AKA, Jon's kickball league.
Every Wednesday evening from now until early June, Jon has a date with a kickball. Last night was the first game, which will henceforth be referred to as "preseason" or "that practice game that didn't count." Jon's team (of which I was also supposed to be a member, but due to a scheduling slipup by the kickball commissioner - correct - will have a class during game time) = "Is This A Sport?"
Being part of an important kickball team requires matching tee shirts and participating in the mandatory hangout/beer-drinking time at O'Brien's Bar before each game. Last night's opponent? Blueballs.
We arrive to Wick Field from O'Brien's and they are stretching and practicing very intensely. Their shirts have numbers. They are all very fit and in various forms of spandex. One person, who resembles former NY Giant Jeremy Shockey, is running back and forth in the outfield catching practice kicks. We later learn this is the captain's mother, also a member of the team.
The game begins. We are laughing, giggling, hah hah hah, ha ha. It's kickball! Go "Sport!" Blueballs is up first. Home run on the first kick. And for the next 9 innings and 45 minutes "Is This A Sport?" scrambles to make a catch and land on first base as Blueballs scores 18 MORE POINTS.
We get . . . one.
Not our game. But Blueballs's pitcher did strangely resemble this tall, bald man and was frighteningly serious.
Thankfully Blueballs, though lamely serious about the outcome of the game, does not gloat over their win. The boys, Jon in particular, are devastated over the massacre. Una laments overthrown balls, a near-catch that bounced off his chest, and a whiff kick at bat (which, in his defense, appeared to be heading into "foul ball" zone away from the plate and only at the very last second bounced right onto it) into bedtime and along the drive to work this morning. I foresee a trip to Sports Authority this weekend, followed by mandatory practice time in our small backyard with Veloc reffing.
After the game we head back to O'Brien's so that our pitcher, Brian, can speak with The Commissioner. This year, WUSA decided to separate the serious, slightly-creepy competitive teams from the teams made up of normal, non-psychopathic, "I've moved past my high school years" people by creating two different leagues, kindly named "Gold Standard" and "Remedial."
Guess which one we're supposed to be in.