An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told By an Idiot (Part 1)

For those who don't know me, I love baseball. I love to watch it, talk it, read about it, research it, think it, watch sentimental movies about its greatness. Yet, I am a horrific baseball player. Possibly the worst player to grace the sanctity of God's holy dirt diamond.

How bad am I, you ask? Well, the people I talk to the most have probably heard me go on and on about what a bad ball player I am the way other men tend to dwell on the minimal stature of their dick. I'm just trying to overcompensate for the fact that I'm so bad at baseball, I have to let everyone know. Some men buy big pickup trucks or sports cars to hide their lack of endowment , I air my hitting grievances out in the open. I also feel my manhood is always in question when I talk about baseball. I've met grown men who I'm pretty sure still get beat up by middle school kids when they go to the store for milk who tell me sandlot tales of glory, and beating out bunts in their Senior year of high school to win the state championship. But enough about bunts and dicks. Back to how bad I am at baseball.

I played a year of tee ball in kindergarten, which I don't quite remember but my mother told me the other day I was really good at it. Gee, thanks mom, no wonder I'm such a pussy. But the rules were pretty standard. If you swung at five pitches or so, the coach brought out the tee and you hit off that. Honestly, I don't remember even having to hit off the tee, which tends to make me think I was decent that year. I always put the ball in play. I remember arguing with a classmate once who played in that kindergarten league over whether or not a tee was used. He said it was always used. I said it was never used. Obviously, he sucked at hitting and I didn't. That kid moved to North Carolina later that year where his brother ran over his foot with a lawn mower. True story. I, on the other hand, was apparently oblivious to anything going on around me, since I couldn't recall 70 percent of the players in the league hitting off of a long rubber placeholder.

I then played a year of ball in first grade. This is where the downhill spiral started. I remember sitting on the bench worrying about getting a hot dog from the concession stand after the game when our big bat in the line up, Brian, was hit square in the finger by an erratic six year old southpaw. Brian dropped to the ground screaming in pain, sobbing in the dirt for his mommy. Good god, I didn't know this could happen.

Two days later, the dinky kid down the block who batted before me took a pitch square in the batting helmet. I remember the sheer terror on his face as he dropped the bat, spun around in agony, and fell in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take your base," yelled the ump as the coaches ran out with an ice pack and, if I recall correctly, a tray of orange slices, a fixture at any children's organized community sports game.

Well, I had seen enough. I was not about to take one of these leather covered killing devices to the throat. No fucking way. I didn't not sign up to be knocked unconscious. I had so many years ahead of me. Prosperous years of video gaming, and bike riding, and long division. I could not be forced to sit on the disabled list in the game of life all because some spastic kid fresh off of training wheels couldn't hit the strike zone.

So, I began to step out of the box every time the pitch was thrown. I closed my eyes, and took up praying as an in-between-pitch hobby. I ducked on pitches thrown anywhere above the knees. My nerve had flown the coop, yet I hadn't been hit by a single pitch myself. The horror of watching my teammates drop like flies was too much drama for one kid to take. Where were those goddamn tees I had heard so much about?I continued to get a hit every now and again, something I can only attribute to the fact that the pitches were slow and I was one of the best closed-eye batters in the league. Luck and lack of pitching talent where sometimes on my side.

But then it happened. I remember getting up to bat, sweating bullets as usual, wanting to go home to watch my wrestling VHS tapes and play with my action figures. The pitcher set, two men where on, the sun was setting out in right field. And then, I watched the path of the ball as the pitch left the righties hand. I watched it tail up and in. So far in, it smacked me right in the center of my helmet, rattling every pore in my forehead. Being the defensive worrywart, I swung the bat as hard as I could, just as the ball bounced off the helmet and into the batters box. I was beyond thankful when the ump told me to take my base rather than calling it strike one. I needed to get the fuck out of there.

It didn't hurt. It didn't even give me a headache. But as I stood there on first, I though, "what if that ball had hit me in the nose, or broke my glasses, or chipped a tooth? Fuck this game called Baseball?"

The next year, I signed up for soccer...

(Part 2 coming tomorrow)