There's some crying in softball

The sports geek in the office needed some help this week.

Something about every high school in the tri-city area playing in either the baseball or softball playoffs. I told him to take his whine to one of the monkey-boy reporters, I was busy reading about the history of zuchini and it's erotic properties on wikipedia.org. But sports geek wouldn't drop it, and when the tears started flowing and his sobs were heard in the press room prompting the crack addicts who work in that department to come running because they're sick schmucks who love watching/inflicting people in pain I finally gave in. I know, I'm a kind hearted son of a bitch. It's a gift and a curse.

So, he gave me a softball game to cover, which I was happy for because he could have landed me with track or field hockey or beer bonging (I guess the last one would have been cool if I could participate). The sports geek, assuming I knew about as much on Arizona softball as I did about the mating habits of wombats (he assumed right), handed me directions to the school and a some facts about our school. Alarm bells went off when I read the following phrase: "The studs on the team..." Studs on the team? Were they horses? Were they dudes dressed as chicks because they couldn't make the baseball team? I pictured players built like barrel cactus with voices deeper than Barry White.

What I got were girls who could kill me with a pitched softball in 2.3 seconds. If I stood in the batter's box and the pitcher winged one down the middle I'd probably pee myself. What happened to the ol' underhand toss in the beer leagues? You know the pitch where after it left the pitchers hand you, as the batter, had time to suck down half a beer before having to swing? Come to think of it, I looked at the field and noticed the absence of 12-packs at each base. What kind of pussy-foot softball league was this? Anyway, the ball looked like a yellow dart whizzing at 200 miles per hour and I was sure the game would come second in my story after I write about the 15-year-old second baseman (basegirl? basechick? basewench? What the hell do you call them in softball?) getting brained by an errant screwball. That would be just great; covering my first game in 10 years and being a murder witness. I didn't have time to be subpoenad and go to court. There's midget porn to download.

Maybe I was watching the B team, or the non-starters who were finally given a chance to play for experience purposes, but either way neither of these teams could score for the love of Justin Timberlake. I had the same problem in high school. The third inning rolled around and I said fine. It was a pitchers duel. Then the fourth came and went as did the fifth, whereupon I nudged the mom next to me and asked whether the girls understood the point of the game was to get on base and score. "Believe me," the mom said, "they know how to score."

Sometimes you have to let your pitch go, and I was proud I did otherwise I might be writing this from a jail cell with my new friend Lance the butt surfer looking over my shoulder.

"I'm not sure they do, m'am," I said to the mom who was dressed head-to-toe in the home team's colors - green, making me wonder if I was talking to a human Saguaro cactus. "They don't take full swings, they just bunt."

"That's how the game's played," says the saguaro.

I didn't agree, but was afraid the saguaro would swing her cactus arms and spike me nine ways from Sunday. I watched the sixth inning go by, still zip to zip. The seventh (the end of regulation) came back with goose eggs also. They started the eighth and I realized two things: 1. My scorecard had only nine innings on it which meant I'd have to move over to a fresh sheet causing more work because I'd have to write out all the names again (that loses it's luster quick when you have to write down first names that include x's and z's and q's when the name is Suzy), and 2. I was watching free softball (in Melissa math, when a baseball game goes past the ninth inning, that is free baseball because we only paid for nine innings). That thought perked me up some until both teams failed to punch a run across.

Figuring this game would go more than nine innings, I broke out another score sheet and began transferring the lineup over for the inevitable 10th inning. And that's why I am responsible for our high school not moving ahead in the winner's bracket. I broke a cardinal rule of baseball: Don't plan ahead, live in the moment. With two outs, the home team strung together three straight hits and won the game 1-o.

The pitcher started crying. The left fielder started crying. The catcher started crying. I started crying (the coach saw me transferring the names during the top of the ninth and decided the closest thing to a rectal thermometer he had was a 38-ounce aluminum bat with a barrel the size of a B-52, and he wanted to see how far he could shove it up my kazoo.)

Part of the job in covering the game is interviewing the coaches and players. The coach was no problem. Since he was a short little sucker we were able to talk eye-to-eye. That doesn't happen too often in my world. The players, on the other hand, were an entirely different ball game. The majority of them were still in tears, and seeing a flock of 16-year-olds blubbering on caused me to pause and internally debate whether I should interview them. The thought then occurred to me that this was just a game and that they'd play Thursday in the loser bracket, so they were still alive in the playoffs. That sealed the deal, and I approached the pitcher who choked away her team's dream of hoisting the golden bra trophy, or whatever they play for.

"Why are you crying?" I said.

"I lost the game," she said between short-breathed sobs. "It's all my fault."

I tried my best to console her because, like I said earlier, I'm a kind hearted son of a bitch.

"Yeah, you did. But that's OK, because there will be plenty more disappointments to come, believe me. Take your mom for example, all of Peoria knows she's a drunk ho who will put out for a 40 of King Cobra.

"And your dad, well, he has sex with miniature ponies while listening to old Erasure albums. So, see, it could be worse."

The sobs stopped, and I figured I gotten through. Then she took her bat from her bag and proceeded to cornhole me again.

Twice in 10 minutes is enough. Trust me.