Fever pitch

Ah, small town softball.

A couple of months ago I joined the local women's slowpitch softball league to meet friends and have some fun. I meant to blog about the drama that is women's adult sports back then but you know how lazy I've gotten in my retirement.

Anyhow, back when I joined I signed up on the free agent list at the rec center. A nice lady, S, called me and invited me to be on her team. I went to one or two practices wherein S, who takes her softball quite seriously, had us doing yoga and hitting flat soccer balls off of toilet plungers and doing strange drills and stuff. Having never played softball before I figured this might be the norm and just went along with it.

At the second practice the issue of ordering jerseys came up. Somehow it had been decided that our colors would be hot pink and green and we would have sleeves on our shirts so S wouldn't have to shave her armpits. These things are a concern up here in the mountains. And I'm no artiste but I have seen a color wheel and know that something is not right with hot pink and olive green together. Still, I was the new girl and didn't want to cause a ruckus so I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, the other players did not and the captain was overruled on team colors but stood her ground on pit hair.

That practice ended with a few folks feeling disgruntled so the captain called a meeting at the local Mexican restaurant to improve team morale. This was right after my Vegas trip and I had won some money so I ordered a round for the girls and toasted our new team.

No sooner had I put my glass down than one of the other girls proclaimed there would be an insurrection and that S could either stay on the team as just a player or split off and form her own new team because she was too bossy and hairy. Other reasons cited for the coup were that there were too many players on the team, one girl felt threatened that other, better players from the dreaded town of Mojave (aka 'Hell on Earth') would take her position, another had issues with doing yoga before practice, and the whole body hair issue was revisited.

I watched in awe that people took their slow pitch so seriously and noted that if my life ever reached the point that I felt threatened by someone over a slow pitch position I should immediately check myself in to the local mental health facility. The meeting ended with a team split and me undecided as to which team to play with. On the one hand, S was nice but a bit demanding and serious about things, particularly religion and homeschooling. On the other hand I didn't like the way the insurgents had handled the split (it was like junior high school and S left in tears) but they were a drinking team with better colors and a few clean-shaven players I liked. So I let my alcoholic tendencies decide and went with the heathen traitors.

Now it's midseason and we have a great team. When we lose, we go down in flames and the mercy rule is used more innings than not (that's when the team at bat scores 7 runs in one inning - they just call the inning whether there are three outs or not). When we win, we're ecstatic but sportsmanlike. We bring coolers full of libations and every Wednesday a group of us head to karaoke after the game and imbibe and sing country songs and just have fun. We even have nice shirts with nicknames on the back. Here's what mine usually looks like:Here's what it looked like last night:Don't ask...Just know that we all had Tweedle names and there was a lot of cheesy tweedle humor going on.

Monday night we were short players and everyone was having to play positions they weren't used to. I play anything but pitcher and really don't care where they put me as long as I can make snide remarks. Other folks are a bit more insecure and even though no one on the team is from Mojave, somehow feel threatened if they are placed somewhere they don't want to be. One such person is C. Now C is the one person on the team I try to avoid contact with. She has a flare for drama and crude comments. Those would be comments even I find inappropriate so it's bad. She never shuts up. And she talks a lot trash. The uneducated kind. She is always injured in some grave manner that looks like she's auditioning for the role of softball victim on Grey's Anatomy. She definitely always needs to be the center of attention. Oh, and she's in her 40's so it's even more pathetic.

So Monday night C was in the outfield and I guess the first baseman told her to move over a bit. For some reason C, who has never had a problem telling me where to move when I'm in the outfield, proceeded to start yelling and throwing the F-bomb at the first baseman. This riled up our first baseman, who has some gumption of her own, and a verbal catfight ensued. Mind you, this is in the middle of an inning and the game is going on. I was over at third base so I didn't really catch all the action, but I did see C throw her glove down, scream something, and walk off the field and right out of the ballpark. In the middle of the game. When we were already short players. This resulted in us having to take an automatic out the next time she was up to bat (which was no different than her batting seeing as how she usually gets out anyhow), and having to move the second baseman into the outfield to cover centerfield. Still, we lost miserably but had fun in the process as usual.

Last night was our first post-C desertion game. We had 10 players and a few coolers of booze and C didn't show and hadn't spoken to anyone since Monday. So there we were, playing the game, when C shows up mid-game. I didn't see it but I guess the first baseman told her that she was welcome to stay and sit on the bench but that she wasn't going to pull players seeing as how C abandoned the team the previous week. Seemed fair enough to me. You walk out during a game, you sit out a game. No big deal. Well, C didn't like the deal and left the dugout claiming she'd find a new team.

You would think she'd have left the ballpark but she hung around, rooting for the other team and undoubtedly talking trash about each of our tweedleteammates.

After the game, fellow teammate T and I were walking to our cars and C's husband accosts us to start a tirade against the whole team for not having called C to apologize. He was pretty upset and felt that everyone should have called to beg C to stay and come to the game. I told him that if anything C should be apologizing to the team for her immature behavior seeing as how the other 9 players hadn't done anything to her but she'd left us short handed. He was not seeing the logic there and was upset that C was benched for acting like a three year old. T and I escaped the tirade as C's husband shifted his ire toward the first baseman who was also attempting to get to her car. He yelled at her and actually called her a whore. No, I'm not sure what that has to do with softball either.

