Put me in coach...

So I got to thinking about putting together this season's softball team (if you are interested in playing league softball in BR this fall let me know) and I came to the harsh realization that I did the dumbest thing last year during one of our league games. I look back now in appreciation of the stupidity and realize that I am lucky that my stupidity did not cause serious injury to myself or a square, sponged filled bag (more commonly referred to as the "base").

Let me preface the story by saying that I am not the best ball player to live, heck, I am really not even that good but I sure to enjoy baseball. I grew up on it and some readers here will even remember me working out harder than I ever have for a chance to dress out with the JV team! With that said, with the help of a good friend, the Big Daddy (called you out by name, so you better comment now!) we put together a spring league softball team and... well, we had a great time.

With that said, let me set up the game where I did the stupidest thing ever. I had went hitless (see: popped up a bunch) for the first couple of games in the season, until I finally got some wind under me and started seeing and hitting the ball very well. I actually had the "intestinal fortitude" to invite my brother and his girlfriend to a game, now mind you that both my brother and his girlfriend have been on collegiate baseball/softball teams, in an effort to show him that I still "had it". I went back into the slump for this game and after my third at bat, where I had popped up for the third time I decided I would make a complete ass of myself. After a tirade of cursewords that would make Jenny McCarthy take notice I make the conscious decision to take my anger out on first base. Nope, not the first baseman, the inatemate object that is the base. With the fires of steam in my soles, I decided to kick the bag David Beckam style with everything that I had. Upon kicking the back, and screaming one final expletive, I felt my foot getting caught up in the string that attaches the bag to the ground. With extreme force, I felt myself headed straight for the ground. Luckily, my shoulder broke my fall and after 3 full barrell rolls I was able to compose myself to sit Indian-style about 10 feet away from first base. The entire field was silenced at this point and it wasn't until I finally chuckled that everyone in my dugout, the opposing team, the stands, the officials and a random dog busted out laughing and pointing.

Moral of the story - The bases are your friends, 3 and 2 counts aren't. I can't think about that night without slapping myself upside the head and letting out a Homer Simpson-like "DOH"