Hard Bats and Soft Balls

That smell of freshly cut grass is in the air, folks, and you know what that means…

I’ll be mowing my lawn in my undies.

Actually, that would be problematic for a few different reasons.  1.  I don’t have a lawn, since I live in the city.  2.  I wouldn’t be able to mow the lawn in my undies because ladies and bees would flock to me like a newborn to a milk-filled teet (I’m just that sweet).  3.  The Arctic whiteness of my skin, coupled with the crippling allergies that would ensue, would be enough to frighten even the bravest of souls away within at least a four mile radius, thus rendering the afore-mentioned sexiness/sweetness completely moot.

Anyhow…it’s softball season!!!

And that’s what we’re really trying to talk about here.

I have a few different issues with softball.  Some good, some bad.

Let’s start with the good.

Softball is a game that allows participants of all ages.  Whether it is a recreational league, a pickup game at the company picnic or family reunion, or a hard-nosed league full of former collegiate triathletes (triathletes?  I don’t know…it just sounded good), the nature of the game allows for competition on all levels.  The good players will inevitably be positioned at key spots in the field- shortstop, 2nd base, center field, etc.  The crap players, on the other hand, will be relegated to positions like left bench, DEEP right field, backup catcher, pitcher’s assistant, and ball bitch.  This even distribution allows for most routine plays to be made and most exceptional ones not to be…which is great for everyone.

On occasion, there will also be the perk that one or more of the women in your mixed-league are VERY hot.  And let me tell you, this is essentially the only reason that any self-respecting guys play in mixed-leagues.  They are hoping to get the token hot chick.  This is the young lass with the cute pony tail, the killer smile, and the very tight baseball t-shirt on.  She may or may not be any good.  Does it really matter, anyway?  For reference, see “Jennie Finch.”

Another upside of softball, perhaps THE upside of softball, is that it can be coupled with alcohol.  I can’t tell you how enjoyable it is to be sitting in center field, frothy beverage in hand, gazing at the daffodils and the opposing team’s alarmingly hot secondbasewoman who just so happened to get to second on an errant throw, and is now standing at the ready in painfully tight spandex only a hundred or so yards in front of you.  Unless you’ve been there, you just don’t know.  Even the twenty run innings seem short when you have beer and babes to occupy your thoughts. 

Of course, there are also infrequent but severe incidents when one is casually sipping his/her beer at 3rd base and catches a frozen rope in the nads/labia area.  But these are, more often than not, very rare.  And they also provide a good amount of hilarity for the rest of the participants and fans. Just be wary of catching too many balls with your face, or you’ll end up like this guy:

Despite all this gloriousness, however, there are a few things about softball that really irk me.

First, judge the level of competition.  Family picnic?  FINE.  Everyone play! The point of this event is to have fun and get everyone involved. Even the guy with the ball jammed between his legs and the poor little kid in the wheelchair serving as his batting practice screen right here:

 
Paid men’s league, though?  No hacks.  No stiffs.  Don’t be that guy that says “Well, I haven’t been up yet!”  No shit, grass-stain.  We planned it like that.  You swing like a pair of your mother’s wet panties on the clothing line…slowly and nauseatingly. 

For instance, I’m like the frickin Barry Bonds of softball.  My head is wayyyyyy too small for my body, I’m cranky, I play mediocre defense, I love roids, and I hit bombs. ‘Nuff said.  But, when I go into a game, I judge the competition.  If I’m playing a bunch of gamers, I’ll step it up.  I’ll put it over the fence every chance I get (assuming the field that we’re playing on has a fence, which most don’t).  But, if I’m playing in a mixed-league format where a lot of the guys throw like girls and a lot of the girls throw like guys, I’ll tone it down a little bit.  Not a lot.  I’ll still peg the ball at the first baseman as hard as I can just to see how much of a bruise I can leave on his hand.  I’ll still slide hard into second, even when I don’t have to, just to try to let the shortstop know that I’m there and to remind him that cleats to the groin hurt.  Hell, I’ll still even wear the metal cleats that I’ve filed to a point.  But, I won’t try to go 10 for 10 or anything like that.  8 or 9 for 10 is just fine.

But, the fact is that everyone hates the guy that whines and bitches until he gets into the game, only to have two straight grounders go right through the wickets.  Don’t be that guy. Don’t be this guy, either:

In the same line of thinking, don’t be the guy that thinks his equipment/attire makes him better.  Just don’t.  I don’t care how friggin good you are.  You are not in the majors.  You’re not important.  Stop acting like it.  Here are a few guidelines to follow:

1.  Do not wear eyeblack. 

2.  Do not wear real baseball pants.

3.  Consider wearing sweatpants.  There is never an occasion where sweatpants aren’t totally appropriate and unbelievably sexy.

4.  Don’t wear armbands/sweatbands.  Unless, of course, it’s a joke or you and a couple of guys went out to Walmart together, cocked, and decided to all purchase the same exact WORTH sweatband.  Then it’s totally find.

5.  You think your flipup sunglasses are cool?  Who are you, Coco frickin Crisp?  Come on, Chris Saabo.  Ditch the shades.  It’s not gonna hurt any less when you catch that line-drive to the face if you have those dumb rec-specs on.

Ok?

Got it?

Good.

Finally, I really hate the guys and girls that take softball too seriously.  I suppose this goes hand in hand with the people who wear rec-specs and baseball pants and sliding shorts and the like.

I’m sure you know exactly who I’m talking about.

Maybe it’s the guy that played legion ball in high school in 1956.  He never made it to Single A, he’s got the bum knee, he sweats straight through baseball hats.  Maybe it’s the abnormally large girl that played college softball in ‘98 and misses the game so much that she starts mouthing off to Uncle Charlie, generously playing umpire, arguing balls and strikes (like she’d know what balls look like, anyway).  You can identify the latter easily by her mullet.  Take a look at both, in order.

Which one of these two do you think is Mr. “I take this too seriously?” Is it the guy wearing the blindingly bright polo? Nope.  He’s just hustling. It’s the tubby guy running full speed with the short shorts in the background.

This picture should speak for itself. But, in case it doesn’t, this would be the woman that’s going to show up and take things too seriously. Just look at the intensity of her haircut.  And that’s not a smile she’s wearing.  It’s an evil, maniacal grin.

 So, to sum up, softball is awesome.  It’s great in almost any circumstance.  It can be a team-building effort, it can be a great way to pass a Sunday.  It can even be a great avenue for washed-up sixty year old has-beens to harken briefly back to their glory days.

But what it shouldn’t be is a fashion show or a suck fest.

And if it is?  You have my permission to muzzle any idiot with your jock strap.

PLAY BALL!

~ by Bob on May 5, 2007.