What's a Delmer Look Like?

October 17, 2007

School Sports

In 7th grade I was cut when I tried out for basketball. In all fairness, I should have been cut but I still hated that it happened. It was embarrassing. And I never tried out for another sport after that.

In 9th grade one of my friends overheard one of the coaches ask, "Why doesn't that big kid ever try out for anything?"  I was the big kid in question.

A friend of mine convinced me to play football senior year.  There wasn't really any "trying out" involved as we were a small school and everybody made the cut. I went to summer training and two-a-days.

And I quit just before the season started. I lacked the killer instinct. My helmet could not have been the right size -- nothing is supposed to be that tight. My cleats were shitty, they hurt my feet, and it never occurred to me to have mom and dad buy a new pair. Mostly I had no idea what the hell was going on on a football field. It was a bad mix of things and anyone of them would have made me uncomfortable; all together they were more than I was willing to put up with.

At the time I weighed 212 pounds and was close to 6' 4" tall. Maybe I was taller. When do guys quit growing?

Anyway, as I recall, I was the only guy on the team that weighed over 200 pounds who had passed the physical. (Later, the program would show a couple of guys on the squad that went over 200 pounds and I always wondered what my new-improved-program weight would have been.  The program would also show several guys who had not been at two-a-days; where the hell had they been?)

There was one thing I was good at. Toward the end of practice we did something that required that we run a lap around the field.  I, lacking the killer instinct, would always start at the end of the group but would typically finish number one or two  (I remember racing one of the Blaha boys to the finish line a couple of times. I won once and he the other).  I checked the play book and there were exactly zero plays that required tackles and guards to run laps around the field. (By the way, we were divided into groups based on position for this exercise. Once, one of the backs (or ends or something) ran with us and blew us all away. Showoff. If we could have caught him, though, any one of us could have crushed him.)

This is Samson in his football garb. His football career wasn't all that long as he prefers soccer.

He managed to go all summer without getting a haircut.  He'd finished the school year with his hair longer than I thought the school would tolerate and he was fairly sure he'd be able to sneak a week or two of long hair past the principal this year.  I was certain he was wrong and it was decided he shouldn't push his luck.

Of course, if I had hair like that I'd never want to cut it either.

Posted by delmer at 9:26 PM | Comments (9)

August 18, 2007

The Perfect Storm of Sports Practices

It is a beautiful day in Central Ohio. It's cool and not humid at all.

Jack and Haydn had football practice at 8:30 this morning and both practices were at the same field. Many of you parents that have children participating in multiple activities will appreciate the rareness of this event. It is far more common to have two children needing to be at two different locations ten minutes apart from each other than it is to have to children at the same place at the same time.

Football practice was scheduled to end at 10:00 a.m.

But wait! There's a bonus.

Child three had soccer practice at 9:30 a.m. I know, it looks dicey. Would I be able to get him to soccer practice and then get to the other boys in time so that I'd look like a responsible father by not leaving them standing around alone too long.

As it happens, I would.

Soccer practice was at the same park.

Here's an incredibly poor-quality video of Samson (the 10-year old) practicing.

Posted by delmer at 11:38 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

August 9, 2007

A New (to me) Baseball Factoid

Barry Bonds appears to be an African American. I saw a picture of him on TV last night.

I had no idea and have to say I'm very pleased with the fact that I've been able to keep baseball from cluttering up my mind with uselessness.

Posted by delmer at 7:26 AM | Comments (5)

December 17, 2006

December in Hilliard

As you know it is mid-December.

Today the temperature was at least 61 F (16 C)

(For the unfamiliar, to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius, you simply transpose the numbers. Thus, 61 F becomes 16 C ... 28 C becomes 82 F. This doesn't hold true across the board, but on moderate days and fairly warm days you can always fall back on 16/61 and 28/82. When making other conversions you will want to avoid repeating digits no matter what -- 11/11, 22/22 etc. If asked the temperature for anything warmer than 28/82 you can probably get away with warm enough we should be at the beach; for temperatures cooler than 16/61 cold enough that I can cut glass with my nipples should work for you. I don't know that I'd use these answers in academic situations. And I'm well aware that, aside from the extremely sensitive, 16/61 is not cool enough to bring a nipple anywhere near glass-cutting density. Cold enough to cut butter lacks any oomph, so you'll just have to hope the nipple comment is distracting enough that you can avoid any further weather-related grilling.)

