Cheater Cheater Pumpkin Eater

As I said before, it would be unseemly for me to leave my baseball love affair un documented. It is a classic love affair really.

Boy meats girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back, girl cheats on boy, boy takes girl back, girl takes steroids, so boy leaves girl, boy comes crawling back or some such nonsense.

I want to begin this story by saying, at some point, in all great loves, one strays. One can't get all of their needs met by just one person. It is unfair and unrealistic for a person to expect that, even from something as great as baseball.

I remember when I first decided to play the sweet game. I had been interested in baseball for a long time. It was with me for about two years, the love I mean. I had known baseball for a long time. I had been interested in it at first in the way a young man first catches the sight of a profile, or that first wiff on an intoxicating womanly scent.

I was intrigued, but my mind was elsewhere.

Then, I just couldn't ignore it any longer. The thought pervaded my mind, and I became intoxicated with the thrills of the diamond. I think it started when my parents got me the baseball encyclopedia. It was like the bible. It had the same tissue paper pages, but it was considerably larger. It had a record of every player, box scores from every playoff game. It had managers, it had records. It had everything about baseball all in one place. This of course was well before a wide eyed young senator from the carolinas would invent the internet, so you needed a large tome. I think it helped me a lot. It was so heavy, getting it out was the best work out for a young man.

This book is what truly transformed me from a boy to a man. I began doing mathematical equations in the margins, trying to figure out who was the best player. Who had the biggest averages over 162 games. I began exploring baseball's curves in detail.

The true change came when I looked over at my G.I. Joe and Star wars figures. At this point I was still playing with toys and shooting things up;but, there was a change. I created a makeshift baseball diamond on my bedroom floor, and suddenly Duke was a slugger, Tunnel Rat was a lead off amn, and Hawk became a five tooler who was getting some from Leia.

Then I realised, I could play the game myself. It would take about two years for this to actually come around. The figures had been replaced by airplane and spaceship models. My heroes became magazine cutouts of ballplayers on my wall. Posters of Bo Jackson, and playboys under my bed.

It occur ed to me that my school had a softball team. It was important for me to make the team. I tried to get my step father to help me make the team, but he only played catch with me once. After that he realised he was too drunk to do it. I had to seak out a better instructor.

I looked all around this town and all I found was Earl. Earl is not his real name. I don't remember his real name, maybe I have blocked it from my memory, either way, I wouldn't use his real name, cause this about to get nuts y'all.

So there was this guy Earl. Earl was a baseball card collector, so I was introduced to him through that. We went to a trade show together I recall, and took down a good shop as well. Anyway, I figured since the dude was in to the ball, he would help me get all shined up for try outs. He was in, since he was trying out too and thought maybe we should combine.

Seemed like a plan to me. So we started hanging out. It was maybe two months before ball tryouts and we started spring training. It worked out at first. Bating practice, fielding, throwing, strategy sessions. Dinner at his parent's place. It was smooth. Dude had a nintendo and a bunch of games. I borrowed some Zelda action, and would play Mike Tyson all the time.

One day I went over to his place. We were chillin by the nintendo and he pulled out a national geographic book while I went about the work of mashing some one's face in to pulp.

Well the round ended, and I look back and buddy's got his back to me. He's on the couch, lying there with his back to me, reading his book about African Boobies, and I see his arm gyrating. Earl was beating meat right there.

Needless to say, we started making out and it was a glorious time in my life.

Ok truth is, I yelled at Earl, his mom made us some shitty hamburger helper type lasagna and the next day I beat the shit out of him and stole about 200 bucks worth of baseball cards out of his locker.

I had to go alone for the tryouts.

I made the team....as third base coach. A slap in the face to be sure. Coach admired my heart, just not my ability.

This angered and disappointed me to no end. I was shamed and humiliated, in more ways than one by the experience, so I needed to cleanse myself.

It was much like my best girl had been spotted in the bar sucking face with a dudebro!

