Before Hurricane Bing Bong hit Philadelphia this week and flooded baseball diamonds all over the area, co-ed softball liggs were prepping for opening day. Lucky for you, and the fact that you have NO IDEA where your cleats are, you've got another week to get ready before pulling every muscle in your dumb, fat body.
First things first, you need to find your glove. It could be in your trunk, it could be in your closet, it could literally be in your goddamn refrigerator. Seriously, when are you gonna clean that thing out? You have, no lie, probably 13 bottles of bleu cheese dressing jammed up in there. Just make sure that before next week's game, you give yourself an extra 30 to 4,000 minutes in the morning to find that jawn. You should also probably stretch before you go to work, because there's no way you're gonna get down and do butterflies in the wet, glass-covered grass. Take it from me, there is nothing worse than playing right field with a dripping wet ass. That comes from experience. I've had a dripping wet ass every day for the last 30 years of my life. I do however know where my baseball glove is... that's not true. That is simply not true.
Next, you need to play a new position. No more of this shortstop nonsense. Nobody's impressed by a guy who stops grounders with his eyeball. Have you seen some of these local infields? They're like a whack-a-mole board. I once tried to turn a double play at a middle school in Roxborough and got my foot stuck in a goddamn sink hole. During the 4th inning, Elmer Fudd stuck his big, bald head out and asked if I'd seen any wabbits. OMG that was the stupidest joke I've ever written. JK I kinda liked it!
Chicks past the age of 24 don't care how much range you have going to your left. That's high school stuff. Now they just want a dude who wears age-appropriate clothing and is not still on his parents' T-Mobile plan. That's why I play left field. By far the laziest/dopest position in the game.
No one bothers you in left. You just stand out there with your hat cocked to the side, feeling the breeze on your neck while skin cancer grows on top of your ears. And there's no better place to patrol left field than the Belmont Plateau in Fairmount Park. It's an incredible atmosphere at the Plat: marijuana smoke wafting in the air, stray dogs diggin' into dumpsters, dudes riding four-wheelers who are probably no older than 16 months old. My dream in life is to be just chillin' out in left, dancing to the beats from the parking lot, and then catch a fly ball whilst dancing. Like, not even missing a step, just shimmying up to the ball and catching it like a true asshole. My other dream in life is to go to a fraternity party and have someone be like, "Yo, the DJ didn't show up! Are there any turntablists in the house?!" And then I lower my sunglasses and whip off my belt and say, "Right here, Rico," and then spend the rest of the night blowing people's balls off by doing that lean to the side/behind the back record scratch move while all the honeys chant, "Evvvvvvvsssttteerrrrrrr!!! Evvvvvvsssttteerrrr!!!" My third dream in life is to eat a tuna melt without filling my pants with shit.
But enough about me, you're gonna do most of your damage AT THE PLATE, so you need to get one of those bonkers ceramic bats. I don't even know if that's what they're called, "ceramic bats," I just mean the ones that are white, and super light and make a popping noise when you connect. I have never seen a ball go further than when someone uses one of those bats. It's unfair. It's totally unfair. I'm sitting here twirling around an Easton 32/28, while other dudes are jackin' fools with a piece of fine handcrafted pottery.
Lastly, let's talk about those sweatpants. If you wanna wear 'em, that's fine, go for it. I fully support you wanting to show off your dork in any and all social environments. Growing up, no one ever wanted to show off their dorks. But once you turn 30, and fully recognize that women like to be told what to do in the bedroom, pressing your dork against the front of your pants becomes a pre-requisite. I'm not sure what it's a pre-requisite for, but it's definitely a pre-requisite. Regardless, when you wear sweatpants you feel more inclined to slide into home plate. And that's just wrong. Let me tell you something. Let me tell you something right now. Don't ever, ever, ever slide into the rocky dirt by home plate. It's not worth it. Nothing is worth that. Some of the most disgusting, puss cover wounds have been created by idiots who tried to dip under a catcher's tag. No one cares if you win the stupid game for your stupid team. And no one's gonna help you dress that wound the next day. Or next week. Your leg might be scarred 4 LYFE. My Uncle Ivan still walks with a limp because he tried to stretch a double into a triple. Also he has chronic hemorrhoids.
Play ball, everybody.
Doesn't matter to me. I'm going to Dick's to buy new sweatpants.
Follow The Evster @TVMWW.
[nbcsports_video src=//www.youtube.com/embed/eZCtWCzgWwg width=620 height=349]