult league softball pick-up game so badly that it required surgery. The person who once played an entire season of baseball and only got on base twice, once via getting hit by a pitch and once via walk.

Yup, nothing left to do now but board up your windows, check that you’ve got spare batteries for all of your radios and flashlights, put on a pot of coffee and wait out the reminder of the season. Luckily for the Southeastern Pennsylvania region, the season is already halfway over. I missed the first part recovering from the surgery I got as a result of my previous softball odyssey.

My first game was actually not this past Monday but the one before it. My write up of that – and my warning to all of civilization – was preempted by my need to review “Terminator: Genisys.” So, sorry about that. Here’s what went down in handy bulleted form. To get yourself into the proper frame of mind while reading this, it is important to picture all of what follows in the Chiller text style.

Softball and Ancient Greece: The Rarely Discussed Downsides of Dreaming

Actual image of me playing softball, courtesy of www.actwin.com

The ancient Greeks told stories of a young man named Icarus, whose father made them wings of wax and feathers so they could escape a vengeful king. Icarus’ pop warned his son not to fly too high or too low because doing so would end badly. It was sort of a high-concept version of Goldilocks. Anyway, Icarus didn’t listen. While they were flying to safety, Icarus got caught up in the wonder of flight and ended up too high, too close to the sun. His wax wings melted and he plummeted thousands and thousands of back to Earth. He landed hard on his left wrist and lived out his days in mild discomfort.

                The story of Icarus was meant to illustrate the dangers of hubris – flying too high – and complacency – the flying too low – or at least that’s Wikipedia’s scholarly take. However, I’ve begun to see some parallels between old Icky’s life and my own and as I have, another lesson has emerged: the dangers of dreams.

Perhaps you’ll remember my Cinderella-esque run through adult league softball last fall. In case you forgot, here are the highlights:

• six games played
• 7-19 at the plate, good for a .368 batting average
• six runs scored
• one walk, and
• two catches on defense.

Of course, there were low lights:

• at least two errors from my time at third, maybe a few more from my time elsewhere.
• no RBIs
• three strikeouts, and
• 0-2 with the bases loaded.

Considering my confirmed status as the worst baseball/softball player of all time and my place on the list of the 100 worst athletes of all time, I thought that was pretty good. Unfortunately statistics don’t always tell the full story. After all, even old Icky put together some pretty impressive flight statistics before he took his little tumble.

We’re Talking About Playoffs: The Actual End of the Whole Mess

ladymaggic.wordpress.com

The playoffs began and ended for my team last night. By virtue of our less than impressive regular season, we’d been granted a one game playoff against another team who had a less than impressive regular season with the right to go into the actual playoffs and likely get smoked by a bunch of professional amateur athletes on the line.

                There was some concern as to whether or not we’d actually get the chance to play last night due to looming thunderstorms, but as 6:30 rolled around, we bravely took the field, ready to thumb our noses at Mother Nature and dare her to do sumptin’ about it. Well, that’s not exactly true. My team took to the field. I, on the other hand, took to the bench. That’s right, an astonishing five games into my return to softball, my team finally realized what many a gym teacher and little league coach had long since known: I was most valuable defending the dugout and offering words of encouragement to my teammates.

                For the first time all season we had an extra player, which meant the guys on the team would have to rotate, one person always sitting. Wisely, I was the first person chosen to sit and the team got off to a good start. I was also listed at 10^th in the batting order, right near the bottom, another smart strategy.

                Let’s talk about the offense first, because this is the part that’s least interesting. First at bat, I work a five pitch walk. This is shocking because I have honestly no clue what the strike zone looks like and since none of the pitches were over my head or in the dirt, they were all ones I’d usually swing at. My only explanation was that I was momentarily overcome by the magnitude of what I’d done so far that season at the plate and thinking of all those infield singles paralyzed me. Eventually I came around to score when one of my teammates hit a ball deep into the outfield. My next at bat, I ripped a grounder right at the third baseman or shortstop who couldn’t make a play on it, allowing me to safely reach first on what I’ll go ahead and call an infield single.

