Don't Call Me Softball Guy

My esteemed slow-pitch softball team began its summer schedule this week, but it did so without the services of its regular third-baseman. That would be me, the one who usually mans the hot corner and bats in the two-hole.

It was about three weeks ago that I informed the team of my decision to opt out of my deal with the club. Of course the only deal involved in this kind of league is the agreement of each player to pay for his right to participate. I chose to decline.

My decision wasn’t popular, and my brother even went so far as to offer to pay my $92.50 fee. It still wasn’t good enough for me, although I would never allow him to actually cover my dues. The last couple of months had simply confirmed my lack of desire to play.

We finished the spring season with a record of 11-5, good for a second-place finish. It had its moments, and winning our last eight games certainly provided some positive momentum. But I couldn’t quite overcome the seemingly inherent contradiction that defines men’s slow-pitch softball.

There’s a really strange line between competitiveness and recreation when it comes to this so-called sport. Maybe I was blind or ignorant when I first started playing ten years ago, just after I’d finished college. It was back then that I was single, could have a few beers during the games, still perform at a high level, then go out afterward for as long as I desired.

Perhaps now that I have a wife, children, two houses and a full- and occasional part-time job, it’s all coming clear.

Before playing this spring, I’d merely subbed a few times over the last three years. But my weekly exposure to the men’s softball culture proved this year that I didn’t belong. When I’d played more regularly, there were many guys who simply showed up with their gloves in one hand and cleats in the other. Now, not only does everyone have their own equipment bags, their bags are backpacks with bats on both sides that look like horns protruding from their shoulder blades.

Arriving at the softball complex each week I was simply faced with too many pudgy, buzz-cut, royal douche bags with their $200 bats and their 10-cent attitudes. These are the guys who show up early and stay late, willing to play an extra game or two if necessary, and the worst-case scenario is that they stick around and drink a couple more beers. It’s these guys who seem to hold this joke of game so sacred, yet they do so little to prove any legitimate allegiance.

Most of them are aren’t much taller than me (which is no great accomplishment), but they all clearly eat a lot of beef and drink a lot of beer. Yeah, most of them seem to weigh closer to 260 than 160. But while they can go out and mash the ball, often seeming to create the impression that they can hit a homer any time they deem it’s necessary, they respect so little of the game.

Slow-pitch softball, perhaps sadly, is obviously built from the foundation of the game of baseball. A majority of those original principles, however, are lost in this shell of the game. Come on, if you claim to have the ability to hit the ball wherever you want, then the least you can do is show a little hustle. Call me old-fashioned, but my favorite parts of the game are making plays in the field, and stretching singles into doubles and doubles into triples. I admit that I can’t have too much fun if my team doesn’t win, but I at least know that I put forth all the effort possible. That’s more than can be said for most of the tools who visit the complex.

To me, sportsmanship means being happy when you win and being unhappy when you lose. But I’d say about 75% of these mother fuckers playing slow-pitch softball are losers regardless. Good riddance, assholes.

A few other sports observations:

My kids don’t mind sports, but their minds aren’t necessarily fully engaged in them. Four-year-old Joey is a few weeks into his tee-ball season, and he’s had one game so far. The night before that game, he was wished good luck by a woman who works with my wife at her daycare. Joey’s response: “Well, I haven’t won World 7, but I hope we can get to World 8 tomorrow.” Sorry, Joey, she wasn’t talking about Super Mario Bros. on the Wii; she was talking about your freaking baseball game.

Major troubles ahead? Last weekend, my beloved Chicago Bears reached an agreement with the last of their unsigned 2010 draft picks. Former Florida defensive back Major Wright, chosen in the third round, will now enter camp this summer with a shot to be a big part of the rotation at safety. Now I have no big issue with Wright, but he should know that his name begs for trouble. Once on the field, his performance will dictate whether or not he’ll be subject to taunts that he’s a Major piece of shit, a Major waste of a draft pick, etc. So, Major, make it worth your fucking while.

A potentially perfect imperfection. Like so many other bloggers and columnists, I could surely fill an entire post with my thoughts on Armando Galarraga’s non-perfect perfect game Wednesday night. Both sides of the instant replay argument quickly get tiresome, so just consider this: Is it possible Jim Joyce’s call will turn out to be better for Galarraga’s career and image in the long-term? I think the answer is an absolute yes, and that’s been my stance since Wednesday night. While Joyce clearly did his own image no favors, Galarraga is a star right now. He’s handled everything with a great deal of poise, and I believe that many years from now it’s much more likely I’ll be telling my kids about this story rather than any perfect game that’s actually in the books. Galarraga stands alone as a graceful protagonist in what’s likely to be a rule-changing controversy. I think he’ll find this to be a better place to reside in baseball history rather than alongside the likes Mike Witt and Dallas Braden.