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Worship at the Church of the Aluminum Bat

This morning, it rained just early enough, just long enough, and just hard enough to rain out our late-morning softball game. By the time the game was scheduled to start, the clouds had parted and the sun shone on a breezy, temperate New England summer day. This is at least our fifth rainout of the season, and the third in which brief, isolated showers have struck with pinpoint precision to wash us out. I have thus come to the only logical conclusion:

Our softball team is an affront to god.

“For every popup I hit, I’ll sacrifice a live chicken. If that seems to work, I may consider crafting voodoo dolls using hair pulled from the umpire’s back.”

The problem is, I’m not sure which god we’re offending. Who knew any deity was watching so closely, anyway? Or that supreme beings would get their robes in such a knot over poor fundamentals and anemic hitting? Shouldn’t these clowns be out judging mortals or bestowing enlightment or something? Did I miss the commandment about, ‘Thou shalt not miss the cutoff man on thy throws from right field‘?

Now we’ve just got to figure out how to appease whichever hostile holy spirit we’ve huffed up, so we can play some damned games. At this point, I’m guessing a commitment to solid defense and a trip to the batting cages isn’t going to cut it. We’re a little strapped for time this late in the season, so I’ve decided to cover as many bases as possible. Here’s the plan:

Our catcher will practice blocking balls in the dirt for an hour a day. Also, she’ll tithe ten percent of our team beer fund to the Catholics. No word yet on whether she’ll agree to wear the schoolgirl uniform.

Our pitcher will throw a simulated game on odd-numbered days. On even numbered days, he’ll meditate on the sound of one hand clapping and contemplate the oneness of his curveball with the rest of the universe.

Our first baseman will practice hitting the ball the other way, scooping throws out of the dirt, and following the ways of the Noble Eightfold Path. Also, he’s going to be a lot nicer to cows.

Our second baseman and shortstop will be working for three hours every morning on turning double plays. In the evenings, they’ll shave their heads and hand out flowers at the airport.

I play third base. I’m taking ground balls and working on my swing. For every popup I hit, I’ll sacrifice a live chicken. If that seems to work, I may consider crafting voodoo dolls using hair pulled from the umpire’s back.

Our corner outfielders will be shagging fly balls all afternoon, every day. When the bench coach / imam says it’s time, they’ll put down their rugs and pray. On our off week, they’ll take a jaunt to Mecca.

Our center fielder has it tough. She’s working on baserunning fundamentals, but she has to give ninety percent of everything she owns to Pat Robertson. Just in case.

The bench players will mostly run laps and work with the hitting coach / shaman, and work various other angles. We’ll have a guy wearing hemp and hugging trees, another sporting a ‘Zeus Kicks Ass!‘ T-shirt, and a third smoking blunts and braiding his hair in the parking lot. Which we can’t seem to keep him from doing anyway, so let’s hope it helps for once.

Also, if we can find a volcano, we’re strongly considering sacrificing our utility middle infielder into it. She’s no virgin — but hopefully, she’ll do.

Somewhere in that cauldron of religious fervor, we’ll hopefully get the gods back on our side and we’ll be able to play some softball. Of course, with our luck, it’s some lesser god we’ll never get to — or some punk bitch like Zuul — and we’ll be facing rainouts and hailstones and plagues of frogs on game days forever. Or at least until Armageddon of some kind or another. You think they have sandlots in the afterlife?