                And that was it. Two plate appearances, one official at bat. We had kind of a rough night at the plate and in the field last night as a team, so the game I believe wrapped early.

The End Of Softball (And No, I Didn't Play So Poorly They Canceled The Sport)

www.greeleytribune.com

Another softball game went in the books this week without me completely 100% embarrassing myself and, as far as I can tell, society has yet to crumble. Although to be honest, the fact that this Ebola thing has coincided with my rise as a below-average softball player has me a little concerned. Makes wonder what would happen if I ever hit, I don’t know, say a double.

                Last night’s game was the regular season finale and, considering I’m not currently slated to play in next week’s playoff game, it could be my last game of the season. Or, potentially, my last game ever, depending on whether or not the team makes the tactical mistake of allowing everyone in the company to play again.

The potential finality of the game was something I hadn’t considered until literally just a few minutes ago. Had I known, you can rest assured I would have put a tremendous amount of pressure on myself, failed to even come close to meeting my own expectations, and spent most of the game caught in a tidal wave of nostalgia over events both great and small. “This may be my last ever at-bat.” “This could be my last ever time taking the field.” “This could be the last time I ever sit on this exact bench.”

                Instead, I went out there last night and did pretty much what I’ve done for most of this season: Be perfectly mediocre. Sure, last week’s game was a bit worse than mediocre, the week before was a little better, but when you take the whole thing into consideration, I’m hovering around the middle.

The Inevitable De-Wheeling of My Softball Bandwagon

The good thing about being a pessimist is that you’re never surprised when the wheels fall off. You’re just like, “Well, that was bound to happen” and then you deal with it. Meanwhile optimists are wracking their brains, contorting themselves in weird and “Exorcist-y” ways all to find the elusive – and usually non-existent – bright side to their present misfortune.

                That just sounds way too exhausting for me.

                Tuesday was supposed to be my week off from softball, but due to a lack of players I was summoned to represent my employer in athletic competition. Furthermore, due to a lack of female players, my girlfriend was also summoned even though she is not an employee.

                My new-found ability to be barely adequate at softball has been well-documented. Equally well-documented (if I do say so myself) has been my surprise at this and my expectation for me to revert back to my previous ability level, which my 7^th grade baseball coach publicly likened to that of “an old lady.”

                Well revert it did on Tuesday night. I’d blame my girlfriend for jinxing me with her presence, but there’s not a lawyer in the world who could make that case. We’ve all been expecting this to happen for too long for that to be anything other than an unfortunate coincidence.

                I found myself near the bottom of the batting order this week instead of the leadoff spot I’d occupied recently. I should have seen this for what it was – a dark omen of things to come – and just run off screaming into the night. But for whatever reason, I didn’t make the connection at the time.    

                On defense nothing changed. I was in my usual spot in right field, wisely placed there to minimize the chances I’d be called upon to do anything of value and screw it up. I had exactly one ball hit my way by the team full of righties we played. It was a grounder. I picked it up, threw it wildly to the person covering second, who somehow was able to field it and tag out a runner. I’m going to give myself an outfield assist on that play even though the only reason the play even happened was because the other team’s runner had slid well passed the bag. The rest of my night was a whole lotta standing, which I will in no way complain about. It’s just risk management 101.

Hits and Catches: The Part of the Sports Movie Where Things are Going Too Good

www.mediabistro.com

                When I decided to write about my return to softball, I thought to myself: “Here’s a way to embarrass yourself on the Internet that you haven’t explored before.” I mean, I’ve already gone into great and disturbing detail about the inner workings of my mind and my shortcomings as a human being on this very blog.

                 But my shortcomings as an athlete? That promised to be a hot take.

