Its Tearin’ Up My Heart (When the fartballs lose)

There’s losses.  Then there’s heartbreaking losses.  And then there’s going into the bottom of the seventh up seven runs and damning it all to hell. 

They say you can’t appreciate the former until you’ve experienced the latter.  But, in the words of Kanye West,

“They claim you never know what you got ’til it’s goneI know I got it, I don’t know what y’all on”

Unlike Kanye, rather than going into a line about Jennifer Aniston and a young Darth Vader, I’m just going to state simply: I never want something like our loss to Catahoula to ever happen to me again.  Ever.

From the onset the game had a Too-Good-To-Be-True feeling about it.  You can even ask Dr. Siebert of the drunken refugees to confirm how I felt – I tried to bet him at the start of the seventh that we would somehow choke this game away.  And before he could even say no because he agreed with me: a botched pop up, seven ground balls fucked like a Kardashian, and mild celebrations from a team that knew all along it wasn’t going to lose.   

There are details I would have liked to harp on.  Like the all-too-high number of lofted pop ups hit into the outfield, despite the fact that we all knew the wind was awful and gave even Tim Marino the time he needed to get under the ball, shotgun a beer, yell at his kid for shitting in public, and update his facebook before making the out.  But every time I try to get agro about these “little things,” I remember they truly were little. Afterall, we were up seven runs with three outs to go. 

I’m so goddamn glad I brought my gin, my coconut water, and my angostura bitters to the game.  I had my sweet drink of sorrow to remind myself of the bigger picture..uh oh.  I think its tangent time. 

There was a great article on fangraphs recently about the baseball God known to us mortals as Joey Votto.  There are two events rarer than even a perfect game in the past handful of MLB seasons.  One is Joey Votto popping a ball up to the infield. The other is Joey Votto pulling a ball foul into the stands.  Another event is on its way to being slightly less common as well, and that is the Joey Votto home run.  Votto cares so much about getting on base and his swing plane (the path his bat takes through the strike zone, not a private jet with frisky, fat, monogomish couples in their late 50s) that he would rather sacrifice 5-10 home runs a year for 15-20 more ropes one-hopped off the wall to left center.  He hits opposite field more than any left handed batter in baseball, and his BABIP is ridiculously high against league average.  Those are not unrelated stats. This is because, in his words, “you cant shift a defense against a guy who can hit the ball anywhere he wants.”

Joey Votto is versatile.  And in my quest towards a little Joey Votto-esque improvement of my own, I plan on showing my own versatility on the field.  Call me Whiskey Frank all you want, but don’t be surprised when you pull up to first base this season as I sip on a nice blanco tequila, or a vintage Cotes du Rhone, or, on those days where the budget is tight, some Four Lokos.  One trick ponies lose their novelty fast.  Multitalented thoroughbreds get put out to stud, motherfucker.  I think the put out to stud part is supposed to be an analogy for making the hall of fame.  It makes little sense to me, and surely even less to you.

 

I told you I was going on a tangent.  My mind is more focused on how my music playlist today has been nothing but Kanye West and Justin Timberlake, and why I would ever do Cotes du Rhone the disservice of being mentioned in the same sentence as Four Lokos.  Lets hand out some awards

The One Loko award for that was a clown play, bro, goes to Ryan for hitting the fucking base on his ground ball that would put him on as the tying run.  Or something like that.  That wasn’t really a clown play, bro, but this is my blog and Im allowed to complain however I choose.

The Two Lokos award for shitty office technology goes to my place of employment for forcing me to use windows 95 and internet explorer 3 point bullshit, which is in no way compatible with this website.  And that effectively takes the 8 most otherwise unproductive hours of my day and removes my ability to do the one thing that feels like a solid waste of time.  As opposed to plain wasting my time.  Which I do for literally 40 hours a week.  Is anyone hiring someone who hates lawyers and hits left handed?

The Three Lokos award for longest at bat goes to Derm for wasting about half of everyones life in the process of doing the fishtown shuffle in order to hit 17 thousand foul balls to the right field side.

