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Posts Tagged ‘softball’

When I was younger, I used to get a little bit embarrassed by my dad.

(Sorry, Daddy.)

  • It wasn’t because he answered our home phone with, “City Morgue, how can I help you?” or “Pizza delivery!
  • It wasn’t because he made the same “punny” jokes over and over.
  • And it wasn’t because of the numerous nicknames he called me (most of which I actually like).

It was because of his sports spectating style. Softball specifically.

Let’s keep two things in mind:

1) My dad has been playing baseball or softball pretty much his entire life. He’s clearly familiar with the rules. He knows he’s right.

2) The slow-pitch league I was in was for girls about 8 to 10 years old, I believe. It wasn’t known for being overly intense.

Enter Daddy.

From any position on the field I could hear him arguing with the umpire over balls and strikes. I could hear him arguing the merits of playing with the infield fly rule. I could hear our coaches asking him to sit down, please.

And, on several occasions, I could hear the umpire warning him that he was close to being tossed.

On those occasions I would see him bite his tongue and stalk away, contenting himself to watch the rest of the game from outside the fence, where he could yell freely.

Remembering that, and knowing my own competitive streak and tendency toward argument, I’ve promised myself that I wouldn’t do that to my future children. But I may have spoken too soon.

Last night I went to my husband’s (!!) baseball game and found myself moderately channeling my father. I vehemently disagreed with certain balls and strikes, and was yelling, “That’s b- !” before I remembered that I was sitting next to two children.

I grumbled about certain plays that should have been outs and paced in the stands from about the 6th inning on. Unlike my father, I didn’t speak with the umpire directly, but I also try to avoid confrontation in general.

Confrontation aside, I fear that I could eventually be *that* parent.

It’s possible that this will all be a moot point, and that when it’s my kids I’ll just enjoy the game and not worry about the missed calls or ridiculous strike zones.

But based on family history, I highly doubt it.

*I should note, just for clarity, that I would neverĀ ever yell at the kids themselves. And you can bet my inner Mama Bear would come out if any other parent did. Like this.

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I don’t have the arm strength,” I said. “And I can’t aim my hit.

Excuses excuses.

Since last year (really, since I joined the team), I’ve been trying to hit a home run. I can get on base, and I’ve even had extra-base hits. But that home run was proving to be annoyingly elusive.

The boyfriend-now-fiance (BNF) advised that I should try hitting to right field, because I’d have a better shot that way (even though, as I mentioned, I can’t aim). So yesterday during warm-up, I took a few hits and aimed as best I could. I hit a soft shot out that way and told DVo, the pitcher, “That’s where I’m going to have to hit my home run, if I have any shot at getting it.

And then came our first at bats.

As soon as I made contact I knew I had an extra-base hit. And once I stepped on second, and saw my base coaches waving me on, I felt the grin overpower my face and I knew I’d make it home. Even if I had to pummel the catcher to be safe (which I didn’t).

In fact, all the way down the third base line I was yelling, “I got my home run!” and practically skipping onto home.

First at bat of the game. First home run ever. And our first win of the season. It’s kind of like the runner’s high – lasting longer than I ever expected.

And now, as Memo said, I don’t have any excuses for not finishing my 25 list in full.

So does driving up to Baltimore this weekend count as a road trip?

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I have a tendency to get a little competitive.

I can turn nearly anything into a competition – for better or worse – and, in turn, I get frustrated should I (or my team, if it’s a group effort) lose. This competitive spirit particularly comes into play in the summer – during softball season.

There is, of course, the competition on the field. But usually, there’s not too much bad yelling – unless you decide to be a little bitch and call yourself safe when you’re clearly at LEAST three inches off the bag and you’ve already been tagged.

Sorry, where was I?

Anyway. Softball is supposed to be fun, and most people take it as such, so I can usually keep myself in check. But afterward, well, afterward we go to the bar and inevitably play several rounds of flip cup. And drinking games introduce a whole different level of competition.

After our first scrimmage of the season, we did just that. Throughout the night, our game slowly grew bigger as other patrons of the bar asked to join in. One of them joined my team, and took up his flip cup spot next to me, as the anchor.

I don’t remember everything about the game, but I remember that he wasn’t doing so well (at ALL). And I remember that we were almost at the end, and I just wanted to win, and we were so close to winning but he lost it so I might have yelled at him. Something along the lines of, “What’s wrong with you?! What are you doing?!” During games, a sweetheart, I am not.

(I did, of course, immediately apologize, though, and he laughed it off – and, I think, stopped playing with us.)

Fast forward a couple weeks later, after our first real game, and we’re at the same bar. We started playing pool with a couple guys who were already there, and they asked if our softball team came there regularly. “I think I played flip cup with you all a couple weeks ago,” the one guy said to me. “Someone was yelling at me a lot.

I immediately chalked it up to our resident Flip Cup King, and started explaining how he takes the game really seriously, and can be a little mean sometimes, until a light dawned and I realized, “Oh my god…that was me, wasn’t it?” The kid (college junior, whatever) nodded, and told me, “Yeah, you were really mean that night. In your defense, though, I was playing terribly.

But all I could think was that he clearly still remembered my yelling from two weeks before.

I just hope I didn’t scar him permanently.

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