Take Me Out To The Dugout

"I'm not going to sugar coat it, folks. I've seen road kill with faster reflexes than that." Announcer Dog in Chicken Little

One thing I simultaneously love and hate about "G" rated movies these days is that the writers are intent on entertaining people of all ages.* Take the above quote. I played that thing over and over and over, until the under five-foot set started complaining. Something about that quote just a) inexplicably cracked me up and b) reminded me of myself.

I am the queen of the side lines. That, if I HAVE to attend a sporting event, is where I am most comfortable. Especially if the event involves some combination of Frito chili pie, a cold beer, ice cream or popcorn.** This makes baseball simultaneously the most boring, slow game on the planet but most definitely the best buffet of junk food in the universe.

Why, do you wonder, do I have such an aversion to group sports? It all stems from an experience I had when I was stupid enough to believe that playing sports with someone I loved was good for our relationship. And I joined a co-ed, "non-competitive" softball team.

First mistake our coach made was putting me on the field. I'm positive I didn't belong in any position on the infield because I would have become a human ball target. But the outfield was just as bad.

Literally, by mid-game, the other team was yelling to the batter "Hit it to right field!". I WAS right field.

For some insane reason, after countless balls weren't caught or they simply rolled past me or I threw them with all my might, only to make it about 15 feet in front of me, the coach decided to put me in another spot. Third base was my new home.

I guess this seemed relatively harmless. I traded spots with a young, athletic, strong-armed man who had been bored the entire game because no one had made it to third. He'd silence those jerks who thought I was a bad right fielder. Third should be a piece of cake, right?

WRONG.

First batter up? A lefty. Geometry, or some scientific theory that explains why balls and bats do what they do on contact, would dictate that I was totally, completely, irrefutably screwed.

It was a line drive. Straight up the third base chalk. Erring on the right side of my body, ever so slightly out-of-bounds. In fact, it would be called an out. But not because of the trajectory of the ball or it's proximity to the line. It was because of my hand.

Out of pure instinct, sheer idiocy, or embarrassment that I was the worst outfield player in the history of sports, I stuck out my ungloved hand. To catch a line drive hit by a MAN. And catch it I did.

I first realized I had actually caught the ball when I heard the entire group of players in the dugout go "EEEEEWWWWW". As if they had just witnessed a car wreck involving serious blood and guts.

Then I looked at my hand. Pride was the first thing I felt. Then pain.

Everyone was starting to crowd around me, asking about my hand. I still had the ball in it. I was afraid, if I unwrapped it, my hand would fall off my wrist and wriggle around on the ground like a gecko tail after its owner drops it out of self-defense. That or I'd discover that every.bone.in.my.hand.is.shattered.

A few minutes, a couple of Tylenol, and a few beers later, I was happily sitting back in the dugout. Where I belonged in the first place.

There I could relive my two up-to-bats, where the entire other "recreational, non-competitive" team took to taunting me by saying things like "Easy out" and "OUTFIELD! Move IN."

Yes, folks. It's true. There is crying in baseball.



*That includes immature 43 year old women who will cry buckets when her kids refuse to go to said "G" movies, all in an attempt to emotionally coerce them into compliance. Case in point: I got misty-eyed when I saw the first preview for "Toy Story 3". My kids thought there was something seriously wrong with me.

**Basically, sports are about the food experience for me. If the sport is synonymous with no food or bad food, I'm not going. Take for example, polo. I'm all for the champagne and caviar I hear they serve, but patting down horse dukey? NOT appetizing.