The Three and a half Lokos award for You Were Almost There But You Still Arent The Real Deal goes to the entirety of the art museum, because, well, think about it.  This award also goes to Bon Jovi, Kyle Kendrick, Carly Rae Jepson, everyone who drives a certified preowned luxury vehicle, and your mom.  

The Four Lokos award for outstanding achievement and excellence in the field of sport excellence and achievement goes to…damn, I dont know.  its not anyone on my team because we all suck. And its not anyone on Catahoula because I said so.  And its not the tap room because *this joke removed in order to protect the identities of the innocent*  Im ending on that note.  Ive gone far enough this week.

 

Time To GGLOAT!

GGLOAT is actually an acronym of a question: Gin, Greatest Liquor Of All Time?

But that’s neither here nor there, and I believe there are fellow bloggers in the sphere of blogging who hold much more pertinent qualifications than I to discuss the ranking of gin v. the other fine spirits of the world.  And besides, Ive got a damn softball game to talk about! 

Damn is probably the most PG way to describe the game – if I was on the opposite side of the field, suited up in P&P Red.  Thats a real color by the way, Im thinking about going with it when I paint the mud room.  Damn, however, with an exclamation point attached afterwords, is precisely how I want to summarize yesterdays game from the Fartball perspective.  I mean Damn!  How the fuck did we win?  Once we finally had a skeleton crew that barely resembled a softball team at the field, it was a matter of two innings and only half a drink of gin before P&P put up 11 runs to our goose egg. (I think.)

Speaking of which, let me get back on the gin train for a second.  No one really wants to read my recap of the game anyway; Ill let Ford give all of you the play by play of our 16 to 15 or something like that win.  The following is from Islands in the Stream, by Ernest Hemingway, released posthumously. 

“Where Thomas Hudson lay on the mattress his head was in the shade cast by the platform at the forward end of the flying bridge where the controls were and when Eddy came aft with the tall cold drink made of gin, lime juice, green coconut water, and chipped ice with just enough Angostura bitters to give it a rusty, rose color, he held the drink in the shadow so the ice would not melt while he looked out over the sea.”

Do you need more approval than that of The Man Himself to understand why this drink is so good?  And like all great recipes, this transcends measurement.  Beyond a vague “rusty, rose color,” which at first read makes no sense, there is not much to follow.  But the moment you give a dash of bitters to the glass you understand exactly what is meant.  Its a shame every time I try to order one at a bar they look at me like Im an asshole for thinking they would ever stock coconut water.  Yeah, IM the asshole, for being SO PRETENTIOUS as to think there might be SOMEONE ELSE on this earth who drinks something other than a FUCKING YAEGERBOMB on a tuesday night! Pshhh.  Bartenders.  Talk about the lowest common denominator.  You guys should all try this drink.  In fact, try it out with me at the next art museum game.  Im bringing a full bar because Fuck Me if Im not allowed to enjoy myself exactly as I want in Fairmount Park. 

I think I have ADD.  I have no clue what the point of this post is supposed to be.  Lets give out some awards maybe?  And try to eek out some semblence of cohesive writing?

The Justin Timberlake Is Not Trying To Be Robin Thicke Award goes to Nevins (and Lynch but I cant confirm that he was thinking much at all, let alone situationally), for boneheadedly thinking situationally during his last at bat, rather than just hitting the ball.  The cardinal rule of the CCSL is that situational awareness only hurts the one attempting to be situationally aware, as 95% of all runs scored in this league are on dropped fly balls anyway.  This award is a mosaic of Nevins being given the award by Justin Timberlake on stage at The Bank during his concert this summer, and represents what it would look like if Justin Timberlake actually did give Nevins an award on stage at The Bank during his concert this summer.  Because obviously thats not happening.

The Chris Kirpatrick Best Sidekick and Drink Holder award goes to Ford for holding my drink so skillfully throughout the evening.  I couldnt have gotten as drunk as I did last night without you.  I almost gave the award to Russ though, because one time neither of us was paying attentiong when Gabor hit a sharp ground ball to Rice, and I had to field the play with drink in hand.  Then I realized that was actually the coolest thing Ive ever done in a CCSL game so, yeah. 

