Tuesday night’s kickball game was, I must say, an embarrassment. It was an hour of the Goddamnit Gerber gang at their best/worst. The team was at its sauciest and bossiest, and what do we have to show for it? A tie.
I arrived at Momma Johnson Park just prior to kick-off, which means that I missed the alleged three hours of team drinking beforehand. ZogSports officials, if you are reading this, please stop giving us the latest possible game. We clearly have no self-control or sense of proportion, and as long as you allow us to play and encourage us to drink, we will continue to defend the dubious title of Those People.
Now, as I said, I myself was stone-cold sober, due to the lateness of my arrival and a psychotic aversion to alcohol caused by my own particularly misguided activities on Saturday. So perhaps the absence of a few games of flip cup from my schedule was allowing me to see things clearly. That, or members of the squad were particularly fashniked. Kish’s eyes were half-closed again. George had imbibed so much that he disappeared for half an inning to find the nearest bathroom (despite last week’s tutorial on stealth pee). The jury’s still out on whether Jenny’s hug-giving and ball-spiking were manifestations of either alcoholic or natural intoxication. And Stacy may have her teaching license revoked after the repeated full-body caresses she showered on an opposing player named Reggie. At times, it was a piping hot mess. Even sweet Jill was copping an attitude!
Which is not to say our opponents were guiltless. They had sticks up their asses from the start. I think they took issue with our custom jerseys. They were the Red Team, so how dare we have red sleeves on our shirts. Who did we think we were? The Reds also had an undefeated record, which they were absolutely determined to uphold.
When the game got underway, though, it was clear that they were not all they were cracked up to be. We quickly put runners on with some base hits and smart bunts, and Joe brought them all home with the first of his two home runs. The bunts were true artistry, as getting a successful bunt meant evading the other team’s creepy, creeping catcher, who was never more than six inches behind the batter. We knew when Spitz led off and narrowly avoided being nailed in the noggin that this hipster doofus wasn’t goofing around. Also, the douchehat was wearing cleats.
We were up by two in the sixth inning. It was a fragile lead that was soon reduced to one. We took the field as the Reds stepped up for last licks. There were two outs and one runner on when a tiny blonde girl in pigtails and a tennis skirt came up to the plate. Scott rolled the ball towards her and she bunted. Scott scrambled for the ball, got it, but didn’t have the footing, the angle, or the time to throw to JR at first. Instead, he tried to peg her–delicately, mind you.
Now, being in right field, I was fairly close to the action. But my line of vision was not unobstructed, what between the tensed-up JR planted on first base, the terrified Miss Skort running down the baseline, her frantic toolbag base coach jumping up and down from the sideline, or the ball of thunder that was Scott charging after her like a bull in Pamplona. Truthfully, my view was no better than Ryan’s, who was back to reffing our games instead of participating in them. Scott threw the ball to get Miss Skort out. As the bodies clustered around first base, the runner on third came home. If Ryan called her out, the run wouldn’t score, and Goddamnit Gerber would win. If she was safe, the game, now in its seventh and final inning, would have to end in a tie.
Scott was adamant that he had tagged the target. First Base Douche was equally convinced that he had not. Faced with a Solomonic dilemma, Ryan turned his attention to Elle Woods. With all the gravity of a police officer responding to a domestic violence call, he asked, “Did he hit you?”.
Visibly shaking, she did not respond. She simply cast her sad, wet eyes up to the red face of her Red teammate.
“No! She was safe!”
And thus was Ryan’s judgment. Skort was safe, and the game ended in a tie. A blemish on the Red Team’s record, to be sure, but an enormous lost opportunity for us. You could practically choke on the humid stench of anger in the air. There has never been a more silent, solemn shaking of hands after a game. None of my teammates were pleased. Well, except for Stacy, who stumbled off with Reggie for a brief post-game chat. Always the ambassador of good will, that Whiskey Lips…
Game 5 Brief
Record: 1 – 3 -1
MVP of the Week: Joe – His two base-clearing homers were the reason we got and stayed ahead for as long as we did.
Weekly Not En Fuego Award: There was a near unanimous cry for me to give this to Skort, as the team uniformly believed she was a liar. But I don’t dignify other team’s players with these prizes. That’s also why I’m not awarding it to Creepster Catcher, though he was certainly deserving. I was close to giving it to Eric, for fouling out at the plate, a cardinal sin of kickball. I could have given it to Scott, for not making that last play more effectively and for generally just ruining our winning mojo by showing up. I was also tempted to give it to Kish again, after he bitched and moaned about last week’s recap and then refused my repeated offers to rectify things by writing this week’s. No, instead, I think I have to award a collective Not En Fuego to the whole team. We were at our worst on Tuesday, folks: crass, argumentative, and unsportsmanlike. On top of that, we blew a two-run lead against an undefeated team. Not our finest hour, folks. Let’s do better next time.
Quote of the Week: “It’s a tie because it’s not the play-offs and I’m tired and I want to go to bed!” – Ryan, dismissing any further appeals to his controversial call