pg13

Erin and I joined a kickball team consisting of about 15 teachers and other staff members from our school. We play in a beer-league, basically the same as an informal softball league except requiring even less athletic commitment. The other teams are made up of teachers from another school, a real estate company, a marketing firm, the DJ's from one of the local 'hot 97' type dance station, and several other loosely connected groups of yahoos. It's fun. We play with a 13 inch red inflated kickball, officially called a Champion Play Ground Ball, 13 inches (PG13).

With a ball that big and bouncy you can really kick the crap out of it, nice super-satisfying slow arching sky-high wallops. Unfortunately those kind of huge kicks are really easy outs - they are basically effortless to catch since you have so much hang time to get yourself positioned under the ball. It's really tricky to keep it on the ground or kick it 'where they ain't' OR kick it over the heads of the outfielders. With the ball being so easy to catch it is surprisingly hard to throw, nearly every time someone tries to stretch a single into a double (or whatever) they end up making it. I had,for instance, a single that turned into an inside-the-park home run once because at each base they would try to throw me out and the ball would go offline and I'd move on to the next one. Nice hustle! It was my proudest athletic moment. It's a deceptively simple game that ends up being quite difficult. Tons of fun.

I have hard time, somehow, turning off my inner teacher during our games. I cheer when the other team makes a good play, I congratulate them when they get on base and so forth. I play first base most of the time and during our last game some girl kicked the ball which bounced toward the pitcher, he bounced the throw to me and I dug it out in time to tag the girl out. Then I apologized to her for getting her out and my teammates made fun of me for it. She just looked so sad.

I bought a couple of PG13's for us to practice with, and the fourth graders are just CRAZY about kickball now. Also, my purchase has facilitated a long string of emails of questionable taste amongst the teachers on my team, all about my big red balls and how they should be handled and so forth. Lots of larfs. It reminds me of when I was in 4th grade or so and first heard the AC/DC classic "Big Balls"

Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But the balls that are held for pleasure
Are the balls that I like best

And so forth.
Boy, I thought that was the cleverest most ribaldly erudite song. The absolute pinnacle of sophisticated comedy. Ho ho ho! See, he's actually singing about testicles! Hee hee hee!

The other day during recess Alton and I were played kickball with about a million other kids, there were literally 4 kids playing first base and a good dozen in the outfield. Playing kickball works about the same as football - I do much of the playing but I push Alton around the field or the bases and the other kids high-five him when I make a play. Anyway, it was our turn to kick and just as we were about to get pitched to I saw, at the other end of the playground, some fifth graders kicking Alton's lunchbox around like it was a soccer ball. I was pretty pissed.

"HEY!" I yelled from fifty yards away, "You! Kicking the lunchbox! Do NOT do that." They stopped QUICK. I think I terrified them to the point of incontinence. Even though they were being total punks and were in need of an attitude adjustment I am afraid I overdid it. Oh well. That happens some times.

Once, early in our relationship, I was picking up Erin at the airport and had paid $3 for one of those luggage carts rentals. Erin disembarked and I walked about 20 feet to give her a hug and when we turned around, maybe 30 seconds later, some dude was walking off with our cart. "HEY!" I yelled, "That's my cart!" Same sort of thing as with those lunchbox kicking fifth graders -- yelling was in order but I think I yelled harder than the situation dictated.

The guy wanted to know how he knew it was my cart and that I wasn't just trying to get a free cart. I told him at the very least he knew it wasn't his cart and why should I pay for HIM to have a free cart and to give it the hell back. He did so, grudgingly. Jerk. Erin, however, saw this whole exchange and wondered what the hell kind of anger management case she was mixed up with. I guess I came across as pretty furious. I felt bad to seem like that but still. It was my cart. We still laugh about how that is the angriest she has ever seen me.