The Lance Bass Best Switch Hitter Award (see what I did there???) goes to Shawn for switch hitting his way to a game winning RBI.  I really have no idea what to think of the series of events that led to Shawn doing this, but I do think in the long run it will end with him hosting a Sirius XM talk show after never getting to go to space with the Russians.

The Joey Fat One Thanks For Not Showing Up Award goes to everyone on the art museum who decided not to show up and force us to play with only 3 outfielders.  This award comes in the form of me paying Joey Fat One to incessently bother you all every time you go out at night and repeatedly shout at you to finish the lyrics of whatever song is playing on the juke box in a weirdo TV host voice.  Especially after the P&P being kind enough to not force a forfeit and THEN take a loss, its the least I can do. 

The JC Chasez Oh Yeah I Forgot To Mention Him Award goes to Darkness for having like 7 line drives fall just out of his reach, then redeeming himself by going all Barnum and Bailey on us for one of the last outs of the game.  That shit was, in the words of Kanye West FCKing Ridiculiss.  I think this award might be everyone, for the rest of the season every time Darkness is within earshot, looking at the person they are talking to and saying  “Jeremys good, like real good, but Rice’s star totally shines way brighter and will help him transition to a solo career and besides everyone always waits for Rice’s verses they never care about the parts where Jeremy gets to sing by himself.”  And when we all think we got the last laugh on the Darkness for that running joke, he will retire to the hills of Southern California in a 30 million dollar home and no financial worry for the rest of his life.  Damnit.  Fuck you Jeremy.  Fuck you and your never ending string of boats.

Baby Its Cold Outside

On Tuesday I, along with so many other tortured souls of the CCSL, had visions of Bing Crosby and Doris Day (or Will Ferrell and Zoey Deschanel, or NSYNC) because holy Tim the Tool Man Taylor on Christmas Eve was it Chili out.  Us Farters had the pleasure of facing Big Mick and OG Franklins, as well as the mythical creature that is buddy’s prehistoric beard.  Collectively dressed in our winter’s finest, Buddy wore naught but a t-shirt.  Relic of the past as it may be, I think h-

This joke was interrupted by the sounds of Phyllis urgently saying FRANKCOMEHERETHEREISAMOUSEINTHESINK. There was, in fact, a mouse in the sink.  Little fucker couldnt jump his way out of that porcelain deathtrap.  This by itself would be an oddity of sorts, but the oddness compounds when taking note that earlier today, a similar commotion was heard in the kitchen when the disgusting, stupid, old as fuck cat (name: Mr. Snuff) had a dead mouse of his own between his three remaining teeth.  Ive been campaigning to take the braindead bastard to a vet and give him his last rights for a long time now, but today of all days he decides to start earning his keep.  Fucking mice, man.  Anyways.

We were all cold, Buddy was warm due to hiding a space heater in his beard, everyone made a lot of Daria style errors because our brains couldnt process the path of a batted softball, and the Great Dodger In The Sky willing, none of our bats dented in the near Absolute Zero temperature the game took place in.  Final Score 10-4, rhyming rhyming Andrea’s a whore.

We play everyone’s favorite old curmudgeons (and Lynch) tomorrow, and the weather will be about 100 percent warmer than it was a week ago.  We will all toast to the great sportswriters who no longer grace our world with their presence, cry softly while on deck, and curse miserably under our breath as we perpetually fail to live up the expectations we hold of ourselves when it comes to co-ed league softball.  (Seriously, did I not just sum up Ford’s entire softball career in only one long-winded sentence?) And then by 9pm, when the last handful of us all sit at the Collar and wax poetic about the days when a 2-3 zone was the newfangled bullshit defense and not the dinosaur of college basketball still run for some ungodly reason by that guy who wears orange nike glasses, we will all realize how goddamn pointless this blog post was.

Cuz Im Back BACK! Back in the Fartball Groove

bu duh bud bu duh hey im BACK! like ryans back, which is backting up on him again, so, word of advice to the objectively speaking gorgeous members of the bishops collar, hit the ball at his feet tomorrow.  Hell either not be able to field it, or fall to the ground in pain, and the bottom line is no matter what happens we will all get to laugh.  

