Beisbol been belly belly bad to me

Since it is now the MLB All Star break and I haven't written about the first place(!) Nats since the home opener, I decided to take this chance to describe to you my long and arduous history with the American pastime. This will probably be a long one, so make a sandwich.

At about the time that most kids get into little league, age six, I was thrust into the exciting world of soccer. This was probably due to the fact that the DC area is a soccer hotbed (along with only Texas and California as far as I can tell) and the fact that my best friend from school was a Spanish kid named Julio. So my first sports experience was on a soccer team named the Wildcats. I think the best part about the team was our blue jerseys that I probably wore way too often.

When I was nine, I went to sleep away camp for the first time. I had never played baseball or softball, but since I followed the Orioles, I knew what I was supposed to do when I did play. It is a very simple game. You hit the ball. You throw the ball. You catch the ball. It was probably about that time when I got my first glove, a Rawlings Rickey Henderson Signature model. Back in the day, I really liked Rickey and the A's. Wasn't that A's team sweet? Rickey Henderson, Dave Henderson, McGwire, Canseco, Lansford, Weiss, Stewart, Eckersley, and those are just the ones I remember.

After a couple years, I got into a rhythm where I was playing soccer in the spring and fall and indoor soccer and basketball in the winter. I probably kept this up until middle school when I just played soccer and basketball. I never played baseball at all. Of course, at camp I played whatever sports I could. My third year at camp, we were the oldest kids at the lower camp. Due to my "flabalanche," I could hit the ball really far in softball and was a decent player in the field. The counselor who taught softball decided to put up a sheet in the dugout, tracking people's home runs throughout the summer. It was called "The Boom Time Club." I should also mention here that there was one black kid in the camp and seeing as it was a mostly Jewish camp, Winston would be my main competition for Boom Time honors. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

I don't remember how often we played softball, but it was probably once or twice a week for the four weeks of camp. By the end of camp I had 3 home runs and Winston only had 2. I was the official Boom Time leader. On the last night of camp, there was always a banquet and an awards ceremony, when the best people at each sport or activity would get the coveted Gold Feather. When it came time for the softball gold feather, I was feeling pretty good about my chances. I got even more excited when the counselor said that the person who won the gold feather would get an autographed Mike Schmidt baseball. Those of you who have followed my life can surely sense what is about to happen.

The counselor got up and went through some little speech about softball that year and then said, "The gold feather goes to...Winston." I was crushed. I didn't even care about the Schmidt baseball as much as I was pissed that I had beaten Winston at home runs and was probably just as good, if not better than him. I must have been really steamed because uncharacteristically for me, I went up to the counselor after the awards ceremony and told him that I had been the camp home run champ and I deserved the gold feather. Struggling for an excuse, he settled on a claim that 2 of my home runs had come on errors (even though they were marked as home runs on the Boom Time board). I was also pissed off that night that I had not made it into the lower camp's athletic hall of fame, despite my Boom Time championship, Boy's Leagues championship, and general athletic mediocrity that year. Looking back, that was probably my "Michael Jordan getting cut from his HS basketball team" moment that propelled me into eventual athletic dominance of the upper camp.

My next experience with softball came in 8th grade. I went to middle school and we were not allowed to try out for sports until 7th grade. Since I had little to no self esteem, I didn't think I could make any teams that year, so I did not try out. In 8th grade, I tried out for soccer. I had been playing soccer for about 7 years at that point and was a pretty damn good defender on teams that would regularly dominate our league. The soccer coach decided that the best way to conduct tryouts was to make us run around the field for 2 hours and then have a 15 minute scrimmage. Well, since I still had "junk in the trunk" at that point in my life, distance running was not exactly my strong suit. Even though I could have probably at least held my own in a real scrimmage, I was so tired by the end of the running that it was pointless. Plus, I think the coach just took the people he knew were good and the people who could run for the longest. Admittedly, I don't think I should have been on that team (a team that was eventually 2nd in the nation in high school), but the coach was damn near retarded (the team didn't even win for like 7 games, even with all that talent).

In the spring, I tried out for the softball team. Anyone who had seen me play in gym, knew I could hit. I just didn't really field all that well (see my "blubber belly" for an explanation). I don't really remember much about tryouts except that I decided for some reason to play centerfield. It may have had to do with the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. was the rage at the time. There is no way I should have played centerfield. I remember Kittichai Kongtong going out there with me and he eventually switched to pitcher because my hitting was so good that he knew I would make the team. I was probably the second best hitter on the team next to Min Woo Chun (we were ahead of the curve, with our Japanese pitcher and Korean DH). Anyway, I eventually made the team and led the team in triples (I wasn't quite fast and/or powerful enough to get homers without any fences).

