catfish 38

 When I was writing that thing about large groups of people of the same sex not being a good thing, I got to thinking about my experience with women.  Not the kind of experience which would make for a short post indeed, but of being in groups where I am the only man.  When I went to edukashon skol I was the only male in a group of seventeen, and not that watercoloring isn't very manly, but in classes and various doings I am often the only man.  

In such groups it is common for there to be a conversational black hole, a topic of such consuming interest that once it is brought up the conversation can never return to other subjects.  With women I would have thought it would be clothes, but actually it was food, cooking it, eating it, contemplating it, it is the universal language of the fairer sex.

Sports of course is the universal language of men.  Two guys shipwrecked on a desert island with nothing in common will perk up when one of them mentions the 84 Bears say.  Even if the other guy knows nothing about that team, he will not say so, lest he be thought less of a man, but will spill some platitudes, which are legion in the field of sports, and try to steer the conversation to the Cleveland Indians of 1987.

As I said with the Hoosier hurricanes we went to Wrigley to walk around and the kids to clean out the sports stores and at Comiskey we want to a game.  And I was sitting there with my beer in my hand and my Cub hat on my head, but being pleasant to the Sox fans as they were to me, and you know there is something about being out to the old ball park.  The fans mostly, some yelling and screaming, some staring at their phones, but all under god's blue sky watching the players go through the arcane motions.  Because you know, football and basketball are pretty simple, this team wants to go this way, the other that way, this team wants to put it in this basket, the other in the other.  

But baseball, three strikes and you're out. Unless it's a foul ball, and then you can foul off balls for eternity, unless you are bunting than a foul after two strikes is an out, unless the catcher drops the ball, then you can run for first.  If you get four balls, you can walk to first base, or if you hit the ball in fair territory than you can run to the base and if you get there before the ball the ball gets into the first baseman's hand you can stay there, unless the ball is caught on the fly.

I remember as a young kid, I was a rabid fan but when Dad took me to my first game I really didn't know how it worked.  I decided that I would watch just one guy and see what he did, and I picked a guy in the outfield and he didn't do anything at all for an hour, but still I was all excited.  It was baseball after all.

So that's what I was thinking sitting in the stands watching these two little kids so excited about the game even if half the time they were hitting each other or running off to get a hot dog or some pennant or whatever, they were loving baseball.

And as long as the kids of America are watching this stupid arcane game with that excitement in their eyes, the indomitable spirit of America will live on.  

Or maybe not, who knows?

But speaking of baseball

So everything was running pretty smoothly on the Catfish line.  And I wasn’t that much into that whole softball thing but it looked like we were going to win the Tuesday night championship, and that would be cool enough.

 But then the Tuesday night game got rained out, no big deal, we would just beat them on the rescheduled game, but then it turned out that the game would be on Sunday night which didn’t seem like a big deal either, except when we got out to the ballfield, Dan was looking glum.  What was that all about, and I asked him.

 “You see Tinkers and Evers?” he asked, and now that he mentioned it they weren’t there which was a little peculiar since they were usually the first guys to show up on game day.

 “I guess not, where are they?”

 “They’re not here, that’s where they are.”

 “How come?”

 “Because it’s Sunday.”

 “So?”

 “So they’re Mormons, you idiot.”

 “Morons?”

 “Not morons, you moron, Mormons.  They can’t play on the fucking Sabbath.”

 “Sabbath?”

 “The Sabbath, Sunday, the day God rested, the day we should all be resting, and not racing in for those slow rollers, or jumping up for those line drives just a leap away, or smacking the beJesus out of the ball, the day we should be huddled in our stupid churches giving praise to the almighty for Chrissake, and that’s where they are, and that’s why they’re not here.”

 “Jesus.”

 He’s not here either, it’s just our pansy ass hitters, and our lead gloved second string infield, and God help us.”

 “You think He might?”

 “No, because He’s sitting in that church, listening to those sweet fucking Mormon songs.”