The Morning AFTER Kickball

Kickball ... oh, kickball.  So the morning after kickball our coach posts on facebook a sweet, sweet, picture of me and two other teamates in the dugout.  We were supposed to wear black or blue (how fitting) t-shirts.  All I had was a gray t-shirt from Jon's closet.  It's about three sizes to large and really compliments my figure so I look no less than 14 sizes larger than reality.  Oh, and my eyes are alien red.  Come on Rebecca, fix my picture lady! LOL!

As anxiously awaited, a kickball report.  I spent the better part of yesterday ringing my hands and cussing Jon's name.  There was even a heated e-mail exchange between Jon and I where I yet again told him how much I hated him for this whole kickball debacle.  He tried to soothe my nerves by telling me he was sure this was not competetive.  Oh, and p.s., "do you think we have any soccer cleats at home?"  Idiot.  We arrived at the field no less than 40 minutes ahead of schedule.  Jon lectured me the whole way to the field about the importance of being "on time" for sporting events and he was sure I just "didn't understand" that facet of sports since I had NEVER played anything.  I HAVE played sports, and I don't remember the 40 minutes prior to game time rule.

Since we were early, we were fortunate enough to witness some shemales playing softball.  It was a rough bunch of gals (think Pink Ladies all grown up), and I was pretty sure they were passing a cigarette around in the dugout.  Jon was antsy and kept looking around.  He left me to "look" for the team, and came back a little later telling me he had found part of the team.  I begrudgingly followed him to my "team", and tried to put on a face of happy.  I really was happy to see the people on my team, I like the people, it's the whole game I abhore.

I made it clear to our coach I was afraid of the ball, the game, and pretty much would be the weak link.  One of my friends showed up to witness my skills on the field.  I started laughing a little that she showed up and she said, "oh Cort, I couldn't miss this!"  I had a fan.  Just as I thought things could not get worse, I looked over to see the team we would be playing. I'm pretty sure when I was in High School, they were in utero.  Awesome.  They all looked capable of flinging the ball at raging speed, right at me, or my feet, as I am running, even better.  They had matching t-shirts, obviously kickball professionals.  They were undefeated, okay only one game undefeated.  But when you are throwing around words like, "undefeated" when you are on a kickball team you obviously have competetive issues.  These would be my Brittany and Brooke nightmares revisited.

I informed the team, and the coach, that if I curled into the fetal position and started mumbling incoherently on the field to just haul my butt off the field and let me be.  It would be Junior High flashbacks.  There were 9 of us, so the coach told me I didn't "have" to be on the roster for kicking. I appreciated her sympathy, but said, "awesome, which would be worse, me not kicking sitting in the dugout like a lame duck, or me kicking facing inevitable embarassment and/or personal injury?"  I weighed both options seriously.  I opted to kick.  It seemed less embarassing.

I was last on the kicking order. I think my coach figured if I could see there was no serious bloodshed for the first 8 kickers it would soothe me into less worry.  The game started and I was a nervous wreck sitting in the dug out that smelled like pee.  Our team was first to kick.  Jon suggested we go first kicking so we could get some points before we were humiliated.  The team kicked one at a time, and I'm not sure if there was an inning in between there (I think there was) before I had to kick.  The first time I played field, I was told, "you can go in FAR right field if you want."  Ah, right field, the place I usually play.  Less action, less chance I could screw up.  Awesome.

When it was my turn to kick, the referee (or umpire, what do you call them in kickball?) literally gave me a moment before the kickball was "pitched".  I must have looked terrified because he said, "are you okay?"  "Um, yeah."  I am happy to say that the first kickball pitch, as well as every other I received that evening I did make it to base, only first base yes, but I always made it to base.  There was only one iffy moment in which I squeeled with abject terror as I ran into first base.  I had not kicked the ball hard enough (my secret plan in which to avoid being hit) and it was fielded at third.  I looked over my shoulder and saw the ball coming my direction.  "Don't hit me!" I squeeled.  My heart was pounding and the first baseman started laughing. "I won't hit you," he said.  "Oh good, really, it's my worst fear, seriously, so don't hit me, tell your team."  I was serious, he was laughing.

All in all, it was a good game.  We almost beat the fetuses (only one point!), which would have been a HUGE accomplishment and pat on the back for all of us "older" players.  I did not get hit with the ball, I made it to base, and noe once did I have to field the ball and/or even participate.  I did ssee my husband throw the ball, twice, at people's feet.  And, I did scream twice, "holy crap!  You're that mean kid from Junior High!"  I scolded him after the game telling him I would NOT put up with that sort of crap, and he said, "what?  it was a light hit?"  That's what Brittany used to say, just before the gym teacher informed her she could only throw with her "left hand, Brittany ...".

There are 7 more games in the season.  I think I can handle that. I have not been hit, and I made it to base.  Two major accomplishments.