When the wifey-poo and I decided to uproot the family and move to Chicago, we thought we did a good job of considering all the long term ramifications. We considered the weight of moving away from friends and family to settle into a foreign land, littered with Obama bumper stickers and University of Illinois flags hanging off roof eaves. We had many a night sweating the impact on our kids, leaving Texas familiarity to be replaced with strangers and schools with no air conditioning. Still, we decided it was a great long term opportunity worth that leap of faith. Hindsight being what it is, I can now tell you that what we failed to calculate into our decision was the difference in the world of sports in Chicago.
Don’t get me wrong – this is a great sports town. Lots of history and tradition. We’ve got the Bulls, Bears, Blackhawks, Cubs and Sox. However, we soon discovered that unless you operate at the professional sporting level, opportunity for the amateur athlete is severely lacking.
It took us a year and a half to find a softball league that didn’t use either a large red rubber ball or a 16 inch behemoth called a “mush ball.” Folks up here play this so called “mush ball” with no gloves. It should also be pointed out that this “mush ball” is about as mushy as an asteroid. We opted out of that fun.
When we finally found a “regular” league that would take us, my wife and I hopped in the car to start our new co-ed career. I must admit I hadn’t been that nervous since driving to a colon scope. But the team we were playing with was nice enough. Good solid Midwesterners. Salt of the earth people. I could tell right away that they were a top-notch team. I remember thinking, “What a classy team… I bet they step out of the shower to pee.” And when I saw the other team, I realized we weren’t in Kansas anymore. They had a pitcher that was the spitting image of the James Bond Super Villain, Jaws.
They were good. Their infield executed better than a Texas prison at midnight. Their batters were stronger than a garlic milkshake and they ran faster than sheep in Oklahoma. I was looking hard for a weakness but the only thing I could pick up on was that the RT fielder was slightly cross-eyed and their catcher had a minor hair lip and smelled like a bucket of old catfish. We had as much a chance of winning as Hillary Clinton had to win a best legs contest.
Suffice it to say, the game was nasty. Our manager, in his infinite wisdom, put all girls in the infield – not that women can’t play infield… but these women couldn’t. The other team came through our defense like an extra dose of Ex-lax through a ninety year old lady.
When we came to bat, I learned that in this crazy Yankee league, there’s no limit to the height at which the other team can pitch to the men. Watching Jaws toss the ball 40 feet straight up in the air only to have it drop perfectly behind the plate time and time again was, to say the least, intimidating. Each guy batter struck out and we were soon melting down faster than a Japanese nuclear power plant. But because I have a hideously bloated ego, I was certain I’d get a hit… somewhat certain.
I stepped up to the plate looking like a nervous baby bird sitting in traffic. And when that freak of a human being pitched that ball, I cocked my neck back as far as I could just to try to keep my eye on it. I swung so hard, a fart shot out of me with such force it made me look like I pulled the ejection cord on an F-14, shooting me halfway into the infield towards the pitcher. Ignobly repeating this humiliation two more times, I lowered my head and scampered back to the dugout. My new teammates tried to encourage me, telling me that Jaws is just a really good pitcher. Emasculated to the point of sounding like Adam Lambert on female hormones, I’m sure I mumbled some reply back.
Thus went my great Illinois softball experiment. Duly chastened, I have learned that with the decision to move to Illinois came unexpected consequences… like a strange, alternate softball universe.
It’s just so strange, I don’t think I can adapt. So I’ve made a decision to hang up the cleats. Like all things in life, not everything is going to be rainbows and ponies. Sometimes, when you take a dump in your mess kit, you have to go to bed hungry. And my softball kitchen has been shut down by the health inspector… at least until I’m eligible for the Senior Tour.
NOOOOO, say it ain’t so! What have they done to you up there?! You have to get home STAT…we miss you guys!
Hey Coach, Thank you for the laughs. I needed it to cheer me up from this 1929 depression we are in. I thought you could write a 40th birthday reflection on your trip to Colorado. Please include our Hike up Mount Conundrum.
Mr Vitaman. I’ll work on the 40th trip write up. That’d be fun. Problem is, I’ve got a memory of a… well, 40 year old. A 40 year old dog. I’ll give it the old college try though.