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Chronicles of the Cow Patty League - Week 2

In the "Cult of Escapism": Chronicles of the Cow Patty League - Week 2

Monday, February 20, 2012

Chronicles of the Cow Patty League - Week 2

Week 2
This week, I played like a pile of dog turd. In doing so, I learned a few important Cow Patty League lessons:
  1. Bring at least twelve liters of water.
  2. The most amazing pitch in the game is the curveball, therefore every pitcher will attempt to throw it, every single pitch.
  3. Never strike out.

This week was much more competitive; the first strings were back, which meant both teams had better bats and could play their One Good Pitcher – one being the maximum number of good pitchers you can have in the Cow-Patty League (CPL). As such, I had a really boring game at center and a colorful game offensively.

After placing me as the tentative and very politically neutral seventh batter in the first game, the captain evidently saw that I steal bases faster than the Fonzi steals virginities, and thus had me batting second. I rewarded them with a single and ended up on third after another single. Enter the colorfulness.

No one in this league runs bases very well. They're conservative and consider even the smallest lead fairly ballsy. They replace good leads with obnoxious antics like clapping and taunting the pitcher, which is sort of funny if you're not the pitcher, but not great baseball. No one ever dives back to the base.

I've thus quickly earned a reputation for being crazy because my leads involve two shuffle steps (which they should) and require a dive back to the base in the event of a pick off. I'm convinced they've never seen this in the CPL.

This crucial circumstantial evidence in mind, here's what happened: I was aggressively leading off third and the pitcher tried several times to pick me off and failed. Except the third time the ump called me out. Consider that none of you would even know about this game, let alone this play, unless I was blogging about it and thus consider that I have no motivation to lie. He did not get me. Not even close. But ump calls me out and I pop up, screaming profanities.

I haven't been that angry in a long time, but luckily, I was at least together enough to use the secret dialect of English. What f*cking game are you watching? Are you KIDDING me? THIS IS B*LLSHIT!

Among others.

I've never even come close to losing my temper in site. In fact, I almost never lose my temper in general. So my team was a little shocked. A few people told me to calm down and a few reassured me that it was indeed a bogus call. After a few innings though, they suddenly realized it was probably the highlight of their week and I think every member of the team at some point approached me to helpfully point out, “Hey Jax, you got mad in the first inning!” Indeed.

After cooking (internally and externally) in center field for a half-inning, I approached the ump and apologized for yelling. He was clearly surprised and smiled, “No problem!” His expression said, “Of course you were yelling, everybody yells at the ump!” So true.

I then proceeded to strike out three times in a row. I'm not sure exactly how I managed that, since the pitcher wasn't very good (he threw exclusively weak curveballs – the holy pitch), but I can tell you that I was treated like a leper thereafter. Never mind that I went two for five, with a run and multiple stolen bases and that my overall offensive contribution on this team has been productive outside of those strikeouts – the captain benched my ass that second game without a second thought. He, I will mention, also went two for five that game, but he only struck out once (I'm not bitter).

After every strike out, a player would ask, “Jax, what happened?” Like I accidentally walked into a telephone poll or something. “How did you manage to do that?” I have no good answer. Maybe it's cause I drank one liter of water in seven hours of shadeless baseball. Ngäbes by the way, as far as I can tell, never drink water.

I've now vowed to never strike out, no matter what I need to do to prevent it. If I need to lay down a desperation bunt, I'll do it. If I need to club the pitcher's knee cap, I'll do it.

I also refuse to be more conservative on the base path, even if that requires more secret dialect outbursts. Maybe he'll be intimidated enough to start calling me safe every time. Or maybe he thinks my anger is just as funny as everyone else does. 


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