I started out my day by making personalized Christmas ornaments for a local retirement home. I buy blown glass balls (bollocks) from a local artisan and etch a Christmas scene in them -- you know, a snowman, a Christmas tree, maybe a reindeer or two -- using my nipples, but only when the temperature is just right.

Nah. I started out at Mel's Diner. As I did yesterday I ordered the ham platter with English muffin, potatoes, and three scrambled eggs. Yesterday I was concerned about the amount of potatoes I received (way too many) and almost asked for fruit today. In the end I went with the potatoes; today's serving was much more human-sized.

I finished the meal with ice cream, like I did yesterday.

I went to work for a bit and then I tooled around the city on the Schwinn. That makes two days in a row.

During yesterday's ride I was dressed as I am in the first photo except I had tights on. For the tights effect try to imagine my legs spray painted gray. Today I went out as shown, well, with gloves, a helmet, and a pair of my youngest's clear-lens sunglasses. I think I could have gotten by without the high-visibility jacket as I got a little warm.

My brother sent me the jersey I'm wearing beneath the jacket. It commemorates Williamsburg, Virginia's 300th anniversary and is the coolest jersey I own. It is also very comfortable and does a good job of keeping me dry ... I could jog naked in a snowstorm and still sweat.

Give me a big shield and a mask and I'd look a little bit like Captain America.

It isn't often we have a day this mild this late in December, though I'm sure they come along every so often. I remember December of '85 (I think, I had my Suzuki 750, and I think that's the time frame) being mild.

The following January was a true bitch.

Posted by delmer at 10:53 PM | Comments (3)

December 14, 2006

Foul!

Today we'll talk a bit more about accents.

No. Wait. Today, to bring some balance to the blog we'll talk about basketball. This is to offset the Rules of Dating, stuff that I posted last week in which I indicated that, once in a while, a woman would ask me out.

I remember being in High School -- a junior -- and knowing that nobody was drinking, doing drugs or having sex. When I was a senior I found out that everybody (well, almost everybody), was drinking, doing drugs and having sex except me and the thugs I ran with.

(I'd like to point out that a guy I guy I knew, from the town next to us, had put out a survey for his school paper. The survey was to determine how many kids in the high school were partaking of drugs and alcohol. The school was for the survey 100% until the results came in. The administration (the man) was pretty sure that drug and alcohol use would be low ... the survey revealed otherwise and the administration (the man) tried to bury the survey. Somehow, it was leaked to the city paper. Heads rolled. And I don't mean drug users. (And that's a pretty ambiguous reference ... do you follow what I mean? Schools, in the Central Ohio 70's had Jocks, Band Members, Cheerleaders, Heads, etc.)

The amount of misbehaving among high school users didn't change over the course of a year, just my awareness of what was going on.

My buddies and I, and in all honesty we weren't wallflowers, spent most of our time in more innocent pursuits. A big Friday night was renting a gym at a local high school and playing basketball for two hours. We sort of carried this over into our college lives.

I've sort of drifted from where I'd meant to go, but now we'll get on track.

My buddies and I played a lot of intramural basketball in college and as a team we were pretty good. I'm not going to oversell my skills here, I was best at being tall and not really caring too much if I got beat on beneath the basket; I was a fair rebounder and did a decent job in blocking shots. I led the league in fouls and, as they go hand-in-hand, foul outs.

One night we were playing against a pretty good team and it was likely to be a close game. We were about a 1/4 of the way through and I hadn't fouled anybody yet.

Jeff K, now an attorney and a genuinely nice guy, came up to me and pointed out that Chris M, (from Carlisle) was killing us driving up the middle. He suggested, as I didn't have a foul yet, that I knock him on his butt.

I didn't have to wait long for the opportunity as a few minutes later Chris made a move up the middle. I stepped in front of him and when he went up for the shot I extended my arm and got my hand all over the ball -- I then drove it back into Chris and that, along with a little bit of body, I'm sure, put Chris on his tail.

