... and then they drank

The burnt orange Fall sun broke through the horizon as their cars left the city for the country fields of Crittendon. Seven of them had met for breakfast in the dark and, besides all the talking, silence.


All four ladies and the three bravest of the young men, probably most well endowed as well, were the first players to arrive at the fields. Picnic table secured, James, the only available umpire, let them borrow a ball. The ladies practiced their pop flies while the guys danced totally straightly and drank beers.


Slowly, as the morning sun continued to break through the clouds, the other cars and teammates began to arrive. Something inherently set our heroes apart. The newly slimmed down team of 11 might have looked odd for a typical kickball game, but the feelings were the same. They were Kick James and all the other teams were just along for the ride.


2-0 after one. Their undefeated rivals were good, but Kick James played tight... played sexy.


Highlights -


The pop fly practice paid off as Jenna called Timmy off of a high fly ball kicked to right center. Deftly securing it against her bosom... haha bosom.


Timmy's talent did not stop at being controlled by young women, in the very first inning he miraculously earned an out by spiking the ball a good four feet away from an opponent at second base. They didn't challenge, we didn't say a word.


"Brian" our brave right fielder, started the game off super lazy and let a few totally catchable foul balls go. "I got here late because I don't respect you or the team, and I hate puppies and kitten's." Brian said as the rest of the team hurled allegations of a lack of dedication/manhood in his direction. He proved his point as he kicked a stray cat in the face. The bloodlust awakened something in the young man, and out of nowhere he became a right field playing machine who was suddenly not full of hatred and instead full of ability to catch fly balls.


Pearson didn't hurt anyone except maybe himself as a high line drive shot straight over first base. Leaping through the air, Pearson managed to stop the ball, tipping it off his fingers just enough to bring it down for the catch and the out. He seemed to float back to the earth as if his feet had never actually left the ground and the 8 in vertical was just an illusion made by his shirt rising up as he stretched to reveal at least 8 inches of belly, including the button.


Shelley took a face and finger pounding (sounds dirty) as the pitcher. Stopping, stalling, or fielding at least 4 line drives. Two of them directly at her face. She almost broke a nail, but ended up breaking their hearts.


Sandy lawyered the hell out of the ump, their team, the ball, his balls, and the ball again while playing shortstop. He was like a wall of lawyering and ambition. Jurisprudence his genitals!


Katie and Ashley did not get nearly as drunk during the game as they did directly after the game. Our two most dedicated rookies each played a great game and earned their mandatory Kick James Ass tattoo they don't know they need to get yet.


Dave's beats and 80's Matrix robe made the morning and struck fear into the hearts of tens of people.


Hoffy kept reminding everyone that his job was easier and better than theirs by saying things like, "I haven't been up this early since the Carter administration," And, "My job is easier and better than yours, let's play kickball." These quotes didn't help the team at all, so it's a good thing he played a solid game.


The seventh inning came. Some impeccable kicking, base running, sliding, filthing up of the jersey, and being handsome was done and another run was scored.


Up 3-2 going into the final inning... is where our story ends.


Who gives a shit about the rest of that inning, because as soon as it was over and heart rates went down, the shotguns, and alcohol consumptions went up exponentially. We still cheered. We still hugged (but not enough), and we all went to Lansdale and drank our faces off.


Forgetting the fact that it wasn't even 9am, we blasted the music, made a fire, drank 300 beers, hula hooped, jumped rope, played catch, invented a baggo/kan-jam hybrid game and were all schnockered before 11am. There wasn't a W in the win column, but there was certainly joy in Mudville.


I'm Kick James and I had a fucking amazing season.


Post Script:


I'm Kick James will return for the Spring season. Hopefully the weather cooperates better than it did last Spring, but even if it does not, our meteoric ascension from rag tag group of misfits to a rag tag group of misfits who are fuckin great at kickball will almost certainly land us back in the playoffs looking for redemption/another excuse to be drunk before the sun is fully risen.


