CHURCH LEAGUE SOFTBALL FISTFIGHT

(with apologies to Tim Wilson)

I'm taking volunteers to push my wheelchair after this year's church league softball season.

Yes, I took the plunge this year and decided to play. I don't field any particular position with any level of specialty, but I am the team's designated injury-getter. And somehow I'm the only one. Everybody else is as healthy as a horse and practically bulletproof; meanwhile, I'm hobbling around the house looking like an Iraqi prisoner of war, with big purple welts in places that I had previously never known existed.

Today's Purple Badge of Honor came courtesy of the warm-up throwing. Yes. I got injured before the game. Shut up. We were out in the outfield warming up our throwing arms, and Magilla who I was warming up with decided to throw me a heater, only at gopher-level. I couldn't have caught this if it were a virus. The only thing I could do was jump out of its path, because this thing was flying so fast toward the ground that F-18's were scrambling, and it was going to hurt something fierce upon impact. And while I was diving out of the way, praying for a sandbag bunker to suddenly spring into existence, the ball tagged me square on the inside of my right ankle. Right on the knobby part. Well, the part that used to be knobby, since it's now about twice its normal size and all these pretty colors.

I did what every red-blooded American macho male would do in this situation. I laid face down in the grass, gritted my teeth, and struggled with the fact that though I was at church league, extreme profanities were beating at my teeth, trying desperately to get out. I managed to hold back, though. I'm getting a lot better at that.

So naturally, I'm thinking, y'know, the guy who launched that land missile would be coming around to give me a hand getting up and check to see if I'm alright. Instead, what I hear, from across the field, is "get up and walk it off." I'd like to take this opportunity to explain that this guy was not the coach. Nor was he, apparently, the president of Amnesty International. I laid there for a moment more, contemplating whether I would be better off continuing to lay there or if should just go ahead and assault him right then. I figured in my current condition, I'd probably be better off not getting into a huge scuffle, so after a moment, I picked myself up.

"You need to get your glove down on it," the guy said, upon my return to uprightness. Meanwhile, a mole next to me shook his head and indicated that even he would've had to scoop it out of the dirt. A couple of grubworms nodded in agreement. I considered the assault scenario again, but I figured he'd just have to kick me in the wrenched knee on my other leg, and it would be all over.

No need to get myself injured further. After all, this was just a scrimmage. We'd already won the game by forfeit.

That's right. Injury for a game that didn't even count.

Fortunately, I was able to play the rest of the game, and when I got up to bat, I pictured his face on the ball and mashed it into center field. Hey, whatever works, right?

Somebody get me an ice pack.