When is my two cent head ever going to listen to my semi-aging body? No, you cannot play ten softball games a weekend in 90 degree plus heat and expect to have the poise of a runway model on coke in heels during a Marshall Fields fashion show the next day. I’ve heard of a product called “sunscreen” that protects fair skinned white boys like myself from showing up to work with a neck that resembles a well-cooked crustacean with butter and a side of cole slaw.
I R SMRT
Anything to play and feel the plush grass in your face after diving unsuccessfully after a ball because you saw the same play on Sportscenter last night and thought you could replicate #7’s play-of-the-day. As a parent and 9 to 5 working man, the chances to spend a weekend as one-of-the-guys are few and far between. Breakfast on Saturday morning with a little hair of the dog with the team, plus greasy bacon and eggs at a local diner started the weekend off right. And an interesting home game ended the day with a mix of 16 guys on the team and their wives/girlfriends/chicks-that-were-very-hot-and-I-tried-not-to-drool-profusely-on-my-uniform-while-not-staring.
Of course I get outed by my wife’s cousin who plays on the team by introducing me as the guy who played in the World Series of Poker. Target painted.
But, at the end of the four hour tourney (smoke breaks, kick ass queso dip break, beer breaks) your hero walked home with a chop of first place after outflopping a weak ace with T7o and still not looking at the guy’s very attractive lady across the table with questions about playing at the Rio. Nope, but I did want to ask if they were real. The prize money made up for a little financial fiasco while retrieving dinner before being coaxed into playing the poker tourney.
Kentucky Fried Chicken had some BRAND NEW TERKIYKI BONELESS WINGS that looked good enough to go with an order of mashed taters and biscuits since the eggs from earlier in the morning worked their way to bottom of a nasty smelling port-o-potty at the ballpark. Not that I helped with the stench. I place the order with the food service representative for these nuggets of chemical goodness (not horrible, but tasted a little “metallic”, chicken quality saved them) and my order came to $6.38 complete with a welcomed ice cold refreshment. Driving around to the window I hand the hard working gentleman a twenty and receive the dinner and drink in my scalding hot car since I’d been playing softball since 9am and leaving the windows up rendered my rust bucket to turn into oven.
(Side Note: Why the hell are most steering wheels black? I think oven mitts would have been appropriate handwear while driving)
Being tired and feeling like I just downed a row of Jag bombs I drove off without receiving the remains of my financial transaction with the Colonel. The money was gone hopefully to supplement one of the worker’s Coors Light beer fund, but since I didn’t figure it out until the second bite of chicken hit my mouth at home in the a/c (and I was 15 minutes away). I admit to several levels of retardation in forgetting the money, but shouldn’t the drive thru jockey give the change BEFORE handing the food to the obviously mindless idiot in the sweat drenched green softball uniform?
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I should learn its much more fun giving away funds at the Omaha tables instead of paying twenty bucks for a dinner that goes thru the digestive system faster then your local Chinese buffet.
Thanks for dropping by, now I was hopping to congratulate Speaker on his FTOPS cash this morning but he ran into the brick wall of the RNG a little short of the money.