The art museum season opened today (ed. note: yesterday) against resident CCSL goodwill ambassadors South Philly Tap Room (the softball team). Have I ever told you about how good the grilled cheese and tomato soup is at SPTR (the bar)?  You should totally try it some time.  Thats actually what I was eating when Joe Blanton hit his home run in the 2008 world series.  I pretty much threw it up. 

Speaking of which:  The tap room at one point in time was my local bar and one night I took some out of town friends there.  They had these super good brussel sprouts on special –  they were covered in bacon and olive oil and other things that make things in restaurants taste really good.  So i ate them.  And then I drank many many drinks.  And then we paid our tab and received our change in the form of crisp two dollar bills.  And I realized they do that because everyone who gets a two dollar bill goes through two thoughts.

1. Ha! look at this two dollar bill!  T-Jeff is totally the best president ever.

2. What the fuck am I going to do with a two dollar bill?  

So the two dollar bill is given back as part of the tip, and more often than not this leads to the tip being one dollar higher than it would have been since you dont have any singles to break it down.  I mean, fuck that, right?  I took my two dollar bill and ate it in protest.  Let me tell you, eating a two dollar bill is harder than it sounds.  That material they make money out of does not break down no matter how much you chew.  And the ink bleeds out of it if you chew long enough.  I had to rip the bill into multiple pieces.  Green ink was everywhere.  I looked like I melted some gummy bears and mixed them with a cocktail of illicit drugs and rubbed them all over my lips.  The waitress there who looks like Stephen Tylers elven daughter just kept looking at me in disgust.  I cant blame her.

Long story short – since Im tired of telling it – I went home and threw up the two dollar bill AND the delicious brussel sprouts.  It was a travesty. And that is what SPTR (the softball team) makes me feel like doing every time I see them.  Literally, that team makes me want to eat brussel sprouts and a two dollar bill and chug grain alcohol until I vomit.  Seriously, have you seen The Camel?  That guy is SUCH a chode.  Anyways, we lost 16 (or 17) to 12, because of course SPTR (the softball team) found some unbelievably petty reason to bitch about the final score(what else is new?), and we are now 0-1.  Tomorrow (ed. note: today.)  we play TFI in the wonderful 30 degree weather that is April in Philadelphia, and hopefully this leads to a much needed morale boost.  

Phew.  I am glad this recap is over.  I was super worried Id end up being all nice and stuff, but Im glad I found my high-test fuel to rev up the snark engine in time for this inaugural 2013 recap. Lets get to some awards.  Im retiring the Golden Lynchies, and im not sure what will be adapted for this season, so lets try out a smorgasbord of jawns!

The Amanda Knox is innocent award for best newcomer goes to Matty, for hitting like 18 home runs in his first game on the team.  

The Rice’s Sandy Vagina award for being hurt to start the season for like 7 years in a row goes to Rice’s Sandy Vagina.

The I seriously might get fired for even mentioning this website award goes to Darkness for wearing a spaceghetto hoodie.  You know those movies about hackers and weird internet stuff, like the matrix or that one with a young, ugly Angelina Jolie?  Ever wonder what websites they visited in their free time?  Space Ghetto is probably it.  Its seriously the most disturbing, NSFW website in the history of Al Gore’s internet (discounting the times when Kyles Koaching Korner makes its way online shudder) and you have been thoroughly warned.  I wont even link the url here.  But by all means, if youve ever wanted to look at police photos of fatal car wrecks and samurai sword fights and helicopter mishaps and photoshopped images of President Obama in the most racist settings imaginable, be my guest.

The what the fuck are those jerseys award goes to franklin (i think?), because seriously what the fuck were those jerseys – we could see them all the way across edgely, blinding us like the light david carradine saw before he choked himself out in a closet in one final blissful moment.  

The Kwai Chang Caine award for holy shit I totally forgot David Carradine was the star of Kung Fu goes to Lynch because I have no idea what happened to him since December and Im excited that softball season means he will be coming out of his self asphyxiated winter in exile.

