Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Go Watchdogs!

I don't know if I have ever mentioned this on this blog or not, and some of you already know this, but Nicole is a former fastpitch softball player who had received a full ride to college with her skills and was, at one point, featured as the NESN player of the week while in college.  Ever since she left college, she has yearned to get back to the game she loves so dearly, but she has had great difficulty finding a fast pitched league where she can have some fun.  With that being said, a dear friend of ours approached her wanting to know if she would be interested in playing on his recreational slow pitch team.  While she was a bit hesitant at first, I convinced her it would be fun to give it a shot.  Little did I realize at that time that it would be one of the most entertaining 90 minutes I would get to experience.

For the first game, we met at a field a few towns over and it quickly became apparent that some of the people on her team have only watched sports on t.v....if even that.  While some players were pretty good, some of her teammates looked like they had previously been all star member of the Bad News Bears.  There were outfielders who ran from the ball, players who ran down the third base line after hitting the ball, and a pitcher who managed to smoke and pitch at the same time.  Awesome.  I would have really enjoyed that first game, except for the other team.  Now, I know I tend to make a lot of references to movies and t.v. shows and this post is no exception.  Ready?  Did you ever see any of those old Bugs Bunny cartoons where he's playing baseball against these huge bruiser type guys and he's sitting there in his little scrawny outfit?  It's a whole David and Goliath kind of thing as Bugs ultimately triumphs over these big, hulking bullies.  Well, I kind of had a sense that I was watching a live version of an old cartoon and Nicole's team (who, at this time, was still nameless in my head) was the scrawny little underdog competing against the huge bruisers.  While not all of the opposing team were large or skillful, there were some players on there that clearly felt this game was their opportunity to shine with the hope that one of the spectators would be a major league scout who was here to give them their big break and all they had to do was show their stuff.  I'm not sure who they thought was the major league scout, me or RM who had absolutely NO interest in the game at all, but it was clear these guys thought this game was their ticket to baseball greatness.  One by one, these players, male and female alike, took turns abusing Nicole's team.  They were hitting shots way out past the ditch in the outfield (yes, there was a huge ditch in the outfield that had a hey bale next to it...maybe the hay bale was a safety measure and was this field's version of the Green Monster?) and were hooting and hollering the whole time.  At first, I just thought it was mildly irritating (my irritation being due, certainly, to my competitive nature...see my post about vacation if you need a refresher on that aspect of my personality) but, as the game continued and these guys continued to be merciless, I started to get really annoyed.  My ability to tolerate this team dropped to a new low when one of the biggest guys on the team tried to take Nicole out as she was preparing to get the throw at home plate.  Really, dude?!?!?  WTF?!?!  Thankfully, RM was there with me which forced me to turn down my volume, because I could feel my rage start to overtake the thinking areas of my brain and my mouth was about to get me into a whole lot of trouble.  I believe my thought process went something like this, "Somebody needs to let these jackasses know this is a recreational game and no one here is going to offer them a MLB contract.  I'm going to go right up to Jabba the Hut (aka "big bruiser who almost ran Nicole down") and let him know just how big a jackass he is.  Hmmm...maybe his highly unattractive female companions on the team won't appreciate my candor.  Well, that's FINE because SOMEONE's got to tell him he's being a JACKASS!  They are pretty burly, though.  That's fine.  My insurance is paid up and the hospital is not far away.  My ass will be kicked from here to eternity, but I will have said my piece!"  That's what happened in my head.  What happened in reality was more like Nicole's team came to the sidelines at the end of the inning.  I was growing increasingly louder in direct correlation with my level of annoyance.  Nicole came over to me and basically tells me, in a very supportive and loving way, to shut the hell up.  I continued to grumble about how ridiculous I thought the other players were being and was again, politely and lovingly, told to shut the hell up.  In not so many words.  Needless to say, they did not win that game. 