In 9th grade, I knew I would not make the soccer team and was tired of people asking me if I was going to play football, so I didn't try out for anything in the fall. I also wasn't confident in my basketball abilities to try out for that team (even though I was probably better than I thought, most coaches would have looked at my body type and dismissed me immediately). In the spring, I decided that I would try out for baseball. I didn't care that I had never played the sport in my life, I was a great softball hitter, so it must translate. Plus, most of the guys who were on the softball team with me last year were not that good, so I had a decent chance. What I didn't count on were the guys who had run cross country for my middle school and played on their club baseball teams instead of playing softball last year.

When we began tryouts, I quickly sized up the competition. Others clearly knew how to play better than me, but there were few my age that could hit as well as me. I thought I had a pretty good shot at making the team. Surely, a coach would see my potential and want to "coach me up." I was smart, I could learn a position if someone just took about 15 minutes to explain things to me.

The final day of tryouts was a marathon game at another local high school. I remember that it was really cold that day. So cold, that out of our whole team (probably about 25 people trying out), only about 2 got hits the first time through the order. I was not one of them. I don't really remember exactly what my line was, but I think it was 3 for 4 with two singles and a double. The double was a "shot," the word used to describe a ball hit really hard. All the older guys on the team were congratulating me on my hit. My exploits in the field were much less memorable. I misjudged a ball in centerfield (who the hell kept letting me play center?) and failed to cut off a throw from the outfield when the coach moved me to first. Anyone who saw me play would have known that I didn't really know how to play any position.

After the game, each player would go into the athletic shed and the coach would talk to you and tell you if you made the team or not. I had no idea if I was going to make it, but I thought I had a shot. Plus, some of the older guys were telling me that I would make it, if only for the strength of my double during the game. I waited for my turn patiently on the bleachers, secretly cheering whenever someone would come out of there without a smile on their face. When it was my turn to go into the shed, the coach said, "[Catheter Man], your hitting is there. You just don't have a position. I'm sorry. You didn't make the team." I came out of the shed almost relieved, because I had been so nervous going in. When I told the older guys that I had been cut, they could not believe it. All in all, I thought I had done pretty well, this being the first time I had ever played baseball in my life. I was determined to come back the next year with a position and make the team.

By sophomore year, I missed being part of a team. Since I knew I would not make the soccer team, I decided to bite the bullet and try out for another sport I had never played in my life, football. The best part was that as long as you could make it through summer practices, you were on the team, no matter how bad you were. After surviving football season and getting into decent shape (at least by my standards), I decided the best way to make the baseball team without knowing how to really play any positions in the field is to be a pitcher. I always had a strong arm, maybe I could impress them with that.

Tryouts came around again in the spring and I came in ready to pitch. What I did not know was that by saying I was a pitcher, that implied that I actually knew how to pitch. A more appropriate designation would be to call me a "thrower." I didn't even know how to pitch out of the stretch. More importantly, I couldn't really throw strikes consistently. By the end of tryouts, it was clear that I was not a pitcher, so without a position, I still could not make the team.

Junior year, the ante was upped. I was going to try out for varsity. At this point, I knew I couldn't play baseball, but I wanted to try out anyway. If I couldn't make the team, I was at least going to have fun at tryouts. Long story short, I didn't make it.

Finally senior year, I was ready to make the team. I went to a winter baseball camp at Catholic University so that I could actually learn how to play. Incidentally, they also gave each camper a 50/50 tee shirt, which I still wear to this day and is probably the best thing that came out of going to that camp. Unfortunately, being that Washington, DC is not in a tropical climate, most of the baseball camp was conducted inside. Thus, it focused more on hitting than fielding, which is what I needed.

At tryouts, I had my usual good hitting, retarded fielding performance (I had switched back to outfield after the disastrous year trying to pitch). At the end of the tryouts, the coach came up to me and said, "[Catheter Man], if there was a spot on this team for heart, you would get it." However, there was not a spot on the team for heart. He went on to say that he could put me on the roster, but I wouldn't play and I wouldn't want to just be on there essentially out of pity. First of all, how does he know that I wouldn't play. If someone ever took the 15 minutes to tell me how to play a position, I may be useful. Secondly, if I got a hat and uniform, I'd gladly ride the bench for a season. Its just fun to be on a team. Third, by that point, I was not expecting to make the team, I just liked playing for those 2 or 3 weeks. That ended my illustrious baseball career and brings me back to my theory: teachers hate me.

Luckily, I got to experience 2 seasons of the worst high school football ever played, so don't feel too bad for me.