The end of the year banquet still needs to happen as well. Everyone is busy, but I'm thinking next Thursday or a Saturday afternoon in early November might be the way to go. No, we will not be able to accomodate everyone, which blows, but let me know your preference so we can try to make as many people happy as possible. Those of you who are not happy, I will assume are miserable people who are reading this blog out of pure coincidence, as you are obviously not a member of our kickball coalition. F you dude. Go to H and S a D and then D you F'n D nugget S of a B piece of S Aardvark!


Check out the new poll and vote for the Kick James MVP! I might not listen to you and make my own damn decision, but it's still fun to make things interactive.


Send me your pictures! If you have Google+ I hear you can share them with me easily, but if not, shoot an email.

Playoffs are the new season

Good morning Kick James!

So no, we didn't play kickball last night, but we were still awesome at being people so I thought I'd send an email out. 

Don't worry, I will include significantly less "obscure" literary references like Casey at the Freakin Bat. It's still ridiculous that some of you had never heard of that, but I digress. 

Have I ever told you the story of Siddhartha (as told by Herman Hesse)? So Siddhartha was a wealthy... just kidding, though if you have never read Siddhartha, you should, it's a fantastic quick read and the only thing Hesse did that wasn't pompous.

Anyways last night was a ton of fun. Apparently without a kickball game it takes a little while for us to get the blood flowing, but a couple pitchers of shots, Sandy wearing a suit, piles of jalepeno queso, and chick fights to the death got us reeling. If you missed the chick fights it is because they didn't exist. 

There was a lot of talk, too much if you ask me, about all the things most of our team is doing Saturday morning that isn't playing kickball. 

Good excuses for missing kickball playoffs:

None

Bad excuses for missing kickball playoffs:

- I'm Maid of Honor in my sisters wedding (priorities... seriously)

- I have to work at Magnolia's (Serve your own sandwiches Hipster)

- I have to recruit people to come to my rinky dink nationally ranked technology institution (nerd)

- I am buying a house and get a ton of free money if I take a class (responsible decision... for idiots!)

- I want to spend time with my children, and they will not be happy outside in the cold watching adults play a game at 830am (fair actually)

- I can't remember any of the other reasons right now, but they're not good.

But anyways... the times and locations aren't posted yet, but it looks like we're still playing the other Marshall Street team (still for 50 bucks) at 8:30. We have a small tight line up, which can definitely work in our favor.

Timmy, Thomas, Sandy, Brian, Dave, Pearson, Jenna, Shelley, Katie, PooperCooperScooper (she really hates her name) for sure. Hoffy is in for at least the first couple games, but if we keep winning we're going to need some help.

So here are the questions: 

1 - Do we want to stick to the small team and play it tight to win?

1.1 - Should we play it safe and recruit at least one more guy and one more girl just in casies?

       1.1-a - If we decide to do this, Dodds or Christina, can you play? Theresa, can you and Kyle drive in from Connecticut and then leave directly after the last game without talking to anyone?

2 - Nope, that's it. I am happy to play ironman kickball and I think we have a very solid crew for winning a couple games at least if not the entire damn championship, which would be awesome. 

As always, KickJames is all about fun with friends and drinking at 8am, but since we have come this far a few more wins would be nice. I will take any suggestions or pieces of information into consideration and make my completely biased decisions secretly and without taking your suggestions and information into consideration. As always, if you show up and you want to be awesome and fun and better than everyone elses friends, you will play and be Kick James.

3 - Still think we might need to go streaking. 

No Kickball In Mudville

Hubris, Unhealthy Expectations, or the Ball is Too Small: 
     A Scientific Analysis of Ernest Thayer's Casey at the Bat.


Acknowledgment: Up to four scientists were harmed in the writing of this blog. Ironically, no science was used or even considered throughout the process, unless you count Biology (if that's even a real thing), because I was breathing and alive throughout the writing process. Six in one, half dozen in the other is a phrase I have heard my entire life and only recently understood: It has nothing to do with this story.


Everyone (besides starving kids in Africa, and probably anyone under the age of 14 because they're too busy smoking rock and playing video games) knows the story of Casey at the Bat. It's an old Egyptian baseball story of a hometown team putting all their baseball related hopes and dreams in the single basket of their superstar, a guy with a girl's name, Sandy Casey.


