... 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.