It was a picturesque scene. The sun glistened on the dew- soaked July grass and, as we pulled up to the park, you could already smell the franks on the grill. We were fresh off a victory the previous night and had high hopes for the final day of the 28th Annual Greenfield Park Softball Tournament.
Our record sat at a modest 1-1, and a victory could have catapulted us into the semi-finals. It was not to be. My team, the Cubs, faltered, yet the true spirit of beer-league softball was renewed once more.
Immediately following the loss, the team gathered at our pitcher's house for an early afternoon BBQ, complete with several two-fours. As the effects of sun and sauce grew clearer on the players' faces, no one seemed to care that we had a consolation game slated for later that afternoon.
Drunk Ball
We made it back to the diamond for the game, despite our own best drinking efforts. The game heated up in the middle innings, and I found myself at the dish with the bases loaded. My concentration was fierce, and I managed a base-clearing double, pushing the Cubs into the lead. As I rounded first, the cheers from the bench filled my ears. I pulled up at second and flashed them a smile. I can't remember who won that game but winning was never the point of playing anyway.
Last summer was my first experience playing for a beer-league softball team. I didn't know much about the league, but I was coaxed into playing by a good friend of mine. I then met a cast of characters who quickly helped me to define the essence of beer leagues. Smalltown summer recreational athlete stereotypes are in good health judging by many of my teammates.
Our first baseman Ted (author's note: I have changed the names of the individuals portrayed in this article to protect their privacy and my spot on the 2003 Cubs) was an overweight man in his early 30s. Ted smelled like a walking hockey bag, and I once overheard a teammate refer to him as a "Washed-up Christmas ham". Ted's intentions were always good, but at times his nonstop chatter drove me insane.
Our third baseman Jack was an energized man in his early forties. Jack resembled a recovering hippy, but his sparkling diamond earrings brightened his appearance. Jack was married with two kids, but saw more green than any of the ball fields we played on in his heyday .
Our pitcher Steve had a unique outlook on tobacco use during a ball game. I must confess to enjoying a chew when I play ball. The smell of the ballpark always revolves around leather, grass, and little Copenhagen. You have to realize that in beer-league softball, the innings can last quite long and, consequently, many pitches are thrown. Steve would stroll off the field drenched in sweat searching for his cigarettes. When he found them, two were smoked before he got close to the on-deck circle. I thought I was in the 1979 Pittsburgh Pirates' dugout.
