As a child growing up my parents felt the compulsive urge to sign me up for little baseball every year. Every spring I was filled with anticipation for the excitement of trying to hit a ball quickly moving through the air, and then attempting to run around in a circle. It was awesome losing every game because the coach always let his son pitch, bat first, and decide which type of big league chew was the best. That was my favorite part of baseball, gum shredded to look like chewing tobacco. Big League Chew was fine, but candy cigarettes were thought to be conceived by satan himself around this time.
It took me a few seasons to gain enough respect to move from standing around doing nothing in left field to standing around and and occasionally doing something on first base. First base of course, being the most important infield position besides pitcher. Then my pitching skills increased and I'd get to close games. Pitching of course, being the only position in baseball that can offer any enjoyment at all. Hitting wasn't much fun either. Aside from an occasional single, I would usually strike out. This was followed by cheers of patronizing approval from the team parents as they would all say things like, "good swing!" and "you'll get it next time!". First of all, if it were a good swing I would have hit the ball. Second of all, unless you're a psychic or Jesus Christ or both, I have no reason to trust your prediction of me "getting it next time". My little league career went pretty well towards the end. I made the the all star game and pitched the last three innings. Needless to say, we fucking won.
My enjoyment for baseball however would come to an abrupt halt in seventh grade. Due to a severe flu, I missed the first two days of tryouts and the last three were hardly my best days of baseball. The coach was a son of a bitch bastard who felt that me being sick was some how my fault and that I should have came anyway. This is where I learned that regardless of how you play in the regular season, the only time your skills matter at all are during tryouts. I was not cut, but the team I was placed on made me feel like I would have been better off if I had been. Rather than a varsity, JV, and JV 2 like every other school in the world, my particular school opted to take a more insulting approach.
When I was informed of what team I was on in seventh grade was one of the worst days of my life. In any other school I would have been placed on the JV 2 squad, and have a year to improve my skills with dignity to the point where I'd be on varsity by grade 9. (we had a 7, 8, 9, junior high, not like this backwards ass 6, 7, 8, out here) But this school was different. Me and my fellow team mates were made to feel like the mentally retarded by being placed on the "Developmental Team". As we all sat there in the locker room, I tried my hardest to fight back tears, as I watch a few of my friends cry for the first time in my life. As we exited the locker room in shame we returned to the gym area where the JV and Varsity squad were waiting for us. They all promptly applauded.
Have you ever felt like you just wanted to kill everyone in room? Me neither, but this is the closest I've ever came to that feeling. I was at the bottom of the pyramid. My once All-Star caliber baseball skills were being called into serious question. As I looked around at all the douche bags clapping for us in a vein attempt to make us feel better for being the worst baseball players in the school, I had a flash back to all those annoying parents with their "good swing" bull shit. After Seventh grade, I never played baseball again. Around this time I started losing interest in watching the sport on T.V. It is no coincidence that this was during the era in which the super sleuths in the mainstream media discovered that baseball players and other athletes were (gasp) using performance enhancing drugs. (Part deuce it is much better than this snore fest i promise, i just haven't written a narrative in a while and I felt it was time for one.)
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