Scads of "Softball Guy" Sightings

I had the good fortune of spending this weekend about an hour south of town for the annual Howell softball tournament. Every year scads of pretend baseball players (many of whom are Nazarenes) congregate on the campus of the Eastern Michigan District's campgrounds to fight for the right to raise the coveted first place trophy. (Not to mention a trip to the pretend baseball nationals in Cincinnati.)

I am one of those pretend baseball players--I am somewhat bashful to admit. I've never been much of a baseball player--or a softball player by connection--but I enjoy the fellowship with my friends. Unlike so many others, I don't take it all too seriously. I want to win, but not at the expense of making someone else feel like a loser--a fairly unique mindset in such a den of masculinity.

And, I don't wear baseball pants. (Speaking of losers...)

The problem with wearing baseball pants, at least as I see it, is that baseball is not the sport being played at a softball tournament.

It's just not the same thing--at least to some of us.

And so, when "softball" guy digs in at home plate wearing pin-striped softball pants, he becomes a self-parody.

"Softball guy" has embraced the parody not only in Howell once a year, but in the tournament of life. It's a self-imposed travesty that imbues nearly every corner of "softball guy's" life. "Softball guy" is merely a shell of his former self--a shell that is covered in pin-striped, shoe-horn-tight, nylon. He seeks to relive the formative years of his life, only at far slower speeds.

It is in this meathead male world of softball that fellowship is overtaken by the seemingly innate desire for competition. What should be "red dot" revelry is oftentimes replaced by the unbecoming antics of desperate men.

This weekend I witnessed the tomfoolery of athletic grandeur lost; and I know what it looks like. On the surface it seems noble; inasmuch as it is noble to strain oneself to the point of bodily injury while grasping the last vestiges of youth.

But, more to the point, it is actually sad and pathetic.

I saw men throw temper tantrums in front of their kids after questionable calls from despotic umpires. I saw a man hobbling to first after tearing his ACL--and an outfielder who tried to throw him out from left. I saw a man screaming like a psychopath at his team to hit the ball ever harder to score ever more runs. I saw men quibbling over wholly inconsequential rules violations like they were renegotiating the terms of their respective divorces.

It was nothing short of embarrassing.

And, in an ironic twist of fate, it was "softball guy" each and every time.

In the end, it was "softball guy" who won the trophy.

And lost it.