As this was happening I looked up and noticed both officials had their eyes on the play. The whistle never blew.

Chris stood up, and noticing the lack of a foul said, "What!? Well if this is the way we're going to play, I'm out." And he left the game never to return. Which was more than we'd hoped for.

It was awesome!

(After the game one of the refs came to me and said that he and his buddy had seen the play, but from their angles they couldn't tell if Chris had charged me or if I'd fouled him.)

By the way, it looks like some of the thugs and I will be getting together over the holidays to do some bowling. Do we still know how to party or what?! (I'm ready to drop a ball on Chris' foot if Jeff thinks it's necessary.)

Posted by delmer at 9:06 AM | Comments (1)

November 17, 2006

The Big Game

This Saturday the #1-ranked Ohio State Buckeyes will meet the #2-ranked Michigan Wolverines in the game of the century. The game will be a home game or an away game depending on whether you live in Columbus, or Ann Arbor.

I don't know where it's being played.

I do know that one of the sales guys thinks the score will be 7 to 3. My brother hopes it will be 30 something to 30 something. The guy in the next office thinks it will be 14 to 7. Everybody thinks Ohio State will win ... and really, so do I.

The congressperson for my district may be Deb Pryce (the incumbent). It may be Mary Jo Kilroy (the Democratic challenger). We don't know ... the race is too close and there are too many ballots left uncounted. The deadline for getting the count done is tomorrow ... Saturday ... game day. The deadline has been extended as whoever is in charge of the office that does the counting has given his staff the day off (and he probably did this a while back).

So, we won't know until Monday who the winner is.

Both candidates are OK with this.

Really, would you want to be the candidate who bitched about the OSU/Michigan game inconveniencing you? Probably not. Further, if Deb Pryce wins we'll quit talking about it in two weeks ... if Mary Jo wins we'll quit talking about it in two weeks ... if Ohio State wins (or even loses) we'll never stop talking about it.

I was telling my brother (a rabid OSU football fan) , who lives in Williamsburg, Virginia, about this last night and he stopped me. The story had been covered by his local station.

Another portion of our conversation went like this:

Jim: You know who Ted Ginn is, right?

Me: No.

Jim: How about (somebody else, who, it would turn out was an OSU Football Player)

Me: No. Is he an Ohio State football player?

Jim: You don't know who Ted Ginn is?!

Me: Jim, I can name all the cast members of How I Met Your Mother, but I'm not much on knowing OSU football players. I know Eddie George owns a bar in town.

Jim: OK. You know Eddie George ...

Me: Was he a running back?

Jim: So you know Ted Ginn is a running back.

Me: Wait, I'm not saying Eddie George was a running back. I'm saying he could have been a running back. I know he owns a bar in town.

Jim: Ted Ginn is a running back. You know the success Eddie George had?

Me: Yes.

Jim: Ted Ginn is having the same kind of success now. There's a song called Ted Ginn Did Everything... blah blah blah.

(By the way, it's by the Dead Shembecklers. I think Shembeckler may have been a coach somewhere. I don't know that he's really dead. You can buy the album at iTunes.)

If Ohio State loses I'm pretty sure I people could not come to work at all next week and when asked where they were all they'd have to say is, "the game" and their employer would understand.

Of course, that wouldn't work for me. Too many people know I lack the give-a-shit-about-sports gene.

One more aside: Any screw-ups regarding Ted Ginn and Eddie George being running backs is all on me. My brother knows the positions they played. I'm pretty sure I butchered Shembeckler; I don't care.

UPDATE: Ginn seems to be a receiver.

UPDATE: Bo Schembechler died today.

Posted by delmer at 6:29 AM | Comments (3)

September 24, 2006

The Way Back Machine

Way back, before What's a Delmer Look Like became non-stop blathering, it's purpose was to keep my friends and family current with respect to what my kids were up to.

(Really, there's a good chance that if I went to check the accuracy of that statement I'd find I was wrong. I do know that the original Delmer Dot Com existed for that purpose. I'm guessing that, as Movable Type makes updating pretty easy, that this site never held too true to that thought.)

In any case. We'll pretend.

Here's some photos taken on September 14. A wise person will note that the picture names suggest they were taken on September 23rd. A wiser person would know that I made a mistake when I named the files for this upload. The regular readers among you will know I have no intention of correcting that error.

