3rd Grade Sucked

My clearest memory of not getting to play a sport came during recess kickball in the 3rd grade. Alex Wolf, the scrawny nerd with thick glasses, even got picked for one team because he was friends with another kid picked. I did not get picked. I watched the whole game from the sidelines, hurt and dejected and secretly hoping for some massive kickball-to-the-face injury to open a spot on a team for me, so I could prove to everybody how foolish they'd been not to grab me when they first could. But then I grew bigger, then much bigger, and was able to put these slights in the past. At least until yesterday, when my 10-man company softball team asked me to volunteer to help fill absences on the roster and then left me on the bench all game.

A word on grown men who take softball leagues waaaay to seriously; these guys deserve an MTV documentary titled something like "TO THE MAXXX!" All fun was removed from the game I watched from the sidelines; it was kill or be killed, using aluminum bats and a large, squishy soft ball. This game had everything; men screaming at other men to be more aggressive, ear-curling curses after every poor at-bat, furious accusations between innings over shoddy throws, a bench pep-rally speech as the game went to extra innings... even a dirt-scuffing, chest-bumping, bat-wielding argument with a Cuban Umpire. And I grumpily sat on the bench, unplayed despite my knack for pinch-hit homeruns, through the whole thing.

Well, "grumpily" until I realized that if they invited me and I wasn't going to play, I might as well drink one of the three sixpacks they brought. Which I did. Over-the-top softball and drinking go together quite well.