The next game was played at a field in East Hartford against a much more pleasant opponent.  They were relaxed, they brought beer, they joked around and, did I mention, they brought beer?  The first base coach was hanging out with her beer in her hand and would jokingly toast as she ran past our team while heading back to her "dugout" (at least, I think she was a she...she was awfully large.  I don't mean fat, I mean she was probably about 6 feet tall and was very broad shouldered...perhaps she played football in another league.  What I'm saying is, this chick was freaking huge.  I certainly didn't have enough insurance to get mouthy with this one.  No.).  I sat on the sidelines with little Miss RM.  We packed her snacks, her lawn chair, her beverages, her toys (I still need a small U-Haul for any trip out of the house with her) and settled in for the game.  A couple of Nicole's teammates also brought their son who sat with us for a while and politely announced every time a plan went by. That would have been a very endearing kind of thing if we were not so close to the airport...yeah. "Look! A plane!" 15 seconds later, "Look! A plane!" After a few minutes of this, I started to feel like I was on Fantasy Island, "Boss! Boss! Ze plane! Ze plane!" What inning is this? The second? Great.  Cara and Marc came to this game; Marc played and Cara joined me in the cheering section.  Somewhere in the third or fourth inning, our other friend, Mark, who is Cara's brother and who was also the star left fielder, hit a scorcher to center field and, as he rounded first base with lightening speed, he appeared to pull his hamstring (or maybe blew out his giant calf muscle or maybe even his cankle (aka "cank"))and, as he hobbled to second base, he simply stopped and said, "I'm out".  Subs?  Again, not the big leagues.  No subs.  Any subs in the stands?  Well, RM and Tattoo were out and I needed to stay with the kids for...uhm...well, I needed to supervise them.  Yeah.  Supervise them (Stop snickering.  I'm perfectly capable of watching a couple of kids).  That leaves Cara (who is easily the more athletic of the two of us and clearly the team's best shot at replacing her brother.  Let's just hope her genes fair a bit better at this sport than her brother's did).  Only problem: Cara was definitely not suited up for this game.  Here's a snippet of the dialogue from that day:
Cara: "I can't play!  I'm wearing flip flops!  Clearly that would be a safety risk and we've already had one injury today."  (Valid point)
Mark: "Come on.  You can play in flip flops."  Piercing glance from Cara and he responds, "No?"
Me (being of no help to Cara's cause on this one...sorry, Cara): "Ok, how about you take my sandals?" She then gave me this insanely cock-eyed look and I realized that my insanely stinky feet also produce insanely stinky sandals and Cara was having a hard time with the idea of walking, or running, a few feet in my sandals.  Tattoo's mother, noting the discontent, offered Cara a pair of clean, yet stained, tube socks that, very attractively, bunched around her own cank...I mean ankles.  So, Cara suited up and and was delightfully fashionable as she ran the bases in borrowed socks and my stinky sandals with the drawstring flapping the tops of her feet as she blazed around the diamond.

This game was only getting better as Nicole's team looked like they were going to pull off a handy victory.  Then, things took a turn for the worse.  I don't exactly know what happened, but I believe the term is...they choked.  The other team became possessed and scored a crazy amount of runs.  Around this time, our smoking pitcher had something happen to him.  I don't know if it was a small stroke or what, but after some confusion about who was making a call on a fair ball, he took his cigarette from his mouth and started screaming at the other team.  First of all, I didn't know he still had enough lung capacity to muster that kind of verbal tirade.  Secondly, I sat there going, "What the hell just happened?"  That pretty much changed the tone of the rest of the game and they went on to defeat Nicole's team (which is still nameless at this time, but may warrant a Bad News Bears reference).

Ok, game three (well, actually more like game 4 or 5, but Nicole missed a few, so for us, it was game 3).  This one was at a park in downtown Hartford, which is an adventure in and of itself, but I digress.  Tattoo was there, another player brought his twin daughters, Mark's girlfriend was there, and, of course, RM and myself.  This game was pretty good.  One guy on the other team did not seem to be functioning all that well and, when he ran, he clearly lost both gross and fine motor control as his arms kind of windmilled out of control and he, more often than not, ended up falling before he got to the base he was running toward.  Another guy showed up late and played in a full dress suit, minus the jacket.  Perhaps he was the major league scout the first team was looking for?  Don't know.  Anyway, the game was largely uneventful and followed the same patterns.  Nicole's team came out early to take a commanding lead only to have that lead shrink and vanish as they would lose the game at the end.  What did come out of this game, however, was that I finally learned what the name of the team was.  Apparently, Nicole's team was called the Watchdogs.  "How do you know that, Jen?" is what you are asking yourself right now.  Well, let me tell you how I know this.  Remember, I mentioned a teammate had brought his twin daughters to this game?  Well, they are probably about 11 years old and very cute.  They were the best cheerleaders any team could hope for because they not only cheered loudly, but they cheered non-stop.  Yeah.  They cheered through...the...whole...game.  "Wow!  What were they cheering?"  Funny you should ask that.  They were cheering one cheer over and over...and over...and over.  I don't know if they made it up or not, but it went something like this (use whatever rhythm appeals to you):  "Tick tock, tick tock, woof, woof, woof! Goooooooo, Watchdogs!!  Tick tock, tick tock, woof, woof, woof!"  Then they kind of chuckled, looked at each other and laughed, and began the cheer all over again.

While playing their second to last game at a local school, the Watchdogs found their first fan. And this is saying a whole lot given that even the teammates' relatives and significant others who attended games were marginal fans at best. So the new fan expressed interest in joining the team. She had played softball in Jamaica and was on the hunt for a team here in the States. This woman was so desperate to play that she wasn't discouraged in the least when she asked the Watchdogs where they practiced and they responded with blank expressions. Oh, the Watchdogs don't need no stinkin' practice! In a stroke of genius, Cara asked Super Fan for her email address and the captain said that he would be in touch for the next season. Well, it all sounds a little awkward, but Super Fan got called up from the stands (aka, "the minors") the following week, when the team was short three players.  She played in the next game, smacked the ball around, and even earned the nick name "Curly." She paid it forward and brought two more fans to the game she played. The Watchdogs will take a husband and daughter cheering like mad from the bleachers any day. If nothing else, it drowns out the crying from the dugout.


