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Play? Play Ball! And Pour Me a Beer While You’re At It

Step right up, folks. It’s time for this week’s Blogger Idol post. No lines, no waiting. Bring your popcorn and find a seat; the show’s about to begin.

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Week Seven Topic: ‘Play’

Well, this is a timely topic; just this week, I’ve begun to think about ‘play’ again, after several long months of winter. Specifically, I’m ready to ‘play’ one of my most favoritest games, softball. Now, lest you judge me on looking forward to one of the quintessential triumverate of ‘lazy fat man’ sports (bowling and fishing being the others), I’ll tell you a little bit about our team’s softball experience.

First off, we’re called ‘Team Guinness‘. (At least when we’re not being called, ‘that group of lazy fat guys over there‘. Hush up.) Anyway, it’s a nod to our post-game (and for some, pre-game) ritual of schelling out to a bar for food and pints after a hard-fought game. Or an easy-fought game. Or a forfeit. Look, we’re not pick, all right?

Also, we’re a co-ed team, which means that we’re not all lazy fat men.

(See, now, the joke here is to say that ‘some of us are, in fact, lazy fat women‘. But I’m not gonna go there. Partly because it’s simply not true, of course. But mainly because some of the energetic, slim women on our team could probably kick my lazy fat ass. And not in a ‘good’ way, involving lacy teddies and pillows, or bikinis and Jell-O, either. So let’s just move on before I piss one of them off.)

Anyway, the frost is starting to lift from the frigid New England ground, and the sun has been shining lately, and all of that has got me just itching — but not ‘jock-itching, thank you — to get back on the diamond. The early league starts in about a month, so it’s just about time to get out the old glove, and warm up the old arm, and buy the old tub of sunflower seeds to munch on. Softball season hath not arriveth yet, but it will hath arriveth thoon. Er, soon. Arriveth soon. Damn, that’s hard to say.

Of course, I’m particularly pining for the game today — our league plays on sunny Sundays just like this one, and from the relative warmth of my living room, it’s easy to look out there and believe that it’s sixty degrees or more, and that the sandlots are just begging for games to be played.

(At least, it’s easy until I see people out there, bundled up in coats and scarves to stave off the chill. I mean, sure, if there’s just one or two, I can pretend that they’re just crazy hoboes, wearing all their clothes at once for convenience. And I can make myself believe that the steam coming out with every breath is just smoke, that everyone out there on my block is chain-smoking furiously, but that it’s really not cold.

Eventually, though, I come around, and allow that it’s really nad-freezing cold outside, and I should stay indoors, watch TV, and drink beer. Yeah. Life can be so disappointing that way, sometimes.)

Soon enough, though, the games will be on. I play the ‘hot corner’ on my team — that’s third base, for those of you non-baseball followers out there. I like third base, and not just because it’s the euphemism used to describe really heavy petting, either. (Though that helps, believe me.) I also like it because there’s a lot of action there — game action, people; game action… we’re off the ‘petting’ thing already. We copped a feel, and we’re done with that now, all right? Keep up with me here.

Anyway, it’s called the ‘hot corner’ for a reason — hot grounders and line drives scream off the bat in that direction, and runners on the opposing team digging for home come chugging by. (A lot, actually, if you play on my team. I’m thinking of putting in a turnstile to slow them down a little.) It’s a nice place to get some fielding done; you can never let your guard down at third base, and I like that. But I dabble in the outfield, and at first base, too, when needed — third base is home, but it’s nice to see other places once in a while, too. Travelling is fun.

So, that’s what’s on my ‘play’ plate these days. I can’t wait to get back out there — running the bases, taking ground balls off the shins, and arguing bad calls with the blind, cocky, brain-damaged umpires. And then off to the bar for a few Guinness, to relive the horrific loss, bandage my wounds, and try to convince the rest of the team that ‘I can too hit! The sun was in my eyes!‘ Just another Sunday afternoon in paradise. Man, I can’t wait!