When I was a kid, I loved baseball. I loved talking about baseball, I loved watching baseball on TV, I collected baseball cards like crazy, but most of all, I loved to play baseball.
When I was 9, I joined little league and I will be honest with you, I sucked big hairy donkey balls.
I had been stuck on the best team in the league, so basically I sat in right field for the last three innings of the game and that was it. The coach wasn’t going to jeopardize his winning season by actually letting anyone play who wasn’t good, which is totally understandable in a league full of 9 year olds. Asshole.
Anyway, I finished my first unremarkable season determined to change things.
I went out in my yard every single day and practiced throwing a baseball against a wooden board leaning up against a tree. I probably threw a thousand balls a day. And it paid off.
At the end of the summer, I could throw the hell out of that ball.
I was so excited for the new baseball season to start – I was gonna show everyone.
The problem is, my town had this weird thing where they acted like the teams were totally random, but they obviously weren’t. So you got things like my old team; stacked with ringers.
Unfortunately for me, you also got things like my new team; stacked with rejects.
You see, the good folks at the Glastonbury Little League Association only knew me as “that guy who sucked big hairy donkey balls” and not “that guy who spent all summer developing a lethal pitching arm,” so they stuck me on the worst team in the league. I guess their thinking is that this would enhance my experience by creating lasting friendships among the popular, athletic kids so that they would know who to ostracize once they got to high school.
My team, The Red Sox, was easily the worst team in the league. We were coached by a man whom I thought was a kindly, white-haired sort, named Mr. Robinson. I don’t think we won a single game, which is saying a lot considering they had access to the most dominant pitcher in the league: me.
At my first practice, it was clear to me what was going on.
We practiced fielding pop flies and one of these retards went to catch one, missed and had the ball bounce off his head, twenty feet into the air. He started screaming, his mother ran out on the field and we never saw him again.
Our games were not much better. We developed a pattern: I would pitch the first three innings, which would be scoreless on both sides, then I would get taken out of the game because pitchers were only allowed to stay in for three so as to give someone else a chance, cuz apparently this is Russia. Then they would put in someone else and we would lose 16 to 0.
The first couple of times this happened, I kept my mouth shut, but I was a serious athlete and frankly, it was offensive to me that I had to tolerate this bullshit.
I started gently prodding the other players on my own team, giving them friendly reminders that they needed to take their heads out of their asses and stop embarrassing me, themselves and the national pastime, as a whole.
I was ejected from a game for not throwing to the cut off man. There was a rule that you couldn’t throw to home plate from the outfield, you had to throw to the short stop who would then throw it to the catcher. I was merely cutting out steps and trying to be efficient. The rule was created because most of these dickweeds couldn’t throw that far. I could and did. When the catcher saw the ball arcing towards him, he did what any good catcher would do. He ran. Yet, I was the one who got kicked out?
I threw my glove, I kicked over the water jug as I grew tired of constantly watching my teammates squander my shutouts.
I feel that I’m not stressing enough here that I was really good. A lot of the time, I would walk away with nine strikeouts. They were intimidated by my power and they respected my accuracy.
Which leads me to the thing I am most proud of.
I let the other team know, if you crowded my plate, I would bean you. And this wasn’t just talk. I did it. On several occasions. And my coach knew it was on purpose, but I guess he didn’t have the balls to come out and accuse me of assault, so he kept quiet about it. But I saw it in his eyes: he knew.
So I have established that I was on a team of horrible losers. I have also made it clear how awesome I was.
Well, the end of the season is approaching and all my hard work is about to pay off: the all-star team.
Finally, my chance to play with people who were good or at least not laughably bad. Or so I thought.
The week before, I asked our assistant coach, who was the young, cool guy we all looked up to, if I was on the all-star team. He just laughed. Of course I was on the team.
Which is why I thought Mr. Robinson was joking when he made the announcement with the two names, neither of which was mine, who would be playing on that year’s all-star team. He had chosen the second-best (by a long shot) player and the one girl.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” I asked.
He told me not to swear and I threw my glove into the stands and stormed off.
I went home and cried for two days straight. I couldn’t believe I could be so betrayed.
And I never played baseball again.
I was the best. I had worked the hardest. I deserved this the most.
Why would anyone do this to me?
I’ll tell you why: that stupid bastard was fucking with me.
Think I’m being paranoid? Well, when it came time for the league’s award ceremony, guess who he had nominated for “Good Sportsmanship”? That’s right: me.
Me. The guy who had thrown his glove, berated his teammates, called them names in front of their parents, grandparents, little brothers and sisters.
Me. The guy who swore, barked orders and deliberately hit people with the ball if I felt they were challenging my authority as sole master of the game.
Me. Good Sportsmanship Award.
OK, you want to fuck with me, pal? That’s fine. It’s on.
He probably thinks I’ve forgotten all about this, but he’s wrong.
If he’s even still alive, I will go to the nursing home he’s in and tell him I’m his son’s gay lover. If he’s cool with that, I’ll tell him I’m Jewish too. Whatever it takes.
You hear me, Asshole? I’m coming to get you. We’ll see who’s the good sport when I sneak into your room at night and make it seem like you pissed yourself so they force you to wear diapers.
Remember your kids, the ones you think are gay? Guess what, shithead? They’re getting on the Department of Justice Terrorism Watch List. I don’t know how I’m gonna do that, but I’ll figure it out.
Chances are, this guy’s probably dead by now, but that’s not going to stop me. I will wash dishes until I have enough money to buy the cemetery he’s buried in, then I will have him and his wife dug up and I will use their bones for a piano like in The Goonies. Then I will burn that piano and make your children eat it at gunpoint.
And they can complain all they want to the cops, nobody’s gonna believe them, because unlike me, they’re on the DOJ Terrorism Watch List.
Think I’m going too far? Think I’m full of shit? Piss me off, I dare you. Just test me. Fucking test me.