Wednesday, July 13, 2011


Listen dude. The dream is over. You didn’t make the cut. Sure, you had a good stretch during your junior year of high school when you batted a serviceable .289 with 12 RBIs for the 8-and-7 JV squad. Back then, you should’ve taken things seriously. Who knows, you could’ve had a stellar off-season and really come into your own on Varsity the following year. Perhaps that would’ve led to a tryout with the Kane County Cougars or the Burlington Bees. Maybe then you find your stride in the Triple-A where you spend a couple years honing your game when finally, look at that, the starting third baseman for the Cincinnati Reds breaks his leg. Suddenly, you’re in the show. And you do well, not great, but well. Well enough in fact to meet a beautiful and exotic Hawaiian Tropic model. She’s not brilliant, but shit neither are you. You have a couple kids, you go bone fishing once or twice a year off the coast of Key West and you’re able to buy your mom a house so she doesn’t have to stay in that apartment building that always looked like it was going to burn down. Then guess what happens? You buy a car dealership and things really take off. You’re elected to city council and your life actually starts to mean something to you, and more importantly, to the people around you. But none of that happened. No, you got cut. You moped around for a bit then finally signed up for drama club where you played Joe Crowell Jr. in a really bad production of Our Town. And you were awful but you didn’t care because it looked good on college applications. It helped you get into Kansas State University where you studied accounting. Why not, you had a knack for numbers. After college, you eventually passed your Series 4 and got a decent paying job with a local accounting firm. Problem is you’ve grown to hate that job over the last 12 years, but you’re stuck with three kids and an ex-wife who’s bleeding you dry because you cheated on her at an accounting conference in Chicago. The softball league is the only thing you look forward to during your whole miserable week. So you take it very seriously. So seriously that you keep track of your stats, refuse to drink beer during the game and you wear baseball pants, just like the big leaguers. Because, if only for a moment, when the light is just right and you stretch that single into a double, it makes you feel like a pro. It makes you feel like a winner.


  1. Let me guess, you don't slide into base or dive/slide for catches? You simply just can't do that while wearing shorts and have any expectation of keeping skin on your body.

    1. Hey Sedition,

      Great question. I don't bleed when I slide. The dirt does.

      Good luck in your campaign to defend all those amateur softballers in pro pants out there. Who gives a shit about global warming when you have a cause like that to champion? Onward.