The salty because of the weather award goes to everyone I guess.  No one likes softball in this weather.

The what the fuck are you doing hambone? award goes to hambone for giving 37 home runs up to the braves tonight (ed. note: last night).  

The thanks for not changing anything award goes to ryan howard for never changing anything and continuing to strike out on every pitch that was illegal the first year of little league because it led to 11 year olds with elbow injuries.  

The way to let me down and ruin valentines day award goes to bruce willis.  Have you seen the new die hard? DONT.  no matter how bad you think any of the prior die hards were, they at least followed the most basic tenet of what comprises a die hard movie: John McClane is an unlucky man in the wrong place at the wrong time.  A good day to die hard took that common theme of the previous movies, tied it to a table, and gave it the worlds most unnecessarily violent cleveland steamer.  It literally took everything I believe in and shit on its chest.  It is awful. (ed. note: Im not changing a god damn thing about this last award.  Im glad to see my drunken self cared so much about how bad that movie was to end a blog post complaining about it.  and seriously, “unnecessarily violent cleveland steamer”?  If you look up “striking prose” in the dictionary that will be the example.  Im talking too much.  See you all at Dairy two tonight)

 

TRAITOR

 

YO! Its 2013 Ya Wheezebags!

Boy am I excited.  18 games, and one division to rule them all.  Many spies have many eyes.  Other lord of the rings references.  How was your winter? Mine was groovy, man.  I went to the Air and Space Museum last week.  Saw the spirit of st. louis.  Apollo 11’s command module.  Touched a moon rock.  No big deal, really.  Did you know theyve never seen a tall person in Alexandria before?  Either that or the Wizards are so awful everyone thinks Im on the team judging by the looks I got. 

Anyways, this new seasons happening and stuff.  Sweet.  Time to fire the ole blog up.  Let the oil work its way into the thing and flux capacitor and other car reference.  I guess I put up that survey a while back and promptly forgot about it.  As things stand, it looks like Im going to start taking reader questions this year, yay questions!  You can still vote for Dr. Siebert takes his knuckleball to the minor leagues though, the voting period isnt over and I dont give a crap.  Ill run every one of those features if I feel like it.  But IRRegardless, I guess I need to open the floor up to questions.  Feel free to post them here, or tell me in real life, or call me via car phone, but dont expect to see my email posted any time soon.  Last time I had my email address associated with a blog I almost got fired.  So let’s try and not let that happen, OK?

Unrelated, but I made a New Years Resolution this year: Dont get fired for blogging.  Whats your new years resolution?  To stop sucking at softball? HA, good luck you idiots. 

A final thing, Im looking for applications for a new celebrity to mock on the regular.  Im over the Nic Cage thing, and me and Bruce Willis had a real weird offseason fling and Id rather not talk about it, so thanks for not asking.  Please send headshots to Ryan and Moira’s place, where I won’t pick them up.  Now rest up and work off those offseason pounds I know you all put on.  The season starts soon, and its time to get weird. 

W.F.(W.)H.

Its official Folks

Nick has handed managerial duties of the all star game to me. Get ready for 9 outfielders playing at a time motherfuckers. And suck it Ford, youre going down

Choose Up To 3, Choose Wisely

Why Do Griffons Fall? So They Can Learn To Stop Fucking Falling.

Kind of like a choose your own adventure book, the following blog post has an optional reader participation activity.  Read what follows in the theatric voice of Bane, and it will be more fun! Fun and severe.  I am blogging’s reckoning.

We closed the season out with a dissapointing loss to the Franklin Refugees.  I place the blame almost entirely on myself, for deciding to pull a Benny The Jet Rodriguez and tell Marino to go stand really far away in right field and just put his glove up.  Somehow the IED I launched hit him in his outstretched hand.

That set the tone.  A lot of hard hit balls right at someone, a lot of not hard hit balls still at someone, and a handful of costly errors gave us a final score of bla to bla whatever.  Your bookkeeping must be more severe!  It was a very, how to put it, New York Jets type season.  Lots of expectations, lots of performing below them, and entirely too many paychecks spent on child support.  I really don’t understand why we thought Antonio Cromartie was a good off season pickup. 

