Cheater's Proof
So we’re in the third inning of our softball game yesterday; the game is still pretty close—my team, Bill’s Off Broadway’s Chuggers and Sluggers are up about 5 to 2—and the guy at bat fouls my dipsy-doodle pitch almost straight up. The ball is falling between the pitching rubber and home plate on the third base side; I go running under it, calling “Mine, mine, mine,” but just as I reach it, a couple feet inside the basepath, it ticks off my glove and bounds foul.
By this time, the runner is at first base, but the umpire, having not seen the ball hit my mitt, calls “Foul ball!” and orders the guy back to the plate.
My third baseman, obviously a better person than me, announces to the man in blue, while pointing to me “No, no; that’s a fair ball; he touched it.”
The ump looks perplexed and I’m all like, “Hey! He called it foul. It’s a foul ball.”
So, the batter returns to the plate, while his teammates are all yelling at me, “Yo! You touched it!” “Way to play fair, Pitcher!” And “The game is supposed to build character, man!”
But I’m like, “Hey, Ump called it foul.” And “I may have touched the ball, but I don’t know where I was at the time” (even though I did). And “Play ball!”
Of course, on the next pitch, the batter grounds one through the infield, so he ends up at first base, anyway, which I’m kind of glad about, but honestly, I don’t know how bad I should feel about gaming the system like I did.
The way I learned to play ball was that you take whatever edge you can; if the ump gives you one, take it.
Still, it’s only a game and in the end, it didn’t matter since we smoked the other guys, 16-4.
Next time, though, I’ll play differently: I’ll just catch the fucking ball.
By this time, the runner is at first base, but the umpire, having not seen the ball hit my mitt, calls “Foul ball!” and orders the guy back to the plate.
My third baseman, obviously a better person than me, announces to the man in blue, while pointing to me “No, no; that’s a fair ball; he touched it.”
The ump looks perplexed and I’m all like, “Hey! He called it foul. It’s a foul ball.”
So, the batter returns to the plate, while his teammates are all yelling at me, “Yo! You touched it!” “Way to play fair, Pitcher!” And “The game is supposed to build character, man!”
But I’m like, “Hey, Ump called it foul.” And “I may have touched the ball, but I don’t know where I was at the time” (even though I did). And “Play ball!”
Of course, on the next pitch, the batter grounds one through the infield, so he ends up at first base, anyway, which I’m kind of glad about, but honestly, I don’t know how bad I should feel about gaming the system like I did.
The way I learned to play ball was that you take whatever edge you can; if the ump gives you one, take it.
Still, it’s only a game and in the end, it didn’t matter since we smoked the other guys, 16-4.
Next time, though, I’ll play differently: I’ll just catch the fucking ball.
posted by Professor Dave at 6:11 PM
1 Comments:
This post makes me remember the only time I played on one of your baseball teams - the Sage Socks - you needed another female to have the right balance for a co-ed team, and I just happened to be visiting. It was another time when you were pitching and didn't catch the fucking ball; it went foul and you ran over and dropped down and tried to blow it across the line. I liked the outfield view of Mount Rainer, so unlike the more urban views I was used to seeing from outfields in Pittsburgh. John was there, age about 10, and Dad, too - and they both were telling me how to play ball.
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