                Then, during my first two weeks back, a strange and completely unexpected thing happened: I turned out to be a GOD at softball. No I didn’t. Of course not. No, what I turned out to be was a slightly mediocre slap hitter with zero power, good speed on the base paths but little to no ability to actually control said speed, and a warm body willing to stand in right field for innings on end without getting bored and wandering off.

                Basically, I was like Juan Pierre in a blindfold.

                By no means was I the total package, but by god mediocre is several million times better than what I thought was going to happen. Even though my company’s team has a long history of losing, I still expected my performance on the field to be such an affront to basic human decency that I’d be lucky to only be fired for it and not taken out into the back parking lot, flogged repeatedly and then fired.  

                I returned on Tuesday night for my third game. My team was also there, so already we were ahead of last week. Shockingly enough, my first at bat ended with the ball not leaving the infield, but with me standing proud on first base. Infield single. I went first-to-third on a long single to the outfield and there I was. Standing on third, a stone’s throw from home plate and my first official run of the season (third overall counting scrimmages).

                A co-worker steps up to the plate. Makes solid contact. The infielder won’t catch it, but he will have a play, likely at first. The third base coach says go. I stand there. He says go again. I stand there. He says go a third time and I do the only sensible thing a person can do in that situation: I stand there. The guy gets thrown out at first. He jogs by and gives me the “What the hell?” look. I continue standing.

                I have a long history of ignoring what base coaches tell me to do, but I also think my injuries from the week before came into play. I’d have to run really, really fast to get home safely and I wanted zero part in a high-speed play at the plate.

                But it was totally fine, I got to jog home on the next play when someone else got a hit.

                I also had another hit later in the game and, unlike all of my other hits, it was a doozy. It was still a single, but not only did the ball make it out of the infield, it did so in the air, dropping right in front of the left fielder. I also popped out later to end a potential rally, but let’s not talk about that. Let’s focus on the singles.

                An even bigger accomplishment then getting a ball to leave the infield occurred later in the game. It actually occurred twice. On the defensive side of things. As I’ve already mentioned, I’ve spent my time on defense gathering dust in right field, which is basically no man’s land due to the lack of lefties in the league and righties who can hit to the opposite field.

                On Tuesday, I was in my usual spot, fighting the urge to put my glove on my head and pick grass – two skills I perfected during my storied run through little league many years earlier. I heard contact and casually looked around to see whose problem it was. With a growing horror I realized the ball was heading for shallow right, out of reach of the infielders. It was my problem.

                I started running toward the spot where I thought it would land. I was moving more on fumes and instinct than anything else because all of my internal organs had pretty much stopped working so that all blood could be directed towards the panic center in my brain. The ball was close. It was a soft looper and it was coming down slowly, but surely. I reached up my glove and caught it! There were loud cheers! Marching bands were struck up! Fans flooded the field! Ecstasy! Jubilation!

                Then I dropped it.   

                Shame. Horror. Fear. Fans pelted tomatoes at me and threatened the lives of my cats. My supervisor assigned me bathroom-cleaning duty even though the bathrooms are shared among multiple companies are cleaned by paid janitors.

                Then I caught it again. Yay! The ball had fallen out of my glove, but I managed to catch it again before it hit the ground. I was so happy that I forgot to throw the ball back in to keep a base runner at first. He must have sensed my excitement or took pity on my because he went nowhere while my team shouted to send the ball back in.

                I actually caught I second looping fly later in the game. That one I over ran and had to jump a little to keep it from going over my head. That time, I got the ball back in the infield quickly. My defensive prowess had become old hat. We went on to lose the game pretty resoundingly, moving our record to 1-3 for the season.  

                In case you’re keeping score at home, and god knows I am, the evening’s doings have put my stat line for the season at: three games played, 4/10 for a .400 batting average, three runs scored, a big fat zero runs batted in, one strikeout (which in slow pitch softball is nearly unheard of), no errors and two caught balls.

