Wednesday, January 14, 2009
There's nothing to talk about. I don't care about Scott Pioli or Gilbert Arenas or even Eddy Curry asking his limo driver to touch his cock. While hilarious, that story has been ejaculated to death. Instead, I've got something pretty good for my readers today. It's one of those rare times in which I share a personal story that is so pathetic that you actually feel sorry for me. Well, that's not going to be true but at least you will get a cheap laugh at my expense. And isn't that why you come here anyway?
So, I'm hanging out at Mr. Ace's rarely read site yesterday in which he's talking about video games or something stupid. I called him a deragatory name and he followed with the same one. This term is one of those that Wanda Sykes would yell at you for if she heard you call someone else that. Fuck it, we called each other "fags". Since when have I worried about being PC? For some reason, when I read what Mr. Ace wrote, this story came to mind.
Let's go back to the summer of 1991 for a minute. Your very own G$ is tearing it up on the league-best Orioles in the Napoleon Little League...ummm, league. I won't bore you with talk about Little League, eventhough I could talk about it all day (I hate the A's soooo much to this day). We were pretty loaded with some quality 12 year olds and primed for a regular season and tournament title. We accomplished the former but not the latter.
As an 11 year old dynamo catcher, my job was pretty simple: catch the fucking ball and throw out attempting base stealers. But about halfway through the season, for some reason, the Orioles needed another arm. We played two games per week and I think that there was a rule that the most that a pitcher could throw in one week was 6 innings (right, D?). We already had an ace, so we needed to piece together 6 innings of decent pitching somehow. Apparently, I was part of the solution.
I didn't throw hard. My mechanics probably sucked. My pitches were as flat as a Kyle Farnsworth fastball. But I could throw strikes. I was like a pudgy, bespectacled, and gayer version of Jamie Moyer. I always got to start against the shittier of the two teams that we played in each given week. I was fine with that because I was a terrible pitcher who had not yet crafted his dominating pitch (years later, in high school, I developed a sidearm forkball that, had I worked at it, would have me still pitching in the bigs to this day...it was unhittable...actually, it was unseeable). But on one hot June evening at historic Glenwood Park in a game against the normally terrible Yankees, I would be served the largest slice of humble pie ever.
I gave up a hit to Cary.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "So what? Many successful athletes have had asexual names." And that is true. But it didn't happen like that. "Cary" was a girl. And she smoked one up the middle on me. For some reason, our Little League powers that be allowed females to participate. The few that did so actually weren't that bad, but still. I gave up a hit to a chick. It was at that moment that I hung up my pitching arm for good.
Earlier this week, I mentioned that there is nothing more disgusting than stepping in human shit at a bar. Well, there is nothing more humiliating than being on the receiving end of a severe ego-ectomy...by a 10 year old girl. Good God, I hate life. How have I not killed myself yet? And don't worry, this incident still gets brought up at least once a month over beers. I hate you, Damman.