I had to find a ball club to play for. And I did. 200 bucks later I was a member of the North Toronto Athletics. Yessir, I bought a spot on a ball team. One problem though. The team wasn't a softball team folks. It was a fastball team. Real baseball. It was overhand pitching. Curve balls, fast balls, no crying baseball.

There was another problem for me. The team colours. You see, at the time, the Athletics of Oakland were the evil empire. They were the hated nemesis of Toronto. They were the ones who always dashed the hopes of my Blue Jays. Here I was wearing the green and yellow of the enemy.

Sure, there was some swagger behind it. After all, the Athletics hat was huge in the apparel world.

All the best dressed bangers, hoppers, corner boys, players, and pimps were wearing the gear. It was a time in fashion where Oakland was the height of fashion.

It was a time when a Raiders jacket was prime. A time when the green and yellow could get you some play with a slim shorty.

It was a time when a poser or weekend warrior would get his ass lit up and rolled if he dared to sport the colours without representing hard.

So, despite the fact that I was all hard core, it hurt me to wear the colours of the enemy, but it was still going to be awesome, I was going to play me some ball for a real team...or at least a bunch of kids pretending to be a real team.

So there I am, no depth perception boy insisting that the hot corner is the best place for me.

This was a huge mistake, and I will tell you why.

When your girl is sucking face with a dudebro, it isn't all she is doing. She is looking to step out while the stepping is good. See, first she sucks a little face, then she trips and falls and lands on a dude's package.

This is exactly what happened to me.

I would like to tell you that this is a hero piece; that, like the movies, I managed to get the game winning hit, or made that big out. This is realife and not the movies.

I foul tipped 4 balls that season. Walked several times, and struck out several more. I never got wood on the ball, not really. I stole a base or two, which was exciting for me, but I never managed to do anything worthwhile.

My arents never managed to make it to a game either. I prefer to think they didn't go because they were drunk, or because they were working, or because they didn't give a shit, but the reality is, I don't think they came because they didn't want to be embarrassed by their inept son.

Somehow, despite my poor performance, we made the playoffs that year, and because I paid my duckets, they had to let me play.

I walked the first time up, took one right in the middle of the back. I scored a run on that one at least.

I was playing third and the other team's best hitter lined one about an inch from my head. It was so fast I didn't even have a chance to react. I didn't move a muscle.

Coach put me in the outfield after that. I warned him not to. I told him it was a mistake, that I couldn't really see out there, but he felt it would be best. Here's the thing. Instead of putting me in right field, where you stick all the deadwood on your team, he put me in left field. The outfield spot that sees all the balls.

Anyway, in my final at bat I swung and missed at three straight fastballs. I just sucked, and some nice mother in the stands thought it best to inform me of just how bad I sucked.

She ripped in to me on my way back to the dugout. She hurled some nice insults at me, and suggested the coach bench me.

Had there not been a chain link fence between us, I am pretty sure the bat I tossed would have hit her in the head.

You know what she had the unmitigated gall to say at that point.

"Jesus christ, what an attitude problem on that kid. You should be locked up kid."

I wanted to say, the attitude on me? You are the one yelling at some poor 13 year old half blind kid who just wants to play the game he loves because your son is losing the game. You are the one insulting that kid and making fun of him from the stands. You are the one with the attitude issue lady, because you can't seem to figure out that your abuse is not helpful, and serves only to uset a 13 year old who has already been humiliated and shamed, and already feels like he let his team down. This is house league baseball lady, not the pros. Some kid tries hios best, and you make fun of him? Hoiw classy you cheap dime bag whore.

Instead I just said fuck you bitch.

She got off light. A year later I would be on the streets hussling. I would have done mean nasty things to her.

Anyway, the team took a vote and threatened to beat me u if I came to the end of season dinner.

I never got my pizza party. I never got my trophy for trying. I never got to finish what I started because baseball cheated on me.

I gave her everything I had, all my love and devotion, and she laughed at me like a hottie at a club who thinks she's too good for you.

I took her back though. In the end, I just love her too much.