Move Over Bill Buckner, Pathetic Has A New Face

I’ve had some pathetic moments in my 9,672 days of existence.

There was the time I awkwardly thought an Erin Andrews greeting was intended for me instead of Steve Alford’s dad, who was standing directly behind me.

There was the time I shit my pants on a bike ride in the 5th grade.

There was the time I, a self-proclaimed genius, misspelled “prairie” in a 2nd grade spelling bee.

There was the time(s) I lied for pussy.

But none were more glaringly pathetic than what transpired Saturday afternoon.

As you get older, you realize your body just can’t do the things that it used to (and by “used to,” I mean “used to in your imagination”). You play touch football and you’re sore for three days with apparent tears in your quadriceps and hamstrings. You run a few games of 3-on-3 basketball and you’re knees ache. So I figured a good sport for us to play as a group of friends would be kickball. Co-ed kickball, we can handle that, right?

Well, 2 Legit 2 Kick came into Saturday’s contest winless (0-2) and had been outscored 13-5. Last week’s game was postponed due to “nonexistent” field maintenance, so we scheduled an intra-squad scrimmage under the premise that our girls needed the extra work.

With Saturday’s first pitch slated for 11 a.m. (the earliest we’ll play all year), the pre-drink routine switched from beer to mimosas. And after about five of those little suckers in 20 minutes, I was feeling pretty good.

I play third base because I’m the team captain, and I play where I want to play. In the second inning, I had a grounder come my way, but my throw to first was affected by the 20 mph wind (not an exaggeration).

So two plays later, with runners on first and second, I had another chance at a grounder. I secured the ball stepped on third for Out No. 1 and then realized the girl on first base – like all girls in their 20s – was completely unaware of the concept of baserunning. Instead of throwing the ball to second for Out No. 2 after seeing my last attempt sail embarrassingly wide, I figured I could sprint to second (all the way from third, mind you) before the girl on first could get there. And I did, but much to the bafflement of my team. “Just throw it, pansy.”

Two innings later, there was a sharp grounder down the third base line. I took a quick few steps to my right to head the ball off. I tried to stop and for roughly three seconds I knew what it felt like to fly. Think of an old cartoon where the resident douche bag slips on a banana peel, legs flying in the air before thudding back to Earth. This douche bag did just that. When I hit the ground, I didn’t even bother trying to get up right away. I didn’t care that the ball was still in play and the runners were advancing. I couldn’t believe I just went Charlie Brown.

But it gets worse.

The opposing team knotted the game late 3-3, scoring the tying run on an unassisted triple play (bases loaded, no-out jam, the dude from second base came all the way around to score before the third out was recorded). Sounds like an eventful game, no?

Our first win was in our grasp. Now, it was up for grabs. In the top of the seventh and final inning, the first kicker came up and hit a lofted shot over my left shoulder. I laid out for it and managed to get a hand to it, but despite how slow time stood I was unable to corral it. An admirable effort. It would have been a great play, a redemption of sorts for tail-boning it earlier.

The inning progressed and there are now two outs and runners on first and second. The ball is kicked my way again, as if I’m a magnet. All I have to do is bend over, pick up the ball and step on third base and we’re still tied with a chance to win it in the bottom half of the inning. Instead, I boot it. I don’t even get in front of it. It rolls right by. The most routine of all grounders. Bill Buckner, I feel ya buddy. The go-ahead run scores. “Ugh, way to go LVP (I’m assuming that stands for Least Valuable Player)!” is yelled from my first baseman. “Are you fucking kidding me!?” soon follows. I’m not going to lie, I wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there for a bit.

We get the third out a play later. But the damage is done, none heavier than that to my ego. But down just one run, we stage a late rally. Runners on first and second with two outs and guess who’s up. Yup. Me.

“Come on man, get some redemption for completely BLOWING this game!”

“Let’s go big guy, try not to fuck up again.”

It’s at about this time I wish I hadn’t take those five bong rips before drinking champagne at 10:30 a.m. The first pitch comes. I take a step back. I wasn’t ready for that shit.

OK, come on, get your shit together.

Pitch No. 2 comes and I drill it down the left field line, but it falls fractions foul.

Damn. Come on, don’t be a laughingstock.

The ball comes once again, and again I drill it down the line. The third baseman knocks it down and is able to barely get the runner trying to advance from second to third, ending the game.

Ugh. I suck.

Where’s that hole I can crawl into, and more importantly, that bong?