Sammo makes a move

Sammo as goalie

Showing some hustle

Happy Jack

Jack on the field

The water jug on Jack

Haydn's backside

Dolphins

More Dolphins

Haydn's frontside

Haydn

Posted by delmer at 11:51 AM | Comments (0)

July 2, 2006

Keys

I just had dinner with some old friends and heard this story about a brother-in-law.

Bob, the brother-in-law, had a softball game to play. He also had a set of car keys he needed to keep track of; these he tucked safely into the front of his coaches shorts.

Realizing it would be better to pee before the game than having to go during, he set off to the men's room.

As he pulled his shorts down his car keys fell free from his shorts and into the toilet. Inconvenient, but not a tragedy.

He leaned forward to retrieve the keys and, in doing so, triggered the toilet motion detector and auto-flush.

I don't know exactly what happened next, but I imagine there was that bit of Bob that hoped the keys might not have gone down the toilet.

I also imagine that Bob jumped back when the toilet flushed. He must have. Otherwise it gets kind of hard to explain how he triggered the auto-flush a second time.

Disbelief at what was happening probably played a role in triggering it the third time.

In the end ... the keys were gone.

And, really, they may have been gone after flush one.

Posted by delmer at 10:34 PM | Comments (0)

April 3, 2006

I'm a golfing MoFo

I am sick. I thought I was suffering the ill effects of staying up too late on Saturday night. All day Monday I thought this. Tuesday morning, when I got out of bed, I felt better ... and then I started moving.

I know this post has a Monday date ... it's an e-mail I sent, on Monday, to a buddy of mine with whom I used to golf. This guy saw me crank balls off clubs at impossible angles. If I was on the lip of a water hazard that was 10 yards long I'd bang the ball 5 yards into the small pond.

One of my favorite memories is of having several of my buddies standing behind me at the tee box, encouraging me to tee off. Two women were walking down the side of the fairway toward us and I was hesitating as I was afraid I'd hit them. the closer they got, the greater the angle became and the harder it would be for me to hit them. Finally, tired of hearing my buddies bitch, like Merrill, I swung away. The ball took flight about one inch off the ground and made a beeline for the women. As one, the group behind me jumped up and screamed "fore." One of the women had to jump to keep from losing an ankle.

So, this is my e-mail to Joe.

Some editing appears in brackets. You'll understand why when you see it.

Joe,

I golfed this past Saturday and actually shot par. Maybe one or two under for the front nine. On a real course. One of my drives was 275 yards and straight. Most of my drives were very good and long. Toward 16 and 18 I sort of dug the driver into the ground and had shitty shots. But I was beat by that point ... we'd been up until 4:30 a.m. playing cards and having beer Sunday night.

I should probably mention I was part of a scramble.

BUT ... I had a really good game and we used a fair number of my shots. I made some long putts that almost dropped and when they didn't they were about even with the cup -- that is, they didn't blow by the hole.

One drive, the one we know was 275, there was a group of slow moving gals in front of us. They seemed far enough away. When I hit the ball fear sort of swept through all of us. It came up just a little short of them.

I was using some sort of big black driver Darrell had. Adams something ... maybe 460 grams with some sort of offset; I recall it had Tungsten weighting which provided a low, deep center of gravity, better launch angle and higher MOI. When he suggested I use it I explained I couldn't hit drivers very well ... and then I cranked it. Nobody was more surprised than I.

Some of the others guys had good shots too, but screw them. This is about me me me.

I shot across water like it wasn't even there, using my freebie irons. I never went into the sand.

One of my putts was so long and so almost in that, I swear, I started getting a [Insert reference to something a man gets in an excited state that you really wouldn't want your mom to read about in your blog] the closer it got to the cup. I'm not kidding. I'm getting [same reference less the "-on"] now just typing about it (I am kidding about the current [ditto]).

And so ends the golf part of that e-mail ...

Oh, the bit about center of gravity and MOI I got from the Adams Golf site. I don't really know what MOI is. It took me a second to figure out that CG was center of gravity.

