I have a confession to make, a deed so nasty and foul that anyone who reads this will hate me forever.
No, I am not endorsing Trump, not even 50 words of Michelle Malania. I am pretty sure that I would vote for his son.
No, I did not squeeze the Charmin. I have been tempted to squeeze the Charmin, but I learned my lesson from watching Mister Whipple turn into an addict. I am traumatized to this day. Let’s face it, that guy was cree-py.
This past January, two of the guys from the softball team that I played on a few years ago contacted me to ask if I would play for their team this season. It was a mildly complicated decision, mainly because it was the company team from the company that I was fired from two years ago. They assured me that the coast was clear, no one in upper management was watching. Besides, it would cost me nothing since the company paid the league fee. I said OK. I liked playing for that team, especially since we always got along very well, almost always winding down with a few beers in the parking lot after our games. And I still like to play, still feel like I am just a bit better than your average guy, very proud of a strong arm that can still deliver a throw from third base that will take the first baseman’s mitt off, as well as the above average to hit a softball — I rarely make an out.
Yes, I have an ego. That is not my confession.
I played the first 10 games of the season. Each night the team plays is a double header, two consecutive games, so I played the first four weeks of the season. The last two games, the guy who coaches the team put me last in the batting order. Last. I had made three outs in ten games. The guy batted me last. Each game I had been moved down in the batting order.
What the freak? What the freaking freak? Who does something like that?
This 55 year old dope was insulted and I decided to be a passive aggressive baby. After all, I knew that if anyone was keeping track of batting statistics, my average as well as on base percentage would be far and away the best on the team. When I was batting in the 4th or 5th spot in the batting order, our team was winning because I was hitting consistently and scoring the runners on base to the tune of being responsible for at least 6 runs a game (or more). So I quit showing up for the games, three weeks in a row. The coach kept texting me and asking if I was going to play, but I always made an excuse for why I couldn’t be there (only one was legit — I went to Feed My Starving Children with my daughter).
Eventually it dawned on me that I was being a whiny baby. Guilt set in. After all, the coach kept sending me messages, wanted me to play. So I decided to come clean, but I was not going to do that without being completely honest. I told the coach that I was not happy with batting last and had decided it was not worth my time to play if I was batting last and that was the reason why I had not been showing up for the games. I suppose I was graduating to big boy pants with that confession.
I showed up last night. Batted fifth in the batting order. Played third base. Knocked the cover off of the ball and made some pretty dang good plays at third base, including stealing a rocket hit down the base line and pegging the throw to first base, a satisfying pop in the first baseman’s mitt that caused him to shake his hand with pain. Our team won the first game by eight runs, the second game by slaughter rule. I guess I proved my point.
Yes, I have an ego. That should be the real confession here.