IRREGARDLESS, this season was a barrel of laughs, we drank a lot of booze, Kyle brought a lot of interesting foods and wrote a play about it, and Rice still isn’t allowed to watch There Will Be Blood.  I say we hand out some end of season Golden Lynchies!

Lynchie of the Year for best newcomer goes to TJ Cousins Cousin – the one who doesn’t have the yips or a pickup truck.  Congrats TJ, you brought a lot of spunk to this team.  And I HATE spunk.  Your award is a golden statue of Lynch, not doing anything in particular

The Golden Lynchie for most errors goes to Rice and the Darkness, its a motherfucking tie man.  This is a golden statue of Lynch in a science lab, in a lab coat that he stole from Ryan’s house in fairmount, looking at a bubbling beaker with steam everywhere, holding a chart full of mathematical equations, figuring out scientifically that Rice and Darkness both had exactly 1 metric shit ton of errors each, and therefore have both been placed at the end of the periodic dinner table, where the kids sit.

The award for best speaking engagement goes to Zoey Strauss’ talk on Bruce Springsteen’s influence on her body of work.  Ask Rice about it, he really enjoyed it.

The award for best field goes to Edgely 4.  This is mainly because Dairy 2 spent half the season incapacitated, and also because we never got to fucking play a game anywhere fucking else except that fucking field.

The award for best bat goes to the Black Max, which I have a litany of sexual jokes for.

The award for funnest team to play against goes to Bishop’s Collar because 1. Im biased 2. Liquid Panty Remover 3. They are the only team whose sponsor gives me free drinks on the regular.

The award for least fun team to play against goes to…. drumroll please…. The ___________________ __________- ______________—–_ ______________________–_____-______—_________}^______ and_________ but–_____–______-_______Fuck___—______…and thats all I have to say about that.

Viet fucking Nam.

The award for best fight goes to The Darkness, his award is a golden statue of him putting Lynch into a textbook guillotine. When you look at it though, its actually just Lynch lying in an awkward position on the ground and no one else is there.

The award for inciting the most bitter rivalries goes to me! A golden statue of Lynch saying “ha ha my man, this is putting me between a pet zoo rock and a hard place” is already in the mail, heading my way

The least likely to play next year award is a tie between Benson and Ogre Benson, its a statue of lynch saying “I dont care.  Seriously my man, why are we even making a statue for this?”

Most Beers kicked over while umping award goes to Rice.  This award is a golden statue of Ford furiously kicking over beer cans in a row in a futile attempt to win this Lynchie at the last moment.  Heres to 2013, blogfather!

Biggest fire sale is a tie between SPTR and The Phillies.  I cant remember what this award looks like or where it is, it was accidentally packed in an equipment bag headed to either LA or San Francisco. 

The award for best new Benson goes to Pittsburgh Benson, who has reinvented himself as a cranky, glove throwing, tantrum prone captain of a beer league softball team.  Id tell him to get some anger management advice, but unfortunately our budget is already shot due to the amount of people who need to take government mandated courses at the moment.

The Rawlings Gold Lynchie Defense award goes to Kyle, who set records in both the number of home runs hit over someones head and the number of flat-out pretty diving catches made in one game.  Its feast or famine with Kyle in Left, but mostly feast when he drops 30 bucks on obscure candies every week.  This awards a golden statue of lynch eating a cherry coke bottle candy saying, Ha Ha my man, we should put these in alcohol!

The award for worst back is as of yet undecided, but we are looking at a death match between Ryan, Kahlif, Taproom Casey, and late addition myself.  Whoever wins gets the golden lynchie, and only then do they have my permission to die.

OK, now on to the big ones.  The nominees for the CCSL MVP are Ford, Nick, Nic Cage, Dr. Siebert, and Oberlin.

And the winner is….

Fonash!  Fuck all you guys, you think Id give my own MVP award to someone not even on my team?  Go complain to the commissioner. 

