Right field has developed a reputation in Little League as being a position where less talented players can be "hidden" without damaging a team's defense in any significant way. [from Wikipedia]
I played right field, and, contrary to what Wikipedia may tell you, I damaged my team’s defense in a very significant way. Either directly, by screwing up even the simplest of plays, or indirectly, by lowering the rest of the team’s morale to the point of near-suicide.
I had been marooned out in right field by a coach that hated my guts. Really though, I was happy to be out there where I could study bees and pick dandelions strategically so as to leave a decent impression of Michaelangelo (the ninja turtle with yellow mask) on the field. I was in my own little world. When I’d hear the crack of the bat against the ball, I’d panic: “Oh God, Oh God, where’s the ball?! Where is it?! Is it mine, is it mine?” Usually it never came anywhere near me, but when it did, I didn’t catch it. Sometimes I’d trip over myself trying to pick it up, or it would roll between my legs, or I’d step on the ball trying to chase it down and twist my ankle. On those rare occasions when I did manage to get the ball, I couldn’t even come close to throwing it back to the infield. I would give it a feeble toss and it would land somewhere else in right field. Usually the first or second baseman would sigh, and go get it. I was the weakest of links, and comments like, “Jesus, is he TRYING to help the other team?!” were common.
As bad as I was in the field, the real show was when I got up to bat. I never swung at anything. Ever. Literally, in all the games I played, I swung only once. That time, I only did it because my Dad had bribed me to. He said he’d buy me a new baseball glove if I swung at something. Why that man would sink a single red cent into baseball equipment for me is a mystery. Anyway, back to not swinging. I was famous for it. The Harpy women that perched in the stands (usually the mothers of the kids with the worst teeth) used to chant, “Easy Out! Easy Out” when I got up to the plate. If these women had finished high school, the irony of their chant might not have been lost on them. I never struck out! Because I didn’t swing at anything, it was up to the pitchers to deliver three strikes before they threw enough balls to give me a walk. I always walked. Pitchers fucking hated me.
My own teammates despised me, too. When I was in the dugout, waiting to go to “bat”, I used to irritate everyone with questions like, “Why do the batters run counter-clockwise around the bases?“, “Why isn’t there a shortstop between 1st and 2nd base?”, and, “How many times do you suppose that ball has been hit by bats?”. I was a pariah. If we had been aboard a ship at sea, I would have been tossed overboard. If we had been at boot camp, I would have been pinned down and beaten with pillowcases loaded with bars of soap. I didn’t understand the game, even after playing it for months, and I had no desire to learn it. I was just pathetic. I can admit that. When we won, I felt like I didn’t even have the right to be happy about it because I had done NOTHING to help, and when we lost, I felt guilty because I knew I had caused it. Those aren’t digs for sympathy either, those are just the facts. I torpedoed our team in nearly every game. I was like a gremlin.
Anyway, yap, yap, yap, here’s the story.
It was a hot summer evening, and we were playing a pretty good game; that is, I hadn’t screwed anything up yet (that is, nobody had hit anything to right field). I had downed about 2L of Gatorade. Never mind the fact that I had done nothing to break a sweat, staying hydrated is crucial. We had just come back onto the field after three quick outs. This was unfortunate because I had been waiting to piss for a while, and I wasn’t going to get the chance anytime soon. I was stuck way out in right field again, and the outhouses we used were just a speck on the horizon. I couldn’t leave my post; right field was too important to go unmanned. “What would a professional right fielder do in this situation,” I asked myself. Then it came to me. He would man-up, buckle-down, and piss his pants. It seemed like the only logical answer. So, that’s just what I did. I stood there, proud in the sun, with the bees buzzing around me, and I unloaded 2L of used Gatorade into my uniform pants. It was empowering. The game was more important than dry pants. I was so pro.
By some miracle the grey of my uniform pants didn’t show the stain very much, and the sun beaming down on the field dried them quickly. Now, the only evidence of what I had done was the faint scent of urine about me. It went over so well the first time, that I started doing it every game. I wasn’t trucking it to that godforsaken outhouse ever again. I started stepping it up a notch too, I wasn’t just going once a game, I was going every time we were in the field. I was free to down as much Gatorade as I wanted now. My game was sure to improve under such an efficient system.
Anyway, I pissed myself throughout the season until my mother started questioning why my dufflebag smelled so bad. She recognized the smell of piss, and so, feeling no shame, and being proud of my devotion to right field and of my ingenuity, I told her exactly where the smell was coming from. I don’t know what you call a mixture of disgust, surprise, and concern, but that’s what she had. I got chewed out pretty bad for it, and both of my parents made it quite clear that they were concerned there was something wrong with me.
Whatever! The point is that I wasn’t allowed to piss my pants anymore. My efficient system had been shut down, and I had been doomed to remain a crappy right fielder until my father finally gave up on me and let me quit.
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