Posted by delmer at 1:27 PM | Comments (3)

December 6, 2005

The Idiot and the Softball Game

As promised in the Coming Attractions post. Wait wait wait. Since it's Christmas: As foretold in the Coming Attractions post.

There are not a lot of people that I don't care for. This story is about one of the few.

First, some background. After college I worked at ARMCO -- the American Rolling Mill Company -- now called AK Steel. One day I was doing some work with a guy named Marty. As we talked I found out he'd gone to Miami University (Oxford, Ohio). Further conversation revealed that he'd lived in the same dorm as, um ... Harry Jones (Not his real name. But you knew that.)

I asked Mary if he'd known Harry Jones.

"Oh yea. What an ass ...," he started saying. And if that isn't a verbatim quote it is very close. Then he caught himself. "Are you two friends?"

"Not at all." I assured him in a tone that conveyed more than the words themselves.

Marty went on to say that Harry was one of those guys who always had to be the center of attention and that everybody on his dorm floor pretty much thought he was an ass. I'd known Harry since 9th grade; it would seem that even Mother Miami had not been able to change him.

Marty then told me this story.

Marty's dorm was playing in a softball tournament. Marty and Harry were both on the team.

Marty's team was up by three runs. It was the bottom of the last (7th) inning, there were two outs, bases were loaded. Marty was in left field. Harry was in left center.

Marty and Harry's team needed one more out to win the game.

The pitch. The swing. The batter connects.

It's a lazy fly to left -- right at Marty. He barely has to move to position himself under the ball. The game is all but won.

"As I stood there waiting for the ball to drop into my glove I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Harry. Just as I was about to make the catch he dove in front of the ball and tipped it with the top of his glove. The ball went flying out of bounds and we had to chase it down, The other team scored four runs and we ended up losing. All because Harry couldn't stand to not be the hero."

The story will surprise some. I'd known Harry for years; I wasn't surprised at all.

Posted by delmer at 8:53 AM | Comments (3)

November 21, 2005

The Triple Play

I am certain that in the world of sports -- baseball and softball anyway -- a triple play is a rare thing to see. Probably an even rarer thing to participate in. And yet, I've done both.

The game was at a field not too far from Springboro, Ohio. I believe it was in Red Lion, Ohio -- certainly an out-in-the-country place in an area hard to define by city/village boundaries. Unless of course you work for a taxing authority; then you know the boundaries of your district to the inch.

It was about 1984.

I was standing on third and there was another runner on second. Our batter cranked one deep into left. It was so deep that even if it was caught I could tag and score.

I stood on the bag watching the ball sail toward the left fielder. When it became obvious he wasn't going to catch it I started a casual trot toward home with an eye over my shoulder.

At the last second the fielder threw a hand up and snagged the ball. It was an amazing catch. First out. I wasn't going to be able to get back to the bag to tag up and then make the trip home.

I turned to go back to the bag. The runner from second was barreling toward third and did one of those things where your sort of ski to a stop and throw your arms around to keep your balance. He was about a foot away from the bag when he fell back on one hand.

I KNEW the left fielder wasn't going to try to throw me out. The runner trying to hustle back to second was a much better target.

I was a bit demoralized by the boneheaded mistake I'd made by not waiting for the ball to drop. Had I stayed on third I could have tagged. I could have scored. Instead, I'd gone too far toward home to make it back to third, tag, and score. I walked back toward third, disgusted with myself.

Fortunately this self-disgust wouldn't last long. It would be replaced with a whole new level of disgust as the left fielder gunned me down on my way back to the bag. Second out.

WHAT!? He should have been going for the runner from second! Sure ... I should have hustled back to the bag. But, still, he should have been going for the runner from second.

That thrill was left for the third baseman. And really, it didn't take much of a throw. Our runner didn't have any type of chance. Third out.

Talk about putting a team in a funk. We didn't have a chance after that.

But now, 21 years, later I can say I participated in a triple play. And, from my enviable position -- between third and home and walking toward the action -- I had a birds-eye view of the whole thing.

Posted by delmer at 10:14 AM | Comments (3)

November 20, 2005

Rounding The Bases

I'm not sure of all of the events that led up to this. Maybe I was on first and someone hit a ball deep enough that I thought I could make it too third. Maybe I was on second and just had a feeling I'd be able to make it to third. The only thing I'm sure of is that I wasn't being forced to run to third by a runner coming to second.

