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September 08, 20042 BaseI am at a loss at how I have not shared this latest development in the ever Quixote like quest your humble SSG is always embarked upon in this crazy life. Gentle readers, I have taken up a sport, in a competitive league. And I'm pretty good at my position. I have joined the Little Rock Kickball League. Our team is the Kickin' A$$es. We got our collective a$$es kicked in the last game. Our last game was my first with the team after being invited to join while drinking tap Shiner Bock at a post party at a bar in downtown Little Rock. I was already thinking, "now, this is my kind of team." Now, I'll grant that it is probably not as studly as Sugarmama's ultimate league and tournaments, but I was damn surprised at how sore I was the day after the game. I must confess, when I first heard of a kickball league I was thoroughly amused by the prospect and had been approached by a few teams about playing for them. On accepting my team's invitation, it was my sincere intent to go to the plate with an open beer, calling out a homer to left field with my toe, and staring down the pitcher, and following up with a bunt and a gentle jog to first. Alas, it was not to be. We took the field first and I was placed at second base. All I could remember about kickball was that I wasn't particularly good at it in elementary school and one particularly traumatic event. I guess I was about ten years old and was at a Baptist day camp that summer. Sure there were a bunch of kids who were bigger than me and they could kick farther and run faster--this was long before I hit puberty and grew a couple cheetah legs. Well, this one day we were out playing kickball and it was my turn to go up to the plate. Suddenly one of the older kids, cut in front of me, taking me out of my rightful turn at a chance of getting on base. I immediately sensed a conspiracy-- I sucked at Kickball and the older kids had devised a plan to keep me from screwing up a close game. So what did I do? I'll be damned if I didn't start crying. What a little b#tch baby I was. I got to kick, but I never cried about it again. I never played again. Football, basketball, and karate benefited from that sad moment in my childhood. I learned quickly that tears are just salty water and if you want to play, you've got bring your game. Now, we return to the present and my first game in this Adult Kickball league. With that memory of being wronged and then being a cry baby, seared, seared, into my memory, I knew this was my opportunity at personal redemption. I was at second base with opportunities to smoke opposing runners to my left, right, and at my place. Second basemen in Kickball can cheat forward to make plays on the many bunts, or back up to snag balls that the guys try to sneak over your head. Yes, there was a tinge of fear that I'd screw it up, be banished to deep left field, and not get any of the action. It was time to buck up, take that tinge of fear and feed off of it. It was time to bring the A game. Gone was the notion of heading to the plate, beer in hand. It was replaced with a deep intense fire to be a baller and bring the game. And, who would have thought it? I made a damn good second baseman. To be fair, it helped a lot to have a damn good center fielder backing me up when I had to move up to play the bunts. Hell, he even noted that we must have some kind of telepathic link of knowing when to go for the ball or the pass and when to let it go to the other. Still, I made two double plays. The other team tested me by trying to loft a few over my head and into the seam betweeen the centerfielder and I. One word: DENIED! There was the testosterone-fueled moment of staring down the runner on third, just daring him to make a run for home. He stayed, I got the ball to the pitcher. I received three very flattering comments from our opposition. The first came after I sprang up on my cheetah legs high into the sky and stretched out my long arms to snag a ball from the air that they had tried to pop over me (Randy Moss, now, who's he?!) The yell came from the opposing team's dugout: "Damn, that second baseman's got some RANGE!" To which I replied with the only thing that came to mind, I pointed with one hand and did a karate chop like motion ending near the bottom of my thigh, just above the knee; the universal sign for another kind of, ahem, "range." The second, and probably greater, compliment took a few innings to be fully realized. The opposition quit kicking at me. At first, I was a little miffed, but then I realized the compliment and that it also meant I could make more plays at second. Indeed, it allowed me to get in on the two double plays. The third was what I hope will continue to be the camaraderie of the kickballin' set. I was invited to join the opposition at their keg following the game. Regardless, it's a team game, and our team went down 14 to 4 or something like that. And what does your normally humble SSG do in such a case? The only thing he can do: Play hard, stop the hemorrhaging, and talk trash--lots of it. And wouldn't you know it, our opposing team's name was Deez Nuts. Oh, gentle readers, do you know how much trash can be talked when your opponent has a name like that? It wasn't pretty, but it was funny as hell, i.e. Do y'all smell that? I think I smell---COMEBACK!!! (...sufficient pause...) Oh, wait, no, it's just DEEZ NUTS! After the game, our team captain immediately called a post game "strategery" and practice session. Well, after a few obligatory beers, of course. Hopefully, it helped, but that was a couple of weeks ago. In any case, we get our jerseys this week. I'm definitely going to have something printed on the back shoulders. On a fun, intramural team in college, a pledge brother of mine and I teamed up to have "All That" and "Then Some" on our respective jerseys. I'd like you gentle readers to give me suggestions on what to have on the back of this jersey. Leave your ideas in the comments. Winner gets an autographed kickballin' action shot of the SSG. And if you make it to the game, I'll give you a beer. There it is gentle readers, I turned into a good second baseman in Kickball after years of doubt. I'm sure it's a Freudian thing what with being on second base and catching round, bouncy objects within my reach. I'm not complaining. Comments
Deez Nuts? Interesting. They probably named their team with the same reasoning I used to name my fantasy football team, Morning Wood. You can't lose. I get beat, "Dude, you beat my Morning Wood". I win, "My Morning Wood spanked your ass". See? It's hard for the other team to talk smack when practically anything I say can trump them. Posted by: Howard at September 10, 2004 09:09 PMPost a comment
 
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