or how I learned to stop worrying and love kickball.
As the extended title suggests, this post will concern kickball. As a game devised for kids and played by adults, it falls squarely into the Social Sports category of adult gaming/sporting. Friggin’ Professional Sports, and Friggin’ J-Holes Who Act Like Professionals, uh Sports being the other two categories. A primary component of the Social Sports category is the age old question, “Can I drink this and still perform the basic functions of the game?”. I don’t think I’ve ever played in a game where the answer wasn’t, “Yes, in fact I just did.”
Which brings me to yesterday. Since Seattle has what can generously be called a short summer, outdoor activities are catch as catch can. This means that short notice is the rule rather than the exception for games. I got the invite at 3:30 and took the field at 5:30.
We managed to gather 11 people (5 per team, with one all-time pitcher). By the way, One All-Time Pitcher would be a pretty great name for a gay rapper. I managed to play both the best and worst game of my life. Best because I performed well, final out, numerous RBIs and even managing a circus throw to third for an out. Worst because both team size and position played kept changing, so to say that I occasionally became confused as to my responsibilities would be an understatement. I think when I was running from second to cover home, unaware that our pitcher moved there was probably the most egregious example.
I had no shortage of effort though. I’m pretty much always willing to give up the body which is fine most times. But, for example, when you haven’t played kickball in decades and then you can’t move the next day, it’s less fine. Let’s examine one of these less fine points in greater detail.
My team (Team Awesome) had been ahead up to this point., though we had to fight off some ferocious rallies. In fact, we were in the midst of the latest rally from the other team (Team Who Cares), when we found ourselves up by a single run, two out, two on. I was at second and the ball blooped over the shortstop’s head. Now, I’m certainly not the most fleet of foot. If anything I run like I’m carrying a faster guy on my back. So I ploddingly set off for third. The outfielder had retrieved the ball and was preparing to throw while I had yet to send the proper requisition forms to my legs to get the goddamn lead out. Needless to say, it was going to be close at the bag, which is also a good gay rapper name. I reached the general vicinity of third and commenced my sliding motion. Beating the throw by a hair, I was safe! The bases loaded, we piled in three runs and held on for a victory.
Seems fine, right? Remember how I mentioned there isn’t usually a lot of warning for these things? Well, it seems that I had elected the “shorts” option when selecting my leg coverings. All well and good, but we were playing on a dusty, dusty field. The slide was less a “sliding” motion and more of a “scraping” motion. Like if you built up a head of steam and just dropped down to one leg on asphalt.
My treatment of the wound has been somewhat lackluster. It kept me up last night by hurting anytime I did anything ever. Like, in any way. Today I’ve cleaned it again, but it doesn’t look too happy. What’re you gonna do though, just give up that out?
I picked up some bandages, things are looking up now. Still hurts though.