Whatever the case was, we were playing softball. This was about 1984.

I was on my way to third and I knew any play on third would come from behind me. So the ball had been hit to center or right field.

As I approached the bag the thrid-base coach, my buddy Darrell, started giving me the sign to slide.

I was never big on sliding. I usually wore shorts and didn't care for the strawberries that a slide on the thighs typically left. My head-first slide left a bit to be desired.

But there was the sign. Slide.

As I considered what action to take I noticed the third-baseman taking a step off the bag. Backward toward the fence. Then another and another. I determined that even if he caught the ball before I got to him he'd be too far off the bag to tag me. There was no reason to slide.

Just as I finished this thought the ball hit me square in the back of the head.

It was still better than a strawberry on the leg.

Posted by delmer at 9:09 PM | Comments (0)

November 5, 2005

There are about Two Million Nerve Endings

There are about two million nerve endings located in a soccer-ball sized area just below a man's navel and above his knees.

A man is able to get each one of these nerves to fire at once if he stands beneath a basketball hoop and looks up at the back of the backboard and raises his hands above his head as if he's trying to figure out how to get something unstuck from the back of the backboard.

It helps, and it may actually be a requirement for the nerve-ending firing, if the gym is full of 7-year olds with soccer balls.

Posted by delmer at 9:43 PM | Comments (1)

October 10, 2005

Floors floors floors

Did you sing the title of this entry to the tune of Motley Crue's Girls Girls Girls. If you didn't you are missing a treat and you should really reread it.

And please, would you be so kind at to read the rest of this entry with the Stones' Bitch playing in the back of your mind.

.

You take it from there ...

This morning I got up bright and early and made my way to Home Depot to rent an edge sander.

An hour later I made the same trip to buy additional 36-grit pads. At some level I must have known that I was gong to need more than three 36-grit pads, but that was all I got the first time.

The edge sander was doing a really nice job for about three feet. By then the sanding pad was so clogged with paint that it was sticking to the floor rather than smoothly gliding over it. The edger pads can't be declogged like the drum-sander pads so I spent a lot of time changing pads.

I finally figured out that if I was willing to wrestle with the sander a bit I could make the pads last longer. This wasn't about pad cost -- this was about the hassle of pad changing. With the sanding disk clogged it would still take the paint off -- in a herky-jerky fashion -- though it didn't seem to be taking any of the surface off the floor. This was a good thing as it took some of the pressure off of keeping the sander moving in a precise manner.

At 12:30 I gave up sanding to attend a football and soccer game. My football player lost and my soccer player won. The weather was perfect football weather -- the air was cool and crisp with the smell of whatever that smell is that comes around every fall. It seemed a little cold for soccer.

After all the games were over my footballer and one of my soccer players came over in the middle of an argument.

"Isn't football a more popular sport than soccer?" the footballer demanded.

"I'm certain it is," said I, "but that may be because they call soccer football just about everywhere else but the United States."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know that's not what you mean, but that's as far as I'm willing to get involved."

And really, when it comes to kid's sports, the most important thing to appreciate is that none of my kids are in T-Ball any longer ... or, and this is even worse (as a rule), Kid-Pitch Baseball. KPBB games could go forever with nothing more happening than batter after batter getting beaned by the ball.

After football and soccer I went to work and requested tomorrow off. I was back on the sander at 6 p.m. and finished up all the paint removal.

Tomorrow I should get that room done and move on to the first floor's floors (floors ... at the Dollhouse in Fort Lauderdale ...)

Posted by delmer at 12:32 AM | Comments (0)

October 7, 2005

Another Softball Story

My buddies and I were playing a game in Springboro, Ohio. David Steinbach (I'm certain Dave is the voice behind Brian the dog on Family Guy) was at bat and barely caught a bit of the ball. It made a beeline to the pitcher who bent down and picked it up. The pitcher then stood on the mound and held the ball in his hand.

