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penfield"He who angers you conquers you."
- Elizabeth Kenny
Last night I played in something resembling a softball game with my auxilliary softball team, the team for whom I played years ago and was invited -- nay, begged -- to play this year. We lost badly -- so badly that I could not even keep track of the score -- and I had an awful time. Those two facts are indeed interrelated. But it's not why I feel so rotten today.
To be fair, I didn't even really want to play last night. I have a busy weekend coming up and I desperately needed to do my laundry. There was a 50 percent chance of thunderstorms last night and I was caught a little off-guard when the game wasn't cancelled. So I wasn't in the right frame of mind to begin with. But I had mentioned earlier in the week that I was available and I suspected that the team was counting on me, so I followed through and volunteered my services.
I started getting upset around 5:30, when I still hadn't received any word from the team's "manager" about whether the game was still on and the field location. I had to e-mail her myself, to which she replied "yes, it’s between the Washington Monument and the WWII memorial."
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Washington D.C.'s tourist district, this area covers more than 1000 square feet of monument grounds and on an average weekday hosts softball and kickball games for at least 26 different teams. Which meant that I had to get dressed and get down there to wander around for a half-hour and look for a team that (1) barely has anyone I know on it and (2) doesn't have uniforms yet.
Once I finally found the team, which at that point consisted of two guys drinking beer and singing "funny" songs about sadomasochistic sex practices, we had to wait another 45 minutes for the manager to arrive, at which point we still had only five people (and, might I add, exactly four gloves, which constituted the entirety of our equipment, unless you count the giant cooler full of beer.) It took another fifteen minutes after that for two more people to show up, at which point it at least became feasible for the other team to lend us two players.
By this point I was steaming mad, and not just because I had been waiting around in 85 degree heat and humidity for a full hour waiting for us to get our act together. I felt as if the team, and particularly the manager, had taken advantage of my willingness to play for them and had been completely disrespectful of my time.
The disorganization was no less prevalent once we started playing. The batting order became "whomever wants to go next." Taking positions in the field was a total free-for-all; I started at shortstop and made the first out of the game, when the first baseman decided that he wanted to play shortstop instead and made me switch with him. After he misplayed a few balls, the second baseman insisted that he move to shortstop, an alignment that lasted for most of the 20-minute first inning, in which they batted around twice.
I don't want to dwell too much on the quality of our play, because I've had fun on crappy teams before, but it's important to note just how terrible we really were. Not once but twice we had to debate the application of the infield fly rule because we couldn't catch simple infield pop-ups. I could count on one hand the number of times when ball was actually caught -- in the air or on the ground. And in four of our seven innings we didn't get a single person on base. (I contributed to that effort with an 0-for-3 night, batting leadoff; I suspect that if I had not picked up a bat in the top of the first that we might still be waiting for the game to begin.)
I realize this makes me one of those unattractively uptight softball guys, but what was most infuriating to me was the blithe attitude of everyone on the team. There was no leadership, no focus, no objective to do anything but prevent the spillage of one's beverage. You know, it's fine if some people just want to get together with their colleagues for some drunken obliviousness, but that's an invitation I would have declined.
By the end of the game I just wanted to get home as soon as possible. I packed up my stuff and left without saying goodbye to anyone. Some of the guys apparently noticed me leaving and shouted from 50 yards behind me, "Thanks for playing," "See you later," "Good game," etc., but I ignored them. I didn't even turn around and wave. I was a real @sshole about it. It was a low-class thing to do, no matter how I felt about the game or the evening, and I regret it. I'm sorry I was such a dick.
And I'm sorry that that's how they're going to remember me, because I'm never ever going back. They can find another sucker.
- Elizabeth Kenny
Last night I played in something resembling a softball game with my auxilliary softball team, the team for whom I played years ago and was invited -- nay, begged -- to play this year. We lost badly -- so badly that I could not even keep track of the score -- and I had an awful time. Those two facts are indeed interrelated. But it's not why I feel so rotten today.
To be fair, I didn't even really want to play last night. I have a busy weekend coming up and I desperately needed to do my laundry. There was a 50 percent chance of thunderstorms last night and I was caught a little off-guard when the game wasn't cancelled. So I wasn't in the right frame of mind to begin with. But I had mentioned earlier in the week that I was available and I suspected that the team was counting on me, so I followed through and volunteered my services.
I started getting upset around 5:30, when I still hadn't received any word from the team's "manager" about whether the game was still on and the field location. I had to e-mail her myself, to which she replied "yes, it’s between the Washington Monument and the WWII memorial."
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Washington D.C.'s tourist district, this area covers more than 1000 square feet of monument grounds and on an average weekday hosts softball and kickball games for at least 26 different teams. Which meant that I had to get dressed and get down there to wander around for a half-hour and look for a team that (1) barely has anyone I know on it and (2) doesn't have uniforms yet.
Once I finally found the team, which at that point consisted of two guys drinking beer and singing "funny" songs about sadomasochistic sex practices, we had to wait another 45 minutes for the manager to arrive, at which point we still had only five people (and, might I add, exactly four gloves, which constituted the entirety of our equipment, unless you count the giant cooler full of beer.) It took another fifteen minutes after that for two more people to show up, at which point it at least became feasible for the other team to lend us two players.
By this point I was steaming mad, and not just because I had been waiting around in 85 degree heat and humidity for a full hour waiting for us to get our act together. I felt as if the team, and particularly the manager, had taken advantage of my willingness to play for them and had been completely disrespectful of my time.
The disorganization was no less prevalent once we started playing. The batting order became "whomever wants to go next." Taking positions in the field was a total free-for-all; I started at shortstop and made the first out of the game, when the first baseman decided that he wanted to play shortstop instead and made me switch with him. After he misplayed a few balls, the second baseman insisted that he move to shortstop, an alignment that lasted for most of the 20-minute first inning, in which they batted around twice.
I don't want to dwell too much on the quality of our play, because I've had fun on crappy teams before, but it's important to note just how terrible we really were. Not once but twice we had to debate the application of the infield fly rule because we couldn't catch simple infield pop-ups. I could count on one hand the number of times when ball was actually caught -- in the air or on the ground. And in four of our seven innings we didn't get a single person on base. (I contributed to that effort with an 0-for-3 night, batting leadoff; I suspect that if I had not picked up a bat in the top of the first that we might still be waiting for the game to begin.)
I realize this makes me one of those unattractively uptight softball guys, but what was most infuriating to me was the blithe attitude of everyone on the team. There was no leadership, no focus, no objective to do anything but prevent the spillage of one's beverage. You know, it's fine if some people just want to get together with their colleagues for some drunken obliviousness, but that's an invitation I would have declined.
By the end of the game I just wanted to get home as soon as possible. I packed up my stuff and left without saying goodbye to anyone. Some of the guys apparently noticed me leaving and shouted from 50 yards behind me, "Thanks for playing," "See you later," "Good game," etc., but I ignored them. I didn't even turn around and wave. I was a real @sshole about it. It was a low-class thing to do, no matter how I felt about the game or the evening, and I regret it. I'm sorry I was such a dick.
And I'm sorry that that's how they're going to remember me, because I'm never ever going back. They can find another sucker.
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-07 05:09 pm (UTC)You should definitely play with my "A" team next week, though.
I don't think you were being a jerk
Date: 2008-06-09 05:21 pm (UTC)The infield shuffle was really outrageous. If the first baseman wanted to play short, he should have waited until the next inning.