Yo yo yo. Donnie Kickball here. And that right there? That was some horse crap.
So I get up early this morning for my game day rituals (gotta carbo load for peak performance) and to get into “Warrior Mode” before work. I know most people think athletes and their superstitions are silly, but better to have a gun and not need it than need a gun and not have it, right? But Mom decided to do wash last night without bothering to throw the stuff in the dryer, so I have to come back home after work before the game to get my lucky sweatbands. I should have known right there we were cursed.
So I go to work and I make my weekly rounds. I go to everyone on the team’s cube and yell “Game Day, Baby! Game Day!” while doing the drum solo from “I Can Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight” on their desks. You’ve got to keep the team pumped, you know? Get them in the right mind set and shit.
Well the last one I go to is always Janelle in Accounts Receivable, since her office is farthest from mine. Bitch thinks she is the coach or something just because Mr. Dowripple put her in charge of getting the team organized, paying the people who run the league and sending out the email announcements about the games. It takes more than some e-mail winkie faces to put together a winning kickball team.
When I go to pump her up, she is all passive aggressive and like “Heeeeyyyyy… Have you met Noah yet?” Turns out this guy got hired Monday and has already tried weaseling his way onto my team. Janelle said “He says he used to play for his old company’s team. Mr. Dowripple thinks it would be a good way to welcome him if we were to let him pitch tonight.”
“Fuck that, you fucking bitch. This team has one pitcher, one leader, one all-star, and that’s me. You want to welcome Noah? Blow him like you did everybody else, you cocksucking whore.”
OK, I didn’t say that, but I thought it, and she could tell. She could read every word of it on my face, cause she immediately starts backpedaling, talking about alternating innings. So I am like “Hell no!” except I say it different, because we had a seminar last year about casual swearing in the workplace. Apparently the Company is against it…
So I say I’ll think about it, but I give her that look that says “I ain’t thinking about shit, bitch.” But I don’t think she got it, cause like two hours later, this guy swings down to Data Processing and is like “You must be Donnie… I guess we’re gonna be playing some kickball together tonight!”
Guy is trying to be all friendly and charming, but the asshole can’t pull it off. Condescending prick comes into my house and tries to be my friend? I’ll have none of it. So I just sit back and raise my eyebrows at him. Let him keep talking. I am not going to respond. He gives some song and dance about being glad to be on the team and looking forward to the games and all. I pretty much just shined him on. But I won’t lie. Dude got in my head.
And that’s what made game time so shitty. Knowing I was only playing half the game completely threw my mojo off. Usually I spend the warm-ups stretching and staring down the other team, psyching them out, but I clearly didn’t have my stuff.
Don’t get me wrong… I played stellar defense in my innings and went four for five at the plate with six RBIs and three runs. Like I said before: All-Star. But my head wasn’t in the game like I needed. Noah did OK, but he just doesn’t have my pitching repertoire. He pretty much just had one pitch: Left hand spin. What is that shit? This ain’t grade school recess. Me? I was busting out the Backhand Roll, Rolling Thunder, the Drop Down Hammer, and I nearly perfected my Money Shot. A little more game-time practice, and I will have more K’s than alphabet soup (practicing at home doesn’t have the same pressures as the real games).
With this amateur at the mound half the time, of course we lose. I managed to keep it close, but we were down after the first inning and never made it back. The rest of the team headed out to the bar for a post-game cocktail, but I was in no mood to have to stare into Noah’s smug face. I don’t know what the hell he was smiling about. We fucking lost. I took my game film and went home.
First thing I did when I walked in the door is tell my mom if she ever washes my sweatbands the night before a game again, I am moving the hell out.