Afterward (a different sort of acknowledgement, as in I'm writing this after initial publication by about 40 minutes). Maybe not as many people know the story as I suspected, so check it out here or listen to it in James Earl Jones' rich baritone here or watch the cartoon here:  

Down 4-2 in the ninth with two outs, two scrappy players whom the writer refers to as a "lulu" and a "cake" (obviously some overt anti-homosexual context taking place in Massachusetts at the end of the 19th Century) each had to get a miracle hit to bring Casey up to bat. They manage to do so with a single by lulu and a ripping double by the cake. The people of Mudville are going apeshit at this point, because here comes Casey, portrayed in the cartoons as a huge dude with monster calves and an awkwardly curved spine, the savior of all that is Mudville.


The crowd goes wild. Casey let's strike one go by and basically says, "no thanks". The crowd threatens to literally fucking murder the umpire, they're so mad.


Casey stands and watches strike two as the crowd burns down a school full of children and attempts to start internationally known terrorist cells hell spent on murdering the umpire, all because of an F'n baseball game.


But then Casey gets serious and there is some talk about intensity and violence and the poem ends with:

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out. 

                              (Thank you Wikipedia)

So that's the back-story and let us begin with the end. Strike three and the loss of a baseball game literally puts Mudville into a standstill. No sun, no bands, light hearts, laughter, kids yelling, or most importantly joy. No Fucking joy because of the loss of a baseball game. What about the little kid who just got a puppy? What about the awkward teenager who most likely lost his virginity beneath the bleachers as Casey struck out? What about my cousin Joy who was always really happy and grew up in Mudville in the late 1880's? No joy just seems a little excessive.


Casey - an obviously fictional iconic figure who probably went home and slit his own wrists if he even made it out of the parking lot. He definitely wouldn't have if this was the story of Carlos the heroic South American Soccer player who missed the last penalty kick and lost the world cup and was instantly torn to shreds by the bare hands of the crowd.


But back to Casey, he was obviously a douche. He let two perfectly good pitches go by and just brushed them off, despite the fact that his team was down by two runs, there were two outs, and he was being paid to swing at the fucking ball. He let them go, he lost the game, and I sort of hope his wife left him and he is the dead body the boys from Stand By Me found by the railroad tracks.


The Crowd - What dicks! They obviously take baseball pretty seriously there in Mudville. 5000 people came out to see the game. 5000 Assholes. Making fun of two gay dudes who actually did their job well (they couldn't find joy in the fact that two shitty players came through in a clutch situation). They expected one dude, whom they obviously built up enough that he thought he was a swingin big dick and didn't need to swing at two perfect pitches, to come through and save the day. Well that's what you get Mudville. That's what you get when you treat people badly and have unreal/unfair/unAmerican/undressed/unreasonable/unty expectations of someone and put too much thought and time into a silly game by writing long winded, pointless, partially underdeveloped blogs poems.


Casey at the Bat was meant to teach us that when you're too cocky you let people down, which can be true. It has taught us so much more though and they're all lessons about  not being a dick. So stop it. Stop being a dick if you are currently or have recently been a dick. Dicks.


Fun things that happened in my life recently:


Brian "Brian" being really good at kickball, making awesome catches, kicking really well and helping everyone else make Phil look bad.


Katie molesting (only partially sexually) three dudes while playing first base and diving for a third out to make a perfectly Katie inning.


All the girls I know (who played kickball with me last night) stepping up, being awesome, and being completely let down by the dudes. Shelley scored her first run, Jenna was stranded on second, Amelia sneezed and no one said Bless you.


Ashley (2) "Cooperpooper" hating her nickname and threatening intense violence on everyone. 


New Marshall Street mortal enemies in the vain of Big P's and Double D's, the Marshall sponsored team we met last night and will be destroying in the first round of playoffs next Thursday. They started out nice, became very Mudville like, and then left with their smug thumbs up their stupid faced asses. Dicks.


