PUMPKIN PROFANITY PROVES POSITION

The batter snapped the ball something fierce between the inside and outside fielders but in a difficult spot to reach, and though our guys (Malibar? Keith?) gave a vigorous chase, the batter had plenty of time to jaunt over to second base. I was on the mound watching the action in the outfield and both out of respect and as a manner of polite conversation, said to the runner on second base, “Nice hit, batter.”

He replied, “thanks Bitch.”

I found his rejoinder to be quite alarming. Here I am, recognizing the athletic accomplishment of one of my foes (A Banker, no less! From the Pumpkin team, no less!) as a friendly gesture and he shoots back a sharp insult. His aggressive taunt left me speechless. I looked to see if any of my teammates had taken offense, but apparently they hadn't heard his vicious slander because it engendered no response.

Or, perhaps I am too sensitive. Maybe this is the way the young kids address each other in this new modern world. The Pumpkin team certainly was made up of strapping fellas who have tremendous strength and precise eye-hand-coordination. Could it be that this batter was simply trying to say, “hey—you are one of us: the young and terrifically talented men who play E-league recreational softball.”

No, that wouldn't be it. Because I am not terrifically talented. In fact, before this batter had issued his challenge to me, I demonstrated my lack of talent over and over again by dropping the ball two to three feed in front of the plate. I am a weakling who throws like a girl. I am awkward, unaware and unattractive in my goofy softball pants. I do not belong on the Pumpkin team, I am not part of their tribe.

I recall the last time we played the pumpkins. It was a brief but humiliating home-run derby where the Orangemen rushed to statistical elimination after twenty painful minutes. Being that we had the field for an hour they asked us if we wanted to keep playing and we just shook our heads sadly and said, “No, no thanks. We're going to the bar.”

We just didn't want to chase their fly balls. We didn't want to hear about “Pumpkin Power,” nor did we want to witness the back slapping and high fiving that went with the raw offensive achievement. We were tired of hearing the ruthless teasing of Pumkin Players who only got to third base. We really didn't enjoy playing them.

The Pumpkins, truth be told, were one of the major reasons I wanted to move to another night. I just couldn't bear the thought of having to go through that again. But we had to move nights and here they were, years later, hitting the ball and standing on second base and saying with a smile, “Thanks, Bitch.”

Of course one of the reasons he may have been unhappy was because instead Mr. Red Shift LaPoint on the mound, they were stuck with me. I pulled Douggie tonight because I wanted to face my fears, I wanted to stand in front of the home run kings and take their punishment for as many innings as the B-Squad could stand.

But my bad performance turned out to be their punishment. Bad pitching was leading to pretty good results. Lots of pop-ups, some foul-ball strike outs, and to our surprise, precious few monster home runs. Plus, the B-Squad's offense had shown up and scored runs in almost every inning. There was even a rumor (not verified due to our own poor score keeping) that at one point the B-Squad was up by a run.

No matter, in the end the Pumpkins were statistically too much for us. But we played a full game—all sixty minutes. We got some runs and we played good defense. Gary brought his A-Game (or as I like to call it, his “Aurit” game) and tagged out a greedy runner at home plate. Keeks had a couple of great outfield snags. Lots of people got hits. And to my surprise it was kind of fun.

So I decided to just turn my back on the batter and walk to the mound, ignoring his comment. As I did my mind played it back and played it back again and I realized that maybe I had heard him wrong. I turned back to him and said in a rather accusing voice, “what did you call me?”

“I called you pitch,” he said. “Because you are the pitcher.”

And so I was. One happy Pitch at that.

Cape-tastic: On a close vote, the Cape was awarded to ME! I've been wearing it around the house and showing it off to the neighbors. I'm so proud!