And finally, the Nic Cage award for absurdity…is being searched for on a dark August night.  Thunderheads are seen in flashes in the distance and the moon is blanked out by the intermittent sting of the rain.  Nick and Nic are perched along the rooftop of One South Broad, looking eye level at the statue of William Penn.  This city, says Nic, is like a mistress.  It is a lover which you know you will never be able live with, but you can’t live without.  Catch my drift, Kimosabi?  I think so, says Nick.  But what does this have to do with the statue of William Penn?  Sometime in the not so distant future, young Tonto, a lightning bolt will strike the statue.  There is a man out there who drives a delorean, and this delorean will catapault him back from the future.

BAM

Suddenly a delorean appears, ripping down broad street, leaving a double wake of flames behind.  A bloodied and beaten man stumbles out of the car.  The Batman! yells young Nick.  We need to help him! NO YOUNG NICK! WE CANT MESS WITH THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM!  We can only observe and learn.  A large, ominous being, wearing a mask, appears from the delorean as well.  His voice like an opera, he takes the Batman and breaks him.  Nick turns away, he cant watch.  Why would you make me sit here and let the Batman die? says Nick.  Because that is not the batman, young Nick…. I am the Batman. 

And just like that, Nic jumps into the shadows and leaves Nick to wonder what would become of him.  The distant whine of sirens sounded, and Nick ran across the rooftops, looking for a hope, a dream, an answer to a question not yet asked.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

So there I am.  Pitching a goddamn gem.  I don’t need alcohol to help me deal with the pressure that comes with playoff softball.  Not like those losers on every other team in this league.  I showed up with 3 beers in my gut to a game once, and what did I do?  I hit a shallow popup and yelled “See Ya!” because my drunken foolish self thought it was a home run.  Never again.  What’s the point in playing sports if you don’t take them seriously?  That’s what these people don’t get.  It’s not about fun.  It’s about winning.  That’s why I take every chance to crush them.  Complain about every close call.  Boast about my 6 to 8 outs a game that I make as a pitcher.  Yell at anyone who doesn’t place a ball perfectly in the gap.  They need to know that I am Serious.  That I am the reason this league is competitive.  That if it weren’t for me, it would be a league full of derelicts and outcasts.  I hate derelicts and outcasts.  They try to squat on my properties that I am trying to sell with MY blood and sweat, MY dedication.  No one else’s. 

I take myself out of the pitcher’s spot and move to the outfield.  This is a close game, and I can’t stand the feeling that my team is slacking off.  They just expect to win this game easy.  To be fair, I did too.  I may have bragged about it a few times.  But my defense in the outfield is solid.  No one takes a knee and scoops up a line drive single better than me.  No one.  So I go out there.  I need to salvage this inning.  We need to shut them down and come up swinging in the bottom of the 7th.  I’m not watching some has-been never-was ruin my chance at a second championship.  So I go out there.  Here comes a dipping liner my way.  This will end the inning.  Our terrible defense has already given up a few runs this inning.  Its bullshit I tell you.  I need to make this stop.  And of course, what do I do?  I misjudge it.  Ball scoots right past me.  The fucking thing knuckled on me, I don’t care if your name is Joe Dimaggio, you wouldn’t have caught that ball.  But these fucking losers don’t understand that.  They dont understand how much more seriously I take this, and how unfair it is that I’M the person who gets this shit luck.  I’M the guy who has to take the fall.

But I guess that’s the way it goes.  When you are the man at the top, everyone’s gunning to take you down.  Well congrats collar, you got lucky and knocked me down a peg.  It doesn’t change a thing.  Give us a 3 game series, theres no way you win another against us.  No way.  You think you’re so good.  I see you over there, drinking and laughing.  You have no idea what it takes to win a championship.  I can’t wait to see you all whining and cowering back at the bar, leaning on your boozey crutch.  Pathetic.  I’ll walk by and see how miserable you look in that bar and I’ll head to the gym and pump iron and think about how badly I’m going to beat you next year.  Enjoy your PBRs and Miller Lites.  Ill be drinking Protein Shakes.  Ill show you what it means to be a winner in life.  Because you certainly dont know anything about that.