Singing happy birthday to an opponent as a team was very nice and fun of us and I think we can all agree that when people meet me us, they want to quit their team and become Kick James.


Too bad, because I'm Kick James and my roster is full... of awesome!

Saved by a Sasquatch

Ever since Sweeney graced the field with his presence and more importantly and significantly brought Katie in to join Kick James, he has been talking about a mythical entity known as Heather. According to young Sweens this Unicorn of a "girlfriend" was smart, attractive, could read, breathed real air, and wasn't totally fictitious or made of plastic. 

Katie referenced this golem of a girlfriend as well, but week after week she had to "work" or "hated fun" or "didn't want to get her new sneakers dirty, because they cost her a lot of money and she has OCD issues with dirt and cleanliness" or "she didn't exist." 

But just when we thought hope was lost (dun dun dun ominous music)  Down 2-1 against another mythical beast in the Fuzzy "Some Dumb Shit" Bunnies, a raucously tall, lanky, feminine spiral pink and yellow kickball team fighting to hold onto playoff hope, our very own siren stepped up to the plate. Two outs. Pressure never before seen by Kick James, especially when as she stepped up to kick she was reminded by some jerk that our entire season rested on her imaginary shoulders.

Using her fairy dust or glamour or something else I learned from watching True Blood, she made it to first. Advanced by the keen kicking of Timmy, himself an MVP contender with a game saving amazing catch in center field. An RKI possible kick by Phil, seen as some as a living legend, but seen by me as a guy named Phil I have no real connection to, sent our mythic mermaid merrily moving to home plate. The throw... it was going to be close... the ball took an awful turn in midair toward her holographic head, but superhero instincts sent her to her knees, awkwardly sort of sliding, sort of crawling onto home plate for the game tying run sending us to extra innings.

Like a laser (pew, pew, pew) in a game of Bear, Hunter, Laser,  Heather instantly existed and killed a ton of bears earning her her first run and her first I'm Kick James MVP non-existent trophy. Thank you Sweeney, thank you for surrounding yourself with females who are better than you at everything (I assume).

It wasn't a win, but it wasn't a loss. I'm Kick James and I'm still technically undefeated!

I'm Kick James (5-0-1) 2, Fluffy Stardust Bunnies ( 3-2-1) 2

Heather was obviously the MVP, or the previous 14 paragraphs would have been pointless (Much like most of this blog, am I right, am I right?)

Seagramsing turned into some sort of Hard Iced Tea'ing and I, earning the un-MVP, based not on performance or skill seeing as I didn't get on base and I had a terrible throw that could have lost us the game, but on team chanting and group thought, which is why I pretty much do anything. I don't think any of that run on sentence made any sense, but the point is I had a terrible game. But when people chant my name and pay attention to me I do what they tell me to do, because I'm 12 and dumb.

So we chugged those sweet, cold, delicious Tea's and basked in our tie. It was so cold.

Honorable mentions and brief complaints:

Amelia made up for a Pearson dropped ball by calling off the two dudes careening toward her and catching a hard kicked ball like a champ. 

Dave hilariously commented, "Amelia almost got slammed by two guys at the same time." I'm not sure if he meant it to be hilarious, but Amelia looked disappointed that the slamming didn't happen. 

Sandy got all Brookstone on us with his magic fingers in the field. Helping Timmy put an end to a crucial extra inning, proving once and for all that RIT graduates aren't total dweebs lacking social skills and athletic ability. They are total dweebs lacking social skills who happen to be very good at kickball.

Pearson had the option of being violent, but took the high road, which might have led them to winning the game, which teaches all of us the lesson that we should never take the high road and that violence helps everything in a positive way.

Shelley proved once again why Dave is always smiling by pitching a great game and nimbly handling at least 40 balls from the mound.

The real story of the night was Marcus (I just made up that name) our referee. Marcus had, shall we say, the worst night of reffing kickball this side of the Nile.