Oh, and I should mention that Cara took it upon herself to make sure that each teammate had a proper nickname.  Her husband, Marc, (over six feet tall and about as fast as Youkalis running through a pool of Caramel) came to be know as "Wheels." The guy from the opposing team who lost all motor control and mowed over Nicole came to be known as "Dangerous Dave." (This nickname was doled out by the Watchdogs angry smokin' pitcher. Did I mention that his sole defense is: "If I can smoke and run a marathon, I can smoke and pitch!") Although I thought I would never experience such an unprecedented move, a player on the last opposing team tried to smoke while batting.
I also should mention that Cara had invited another friend to join the ranks of the Watchdogs.  He was a perfect match.  He had perhaps never played softball, didn't own a glove or cleats, and was just the kind of player the team needed.   When his wife heard about the team and it's fantastic record, she recommended that her husband tape a paper plate to his hand and call it a day.  Apparently, he took that quite literally because he showed up for his first game with no equipment.  That's right, no glove, no cleats, little clue.  Cara was kind enough to let this friend borrow her glove and he seemed to be...well, let's say, he was struggling out there in right field.  Aw, hell, he sucked.  He was complaining that his fingers didn't fit in the glove and it all sounded like a big excuse...until it was apparent that his hand really didn't fit into the glove.  Oops.  Once he borrowed a glove from the other team (ironically called: NGNL aka No Glove, No Love), he rocked.  Cara has basically said, the head to toe soreness, blown out calf muscles, and bruised pride were a parting gift, well worth the fun of playing with the Watchdogs!


Now, Nicole and I missed the final game of the season, but I heard the cheerleaders were there and, apparently, so was Dr. Heimlich because the Watchdogs choked late in the game on that one as well.  Mark has told Nicole that the team from the park in Hartford (you know, Dangerous Dave's team), where the Watchdog Cheerleaders made their debut, wants to play them again.  I'm not really sure if that game is going to happen or not, but I'll be there with a pack of smokes and a couple of pom poms if it does.

1 comment:

  1. My goodness! You sure have a lot to say about the Watchdogs...tick toc indeed. To be fair, there was really no good way to know the team's name, because their uniforms consisted of mostly red t-shirts and black bottoms or really anything anyone happened to show up in.
    So, I hate to do this, but I need to make a few corrections. In the fateful game when my brother blew out his giant calf muscle-maybe even his cankle ("cank"), I did in fact jump into the game wearing your sneaker/sandals/water shoes with the damn draw string thing flopping around, smacking my ankles as I attempted to run. Delightfully safe and fashionable. I believe it only adds to the image to note that I had to wear BORROWED socks. Tattoo's mother let me borrow a pair of clean yet stained tube socks that bunched around my own canks.
    Other highlights? Of course. While playing their second to last game at a local school, the Watchdogs found their first fan. And this is saying a whole lot given that even the teammates' relatives and significant others who attended games were marginal fans at best. So, our ( and I can say "our" because I ended up playing in several games) new fan expressed interest in joining the team. She had played softball in Jamaica and was on the hunt for a team here in the states. She wasn't even turned off when she asked the Watchdogs where they practiced and they responded with blank expressions. Oh, the Watchdogs don't need no stinkin' practive. In a stroke of genius, I asked our new fan for her email address and the captain said that he would be in touch for the next season. Well, it all sounds a little awkward, but our new fan got called up from the stands the following week, when the team was short three players. She played in the next game, smacked the ball around, and even earned the nick name "Curly." She paid it forward and brought two more fans to the game she played. We'll take a husband and daughter cheering like mad from the bleachers any day. If nothing else, it drowns out the crying from the dugout.
    This leads me to my next topic...The teammates had plenty of nicknames. Of course, they were more tongue in cheek than anything else. Like my husband (over six feet tall and about as fast as Youkalis) came to be know as "Wheels." Our friend from an opposing team who lost all motor control and mowed over Cole came to be known as "Dangerous Dave." This nickname was doled out by the Watchdogs angry smokin' pitcher. Did we mention that his sole defense is: "If I can smoke and run a marathon, I can smoke and pitch!" Although I thought I would never experience such an unprecedented move, a player on the last opposing team tried to smoke while batting.
    The last bit of softball fun comes with yet another friend who was called up the ranks as a sub. He hasn't played softball, maybe ever. He owns no glove or cleats...not so unusual for a player on the team. His wife who is a good friend of mine, had heard about the team and recommended that her husband tape a paper plate to his hand and call it a day. Apparently, we undersold the team and purchasing a glove didn't seem like a top priority. Well, I let this friend borrow my glove and he seemed to be sucking it up in right field. Turns out that his fingers didn't even fit half way into the glove. Once we borrowed a glove from the other team (ironically called: NGNL aka No Glove, No Love), he rocked.
    Long story short, the head to toe soreness, blown out calf muscles, and bruised pride were a parting gift, well worth the fun of playing with the Watchdogs!

    ReplyDelete