Meanwhile David was hustling to get to first -- just in case the Lord had taken a break from watching pro sports and producing rap albums and was tuned to C-league softball in Springboro and was going to intervene on Dave's behalf to help him get on base. [(You know, I like watching college football but sometimes I like to take in a Pee Wee game at the local field, so I don't think it would be out of character for the Lord to take in small-town softball. The Catholic Lord might even have a beer. And you know he'd watch the game with his mom. I'll bet the Catholic Lord was the first person to ever say "Hi Mom" into a camera, thereby condemning dads to never getting to see their children mouth "Hi Dad" on ESPN 8: The Ocho. I don't think he did it on purpose. What, with His Dad being God and all he probably figured he was getting enough props. He just didn't think far enough ahead to realize that not everybody's dad was God. It happens. (As irreverent as I sometimes am I will not link "Hi Mom" to crucifiction joke.)]

Now that I've condemned myself to Hell (um, please refer to Once in Grace always in Grace), we'll continue.

Dave was hustling down to first as a good ball player should. Just in case. The pitcher, you will remember, was standing on the mound with the ball in his hand. As Dave got a step or two from first base he threw Dave out.

So, the pitcher had the ball a split second after Dave hit it. Probably before Dave took more than a step toward first. But he held on to the ball until Dave was a just a step or two from first. This is just crappy play.

Fast forward a week. We're at the same field waiting for our game to start and watching another game.

The same guy from the week before is pitching. The batter hits a squib back to the pitcher who bends over to field it. The ball catches the pitcher's rubber and jumps up and smashes the pitcher's nose all over his face.

It would seem that the Lord had been watching the week before and didn't like what he saw.

Or maybe it was one of those Karma-related god figures.

UPDATE: My buddy Roy just called and I was able to do some fact checking. We may have been played the same team twice in a row. Roy remembers the guy pitching against us (a week after the Steinbach incident) when he got his nose plastered. Brian Brown would have been the batter.

Posted by delmer at 7:31 AM | Comments (0)

October 6, 2005

Softball

Back when I was in my mid 20s I was on a softball team with a group of my buddies.

I was usually our pitcher. Once in a while I played first base.

I approached fielding from the pitcher's mound and fielding from first base with the view that if the ball got by me all of my friends were going to hate me. This worked so long as the ball was in the air and coming toward me. I'd step in front of it and let it pound into some part of my body before I let it get by me.

This is where the crack about wearing a cup made of Kevlar was supposed to appear. While Googling for said Kevlar cup I came across The Viriguard. It had me going for a minute.

Oftentimes I'd get my glove on the ball. So long as the ball was in the air. And it helped if it were coming directly at me. If the ball was on the ground I'd pretty much Billy Buckner it.

Too far to either side of me and I might miss it as well. Which is how this story starts.

We were playing in a small town in the southwestern part of Ohio. One of the players on the opposing team was a well-known asshole and spoiled brat. The reason I don't give the city is that anybody about my age from that area would know who I mean -- this guy's assholieness and spoiled brattiness was that well known -- and the guy may have grown up into a half-way decent person; I wouldn't want to dis him at this point in his life. [I honestly doubt it he grew out of his assness as his dad was an ass as well and I imagine it is a non-outgrowable genetic problem -- in which case leaking who he is might lead him to sue me. (If any of my friends stumble across this they'll catch themselves asking, "I wonder if he means ..." I probably do.)]

I was pitching. Someone hit a ball near my feet that I should have probably had. It got by me. The next batter did the same thing. Well-known asshole jumped up on the fence and yelled, "Hit it to the pitcher. He can't catch anything." (He was an asshole, but he had a keen eye for the obvious.)

We finally got up to bat. The Ass was playing left field.

Darrell (or Roy) led off and smashed one deep into left. The Ass ran in on it and realized too late that it was going over his head. He turned and chased it down. Darrell (or Roy) got multiple bases.

Roy (or Darrell) was second up and smashed one deep into left. The Ass ran in on it and realized too late that it was going over his head. Turning into the Spoiled Cry-Baby Poor Sport he dropped his glove and head and let one of the other fielders chase it down.

Realizing he needed some kind words to make him feel better, I ran to the fence and screamed, "Hit it to the left fielder! He can't catch anything."

Wait. That probably didn't make him feel better.

But I sure did.

Posted by delmer at 7:12 AM | Comments (2)