Waking up Sunday morning, I felt like the ass of a fly hitting the window of a Mack truck going sixty miles per hour. One forgets that age plays a major role when someone still tries to think that they have taken that drink from the fountain of youth. Every part of my body ached, from head to toe. Crotch rot played a major role in my walking ability, to such an extent that I walked like someone with muscular dystrophy.
Hundreds upon hundreds of different types of people partake in these types of tournaments. The ones that amaze me the most, the walruses that continually make their way to the snack stand, stuffing hotdogs down their muffs like it was the last supper. Gorging them selves every 30 minutes and then going back to the designated field where their friend or loved one is playing. Get real people, go on a goddam diet and take a break from stuffing everything in site down your throats
Everyone that picks up a bat thinks they are Barry Bonds or Albert Pujols, including me. Not having played or swung a bat in almost a year does not matter in one’s thought pattern. I knew that the fence was just one swing of the bat away. What makes this such a joke? Only one time in my thirty or so plate appearances did the ball make it past the infield! What a joke, to think that I could make a difference, Jesus Christ. Even though my teammates did not express their opinions out loud, I know that their thoughts were targeted at my inability to hit the ball, were full of blasphemy.
In my one, final at bat, with the final ounce of energy in my system, I hit a triple to the right field corner. Rounding second base, I felt my balls dragging in the infield. What took no more than thirty seconds to reach third base, seemed like thirty years. I finally made it, I had finally conquered my swing, and too bad I am as slow as a dead horse. I ended up not scoring on that final at bat. We lost that final game, the last of 6, and ended by limping my old ass to my car.