At least 5 blown calls including calling Brian "Brian" out after a sweet slide into third base, despite the fact that his stomach was on the base when the ball hit him. That led to a lost foot race challenge by Timmy and Sandy who really had no chance because those dudes were freaky fast. Jim's energy and exuberance wanted in on the race, but maybe next time. I am just now making the decision that we need to go back to our roots as a boozing team, no more races that don't involve beer. Win or lose, we should be drinking, not running. Thus spoke Zarathustra!

It probably didn't help that after the 3rd terrible call we were all collectively mean to him, but when an umpire actually says in the 8th inning, "my back was turned, I wasn't paying attention" and still gives the guy the base, you know something is wrong.

Ties are supposed to go to the runner, but according to Marcus they go to Fluffy Stardust Bunnies... but I digress. We're still undefeated and we have clinched a spot in the playoffs. 

Marshall Street was a ton of fun. Our biggest group showed up. 17 of us all together which led to a ton of tots and even more summer camp games.

Happy birthday to Don our fearless bartender who gave us a round of delicious free shots. There was a lot of chanting, a lot of toasting, a lot of interrupting the toasting, not enough hugging, but a significant amount of Bear, Laser, Hunter... which we should play constantly now.

Next week we start at 6pm and will need to bring our A game as we trade Bunnies for Kitten's and I would really like to keep our confidence up as we move into playoffs! 

So much fun, so much Kick James, so many people on our damn team.

Love them all!

Four Days and 20 Hours ago...

The Proceeding quote and following stories have been fact checked and unanimously approved by the American Institute of National Facts and Made Up Quotes for the Sake of Kickball Blogs  (The AINFMUQSKB for short).

Our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Genny, and dedicated to the proposition that not all men are created to play kickball.

We were engaged in a great civil union war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure a 5-1 lead. We were met on a great battle-field of that war. We had come to dedicate a portion of that field 5, as a final resting place for those who gave their lives that this nation might remain undefeated. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

We should kick the shit out of everyone who comes near us because we are Kick James and F them in their stupid A's.

- Abraham Lincoln, 1492


We did it again! It wasn't pretty and I died a little inside (from watching from the sidelines (my old man back/old kickball injuries/vaginesque pain threshold) and from it being so close that my heart stopped working normally).

Final Score:

I'm Undefeated Kick James (5-0) - 5, Kick in a Box (1-4) 4

They were by far the toughest 1-4 team I've ever seen. We also played as sloppily as the ground was muddy and Phil's shirt was streakily, and Brian's mouth was shot gunningly.

MVPs:

Hoffy joined us once again so we had the duel MVP's and a Seagramsing that almost left each of our MVP's in the hospital...

Katie (almost hospitalized for alcohol poisoning and smiling too much).
Pearson (almost hospitalized for Seagrams induced erection poisoning. That thing was raging and glowing pink.)

Katie earned her bright pink mouth enema (gross) by getting super drunk, pitching for the first time, getting an RKI, and catching the game winning (questionable, but it's been so long, most of you won't remember what happened or weren't there at all) out.

Pearson earned his MVP Seagramsing by being necessarily violent. Particularly when it came to Sandy who ran into him at full speed and simply bounced off our violent first basemen. Pearson's belly wasn't the only inducer of hate crimes (bellies hat Sandy's... it's a fact.... just watch Grease, it's all over the bathroom walls) but his knees and elbows also hate whiney little bitches (less of a hate crime, more completely appropriate). As a particularly scrawny Kick in a Boxer sprinted toward first, Pearson leapt through the air to catch the ball tagging the oncoming runner with both the soft, bouncy rubby ball and the significantly less soft and bouncy skin and bone of his knee's and elbow.

The play resulted in a crucial out and an even more crucial black eye. Pretty sure the guy would have cried if we weren't there. He also made me waste the ice pack from the first aid kit because he was "too cool" to stop swelling. To which I replied, the ice pack is what's too cool you son of a bitch!

Honorable mentions and the crap I'm going to talk about Brian:

Phil almost pulled out the MVP by being a sliding and messy machine. Really giving it (as in the portions of the ground he humped) 110 percent.