I’m scheduled to play in one more game, not this Tuesday but the following one. Considering how well things have gone so far, there is a very real chance that all hell will break loose at that game just to even things out a bit. Seriously. People could die. Animals could be maimed. Empires could fall.

                Adult league softball at its finest.

Softball recap: You may now call it a comeback

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We’re two games in to my grand return to the softball field and in that time the United States hasn’t been invaded by a foreign power, owning cats has not been made illegal and cheese sandwiches haven’t been made the mandatory lunch of the free world.  

                So all in all, I’d say my return to softball has gone much better than I expected it to.

                My first game was about two weeks ago now and it ended in a victory for my team. The victory was by forfeit since our opponent for the evening didn’t bother to show up, but when you’ve got a guy like me on your roster, you’ve got to learn to take wins any way you can get them. By hook, by crook, or by mass indifference.

                Lucky enough for my team, several members of the two teams that played before us that night didn’t mind sticking around to play a scrimmage. That way at least we could get a game in to go with our moral and statistical victory and our drives to the field wouldn’t be for not.

                Somehow, against every conventionally held bit of baseball wisdom, I was placed in the leadoff spot. Typically this spot goes to the person who is most likely to get on base, which is the exact opposite of my track record at the plate.

                My first at bat came and I was terrified. No matter that the game mattered even less than your average adult league game since it was technically an adult league scrimmage. I was in seventh grade all over again, desperately wishing to have been anywhere else. I stepped up to the plate, positioned my feet in the correct fashion, repositioned them when I realized that hadn’t been the correct fashion, considered bending my knees but decided it against it … OH MY GOD! The pitch was coming in! Sweet Jesus! This was going to be a disaster. I closed my eyes, swung the bat and …

                Made contact? That’s not right.

I've Made a Huge Mistake: The Worst Ball Player of All Time Returns

opinionofkingmansperformance.blogspot.com

On Friday, an announcement was made that rocked the sporting world to its very core. A proclamation that had people rioting in the streets in some towns where folks had a little too much time on their hands prior to the long Labor Day weekend.

                After a nearly 14-year long hiatus, one of the worst, nay THE worst baseball/softball player of all time would be returning to the field in the comeback attempt that literally no one asked for and most would have preferred to avoid.

                Myself. Me. I.

                That’s right, on Friday, I decided to pick up my glove, place it back on my head, which is where it goes if I remember my time in little league correctly and join my company softball team.

                I’ve had a powerful and wholly inexplicable hankering to get back out on the diamond in recent weeks. Part of it may stem from seeing my girlfriend coach a grade school girls softball team this past spring. Part of it may stem from seeing her play in a league of her own like two summers ago.

                So I can’t say with any level of certainty what’s driven me to this state, but I do know that even though I’ve been traditionally an at-best Hiroshima-scale disaster of a ball player, I’ve always enjoyed the idea of playing the game.

                Running around outside in nice weather. Throwing the old ball around. Swinging a bat. Munching sunflower seeds. What’s not to love?

                Just when it comes to physically trying to do those things, the wheels tend to come flying off in a spectacular display of sheer ineptitude and failure the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Judas’ ill-advised April Fool’s prank on the big J.C. all those years ago.

                My last time on an organized baseball/softball team – and for the purposes of this entry, I’m just going to go ahead and treat those two sports like they’re the same thing – came in the Spring of my 7^th grade year. Or as I noted earlier, about 14 years ago.

                By then, I’d managed to suppress my natural urge to wear my glove on my head, but it hadn’t made me any better of a ball player.

                I was relegated to left field (Editor's note: I now realize I was playing right field that whole time, a good indication of my mental state/awareness during that era), which is where the coaches had correctly deduced I’d be able to do the least amount of damage. I don’t remember catching any balls that year, but if one rolled slowly my way, I did almost always manage to pick it up on the very first try.

                That uninspiring defensive effort was trumped only by my legendary lack of success at the plate. I reached base exactly two times that season. Literally every other plate appearance was a strike out or ground out.