Eli Karon
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Adolescent girls love it, celebrities use it to raise money for
charities, and old men drink before, during, and after it. Welcome
to city-league slow-pitch softball … it’s faaaantastic.
Slow-pitch softball puts the “fan” back into
“fantastic.” Four was the exact number of fans present
at the city-league game I played in two weeks ago. They
weren’t there cheering on boyfriends or husbands playing in a
heated battle under the lights. They were the umpire’s family
members. Who shows up to cheer on an umpire?
In this game there’s no Astro-turf, no designated hitter,
a big sweet spot or plenty of hanging curveballs. Basically,
it’s everything Crash Davis ever wanted out of the game,
except for the players. The teams consist of a bunch Tom Arnolds,
and they aren’t funny either.
Except for my team.
My team, aptly named the Mutts, is a collection of misfits and
cut-ups; some of us consider fantasy baseball a sport because
it’s the closest we’ve come to a baseball diamond since
tee ball. Composed mostly of UCLA students and alumni, the team
competes on Wednesday nights, on a field just off of Pico
Boulevard.
The Mutts (“That’s spelled with a “˜M,’
not a “˜B,'” chimes in the centerfielder) are
currently 0-6. The closest we’ve come to victory was the game
that inspired this column, a 7-4 defeat at the hands of a team that
leaned heavily on their pitching.
Now, I have to give credit where credit is due. Their pitcher
was ridiculous. He could throw a softball 30 feet high and with
enough control that it would come down inside a rectangular area
about the size of a shoebox. He could do this almost every single
time, often putting spin on the ball to further torment the
batters. He must have spent his childhood terrorizing amusement
parks and county fairs.
It probably didn’t help that the team we played had been
playing together for 16 years. That means they started around the
time I first hit my tee ball coach where “˜the sun don’t
shine’ with an out-of-control swing. These guys are old
enough to be in Viagra commercials. They remember when Little
League had no age scandals, Major League Baseball players
didn’t go on strike every other year, and 61 was still a
magical number.
Teams sign up through the Los Angeles Department of Parks and
Recreation, pay a minimal fee and begin playing in a season that
lasts several months. The league champions probably get some sort
of reward, but since we never win I don’t have to worry about
that.
Speaking of our team … we do things differently than the rest
of the league’s teams. We have a different lineup every week,
because unlike the 35-year-olds reliving their glory days as Pony
League baseball All-Stars, the Mutts have a life other than
city-league softball. We talk smack from the outfield, because we
can. We wear rally caps in the last inning of a 25-4 blowout loss,
because the Mutts never say die. We aren’t fat, we
aren’t old and we don’t drink like fish after the
games.
Apparently, we don’t practice either. We also don’t
win, but I already mentioned that.
The fields we play on are not your typical Chavez Ravine gems.
Instead, the outfield is infested by huge holes filled with tepid
water and mosquito larvae. There are no fences, so a ball in the
gap goes for a round-tripper nearly every time. The infield is
about as hard as asphalt and the umpires are on crack.
In fact, it was the rock-hard infield that provided the Mutts
with a “˜SportsCenter highlight’ during the game last
week. On a close and crucial play at third base, right fielder,
Gabe Ross, slid into the bag with his spikes high. Ross, who was
wearing shorts for the fateful slide, would later comment on the
wound that left his leg with a savage trail of blood from kneecap
to shin: “It’s a badge of honor. I won’t look at
it, but I’ll wear it with pride.”
Ross’ inspired play barely edged out the accolades of
Shlomo, our No. 11 hitter, for player of the game honors. After
all, Shlomo struck out ““ twice. In slow-pitch softball.
Despite being the only player in the game to be hit by a pitch, I
wasn’t mentioned by the postgame awards.
The game ended with our desperate late-inning rally thwarted by
Shlomo’s second strikeout, but our spirits were not
diminished. After all, the crowd was on our side.
Ever wanted to be an anomaly? Play city league softball before
you’re old, fat, drunk, and stupid … hopefully it’s
not too late already.