Shelley and Ashley (1) rounded out the ladies for the day (yes, only three ladies). That means they each kicked a ton and played the field every time, rotating between the 3 positions and impressing anyone and everyone who matters (me).

Sandy tried to take over Pearson's enforcing job by blatantly tripping a guy who was running to third, but ended up hurting himself in the process. The guy went flying and was also probably injured, but he wasn't a little bitch like the first guy (the first guy probably tried to bunt too... little bunt).

Sandy also tried to harm one of their players by aiming his throw precisely under their runners feet as he ran to touch home. Despite the fact that the guy was totally out, Kick in a Box or I'm Kick James, I really don't remember, called for a shotgun challenge...

Which brings us to "Brian"

"1 - 2 - 3 - Go" The supervising ump called out like a shotgun, signifying the start to the shotgun challenge like a shotgun of a challenge and call out. (made no sense).

Brian was fast. He wanted it... he felt good... he looked okay... his mouth and throat had recently gotten a lot of exercise and were significantly stretched out. (think about it. Gross.)

Done! Boom! Zap! Bamphf! The can, as directed, enters the waiting umpiric hand. Foam. Beer. Ass if you will.Drizzles around the umpires chubby (I don't remember) fingers. 30 to 45 seconds later his competitor finishes his beer clean and Brian loses... tragically.

But everyone has a tough time every once in a while. Shotgun challenge 2! Epically called by whichever team didn't call the first challenge in an equally heroic/questionable/outrageous/close enough to call a challenge play at third base. Maybe.

"Uno. Dos. Tres. Vamanos!" The umpire called. Brian knew he had him this time. All he had to do was finish his beer instead of leaving enough ass to satisfy Kanye in the can. He had beaten his opponent by such a significant amount of time during the first challenge it wouldn't be a problem. Just finish your beer and this half assed pansy goes down.

Done! Boom! Shazaam! Leprosy! Vandalism! Lohan! Even faster than the first time and the can, as directed, enters the umpires skeletal and anemic looking fingers (like I said, I don't remember a lot that happened). Foam. Beer. Trades his ass for a white girl. Four to eight minutes later his opponent finishes, triumphantly.

Brian "Brian" Lose-ner 0, the Universe and a little bitch of a terrible shotgunner 2.

The team started feeling it and it was about then that Kick in a Box started their comeback. Hearts beat faster. Katie giggled more. PJ wore his cleats and talked about maybe playing the field sometime. Sweeney had hair. Everyone had a belly button and enough will to hold onto the victory.

Kick James remains undefeated going into week 6!

The preceding events happened like 5 days ago and the author of this blog can not be held responsible for not knowing where his kickball notebook is at the moment or remembering the details clearly. He wasn't playing last week (which he obviously should have been, it would have been like 6-3 if he had been) so he wasn't really paying attention to anything other than Jesse hanging out in the outfield watching the other team, "I'm trying to make them think I'm not paying attention so they kick it to me." (Sure Jesse), and Brian do terrible at everything. 

Please comment on this blog to clarify misguided details or add stories of your own. Feel free to enter a reminding topic and I will blabber about it for a while.

Epilogue:

Dear Brian-
Even though you almost lost the game for us last week, I hope you know we all, as an organization, value you as a member of this team and society in general. Not many of us have the gall or the bladders to step up week by week to take down 12 ounces of glory in less than five seconds. A win is a win and Kick James would rather have you happily on the team and enjoying your heart out than be offended by the ridiculously hurtful things I wrote about you this week. They might be totally true, but in your heart of hearts you know there was no malice in the empty adjectives. A little contempt, some bloating, but no malice. I, as the voice of this blog, would just like you to know that you've got a smile that is seems to me, reminds me of childhood (awkward space) memories, where everything is as fresh as a bright blue sky. Now and then when I see your face it takes me away to that special place and if I stare to long, I'll probably break down and cry.
Thank you Brian.
Thank you for all you do for Kick James, and thank you for being such a sweet man child.
Love,
Thomas

I'm Kick James and I want to go to the playoffs undefeated... how about you?