For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, I like the idea of grown up sports way more than I ever liked team sports as a kid. Maybe it’s because there ain’t no ego-destroying line ups of two captains picking teams while the numbers of eligible players dwindle, and you’re left standing with the Tourette’s Syndrome girl, who your mother had taught in her special needs class.

Speaking of the girl with Tourette’s Syndrome, I’ll call her Deb, ‘cuz that was her name. Well, Deb knew me and considered me an ally, since she knew and liked my mom. There’s a special weird place of trying to fit in to any juvenile social scene when that crazy, universally teased, often cruelly, girl is shouting to you in the lunch room that if you have no where to sit, you can join her and her one other, almost equally mocked, friend.

Fortunately, I’m not a total cunt. So while I didn’t join her, I never treated her poorly. Karma, dig?

Anyway, eventually we all grew up, and Pat would see her regularly bagging groceries at the local Shaw’s. They would exchange pleasantries, and Deb would update her on her goings on. Apart from the Tourette’s she was a regular, townie woman. One day, Pat gleefully told me on the phone the latest news. Deb was getting married.

Of course, the punch line my dear mother held back to get the timing just right. Wow, Dee, she founds someone who would marry her. She delighted in letting me know the girl with Tourette’s, the girl who she had once had me tutor, the girl that everyone in my school tortured, that girl had done something I couldn’t (and really still haven’t). She had become a bride.

I have no doubt at all in any corner of any synapse within every inch of my skull, that if Pat were alive today, she would still point out that I am unmarried.

All of the last few paragraphs were a total digression. Obviously. The point really is that in adult life you get to just sign up for shit, and the other kids and you have to get along. Some parts of being an adult are way the fuck easier than childhood.

We had a scrimmage match last night. I remembered another reason I hated gym class — fucking warriors who treat all athletic activity, even town league softball practice sessions, like the World Superbowl Series Olympics. Fucking douches.

Last night, there was one such douche, named Brian, who plays with a team that showed up for the first practice in their matching shirts, the only ones among four or five teams who did, and who offered to fill in some spots on our side to provide some league-seasoned guidance. I fucking hope through some random series of errors, bad luck and maybe a hawk attack on their side and good fortune and fun playing on ours, we kick their asses later in the season.

My preference is we win through uncontrollable events, because Brian is most definitely the kind of guy who needs control. The little blond nazi, most definitely reminiscent of Rolf in the Sound of Music, earned my slight annoyance after the third time he explained to me where to stand, despite his utter obliviousness that I was trying to help M., who had asked, figure out where best to stand to cover second. He nailed my enmity, when during a different inning I was at second. He ran in from the outfield, shouting “I got it,” to snag the ball that was directly behind me and then raced forward forcing me out of the way to cover the base.

Way to play that ‘I’ in team, one man band man. For fuck’s sake, I wanted to yell at him, “What the fuck is the point of you making that play during a practice, you know where the rest of us were trying to, um, practice?” Throw the ball, handle some relays, shag some balls. Practice things.

As we were walking home from the park, I did entertain the thought that I’m psycho for hating a stranger over a stupid game. I was vindicated this morning, though. Apparently, per my co-worker who played with the other team for the scrimmage match, a team of normally dressed, joking-around, fun-seeming people, the matching t-shirt team is the only hardcore competitive team in the league. And, everyone hates the little blond dude, known for minor rule infractions and plate crowding to win.

The other bonus to gym class activities in the real-live grown-up world is you don’t have to like, or pretend to like, the arrogant jocks. Yay maturity.

In related news, I’m a little disappointed that the bruise on my thigh from a hit ball isn’t larger. I wanted a softball-sized trophy for my middle-aged jock fantasy.

Also, M. is putting his mad cricket skillz from the old world to work. He’s picking up quickly on what Abner Doubleday started.

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