Anonymous Communist

My longtime softball team is no more. No longer will I make my weekly trips, as I had for the past eight spring/summers, to West Nile Riverside Park to play in the dirt, fall victim to the 10-run rule and be devoured by mosquitos.
Because of this, I am officially a free agent, offering my services to a slo-pitch softball team in need of a shortstop. Or second baseman. Or centerfielder. Or whatever… it doesn’t matter where I play.

Well, I guess it does matter a little bit. I don’t want to pitch, and I don’t want to be catcher (cue joke from Your Neighbor in 3… 2… ). I actually enjoy playing in the field. Because I’m a sucky hitter (yes, even in slo-pitch softball), I need to play in the field to actually feel like I’m contributing to the team’s well-being.

My preference is shortstop of course, but I understand the massive ego involved in being shortstop. Your current shortstop might not want to abdicate for a stranger. So I’ll play most anywhere. Even right field, where I can showcase my Clemente-like arm.

Anyone?

If you are on the opposing team and want to lose, here’s what you do:

Hit the ball to me.

Clearly, I am the greatest shortstop that has ever played in the Thursday night Riverside Park league. Last night, I was channeling the man who was my hero growing up and to whom I pay tribute with my uniform number, scooping up balls to my left, to my right, ranging out for popups, making putouts at second base… whatever. I was doing it all last night.

I even engaged in a little bit of inexplicable hot-doggery, too. With a runner on first base, the batter grounded one to the pitcher, who fielded it and threw it to me to start a double play. As I met the ball on the bag, I decided at the last split-second to catch the throw from the pitcher with my throwing hand. But the softball gods, related as they are to the Gods of Baseball, weren’t going to let such showboating stand.

I caught the ball to record the putout at second, but in catching it my arm angle was such that I couldn’t put enough on the throw to first and bounced it. My teammates told me it still looked awesome, which is what matters. And the runner who was out at second didn’t seem to appreciate my handiwork. After the play, he said something to me, which I didn’t hear well enough to understand, and stared me down as he walked back to his bench.

Yes, the team we played was called Haley’s Bunch. I suggest they add “of Whiners” to their team name. In addition to the above bit of douchery, one batter pulled an A-Rod and tried yelling as I hauled in his popup. Another runner tried a similar tack as I forced him at second, yelling as I made the turn to first base. Honestly, dude… if you want to break up a double play, act like you have a pair and slide. If you don’t want boo-boos on your leg, I suggest you stay home and play with your Bratz dolls.

Yet another runner tried arguing with the umpire after I tagged him out at second. And their third baseman went into foot-stomping, hat-throwing convulsions every time he made an out at the plate and after each ball he kicked in the field. We were joking after the game that the last out we made on a grounder to this kid was to get him off suicide watch.

Today is Opening Day for the Thursday evening Riverside Park softball league, the lidlifter if you will (but only if you will). I play shortstop for The Paperboys.

The thought of playing softball is the beacon that helps me navigate the treacherous seas of winter discontent. And finally, it’s time to play.

The only problem is the weather. If it rains, we can’t play. And Riverside Park’s location (at the side of a river, if you can believe that) is a complicating factor. Even the tiniest bit of rain turns that place into a swamp.

And of course, being that it’s monsoon season here in central Illinois, there is a chance for rain today. Which is why we need your help. Please refrain from washing your car today or doing any work in the yard, as those tasks inevitably bring the cursed water from above. Think dry thoughts, and drink dry martinis at lunch.

Please, I beg you. Softball rainouts tend to angry up the blood.