Alas all the tweedle losers made it to karaoke and lifted our spirits with margaritas and bad renditions of Gretchen Wilson songs.

The point of this story? None. I just needed to blog and this is what has become of my life. Oh, I do have a new beau and I need to blog about him but I'm on the fence about it so you'll just have to wait until the relationship implodes so I can blog about it.

July 4 Recap

Two tanks of gas to get to northern California: $88.00
Munchies for road trip: $14.76
Bubba Keg: $14.99
Event fees: $79.00
Watching your friend lay naked on a bed of ice while drinking beer from another man's butt crack: Priceless.

Two weeks late but still worth telling.

Headed up to El Dorado National Forest with MM for the holiday weekend. He arrived with a road trip gift for me:It looks harmless enough but in reality I believe it is the liver's equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

The Bubba Keg, found in your local Target store, holds 52 ounces of your favorite beverage (that's more than four bottles of beer for those of you unable to convert liquid without a Pee Chee folder), is insulated, and has been known to cause irratic behavior, stumbling, slurring, vomiting, public urination, random make-out sessions, spontaneous nudity, butt chugs, and bad karaoke. A special thanks to MM for thinking of me.

After a long drive up highway 99, we eventually arrived at our destination, Stumpy Meadows Lake, and saw this picturesque view that made the drive worth while:Upon arrival MM and I set up my tent and the mosquito-free lounge. MM opted not to set up his tent, rather to hit the beer truck with his Bubba Keg. That was his first mistake of the weekend. Note to beer-guzzling campers: set up your tent and air mattress BEFORE imbibing.

I had a beer, socialized a bit, and we were off on a trail that took us around the lake, complete with a swim-out-to-it boat full of beer and some naked guy who didn't want to get his shoes wet. Note to naked guy: You only have to remove your shoes to keep them from getting wet, other articles of clothing can stay on. Anyhow, the swim was almost as refreshing as the beer and I learned it is difficult to swim or tread water while drinking beer. I don't remember seeing MM after the run but do know he was sighted at the beer truck with his Bubba Keg on more than one occassion. I, of course, also hit the beer truck with my own Bubba Keg on several occassions throughout the first day and night which led to one of the side effects of a Bubba Keg: the random make-out.

I somehow wrangled a fellow drunken reveler into the cab of the beer truck and found myself playing tonsil hockey with him. Unfortunately, we just weren't in synch and I can't stand a bad kiss so I put a stop to things rather quickly, stating something to the effect of, "We don't kiss well." or "It just isn't working." My victim then stated something to the effect of, "Oh, but I get better." or "It'll get better." To which I replied, "No, it won't", and stumbled back to my tent. In my experience folks who aren't doing well with their tongues don't do well with other things.

So there I was, passed out in my tent, in the wee hours of the morning when I hear someone unzipping it. I flash my light at the person and see MM, covered in leaves and dirt, crawling in exclaiming that he had been sleeping outside in the dirt and didn't know how he'd gotten there. I had two words for him: Bubba Keg. Of course, that reminded him that he had misplaced his treasured vessel.

Now, anyone who has been to a hash event knows that one of the worst things you can do at such an event is lose your drinking vessel. Depending on who finds it, and where, you will have to take great measures to get it back, and when you get it back you will certainly want to disinfect it as there will inevitably have been various body parts placed in it for photo opportunities.

So after the next day's run MM was called up in front of the group (about 100 of us). Normally, people are called up for doing something wrong, or right, and given a "down down". A down down is a cup of beer that you must drinking while others sing to you. At bigger events, like a campout, people will have to sit bare-arsed on a block of ice while doing their respective down downs. Seeing as how there were about 100 people at the event, there were about six or seven blocks of ice conveniently placed on a picnic table for the ceremony. After several people were on the ice for various offenses such as sex on trail, losing the canoe, using mortal names and the like, they got everyone off the ice and made a bed of ice. Then they called MM up and brought out his Bubba Keg. They had him strip down and lay naked on the bed of ice while chastising him for LEAVING HIS BUBBA KEG IN AN OUTHOUSE - the worst offense possible. As if that weren't enough, the largest, hairiest man present then straddled MM, squatted, dropped his pants, and had another person pour beer from the Bubba Keg, down his butt crack, onto MM's face. This is called a butt chug. No, I did not have my camera but the image is forever etched in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Now, I've seen some things in my time, but this was the most disgusting, can't-stop-watching, oh-god-are-they-really-going-to-do-that, oh-god-they-just-did-it moment I've seen since that donkey show that sealed my virginity for an extra couple of years back in my Navy days.

Yet, even after this terrible ritual, MM managed to lose his Bubba Keg less than four hours later. Of course, that could have been a result of his having slept outside in the bushes somewhere again that very night. Some folks just never learn.

We eventually found our way back home. The drive back is always so much longer than the drive there. MM was still too drunk or hungover to drive so he crashed on the sofa. This is what was left of MM after a weekend with a Bubba Keg and unrestricted access to the beer truck: