Gay kickball is a thing. Like a really big thing. While a slim majority of gay kickballers are dedicated to actually "playing" kickball, most of us are there for the social aspect of it. To summarize what this looks like on a Sunday:
Everyone on the kickball team attends a brunch.
People pack a cooler of drinks to bring to the field.
Your team plays a game (which is roughly 35 mins long).
Your team goes to the bar for cheap beers.
The ratio of socializing to playtime is roughly 10000:1. In one game we had a short delay to start the game and the entire playtime was around 25 mins, which moved the ratio to 10015:1. (Another reason for the shortened time may have us being absolutely slaughtered and getting a mercy rule instated...maybe.)
Over the course of the last couple of seasons, I've learned a couple of things that probably have no value to anyone else, but I feel are at least interesting. So, thank you gay kickball for the following life lessons.
I'm old now. I mean, I don't feel old, but at a party last season 2 things of import happened:
One of the younger players didn't know who Savage Garden is. BLASPHEMOUS.
Someone found out I was 37 and goes "Oh, you don't look that old." I was unsure if meant "You don't look a day over 36 and a half."
Also #3: Shin splints. Now after a game, I have pain in my shins. What is that?
I have enjoyed becoming an elder statesman in a lot of ways, though. Like, I just like don't care about anything. No one is expecting the nearly-40-married-gay to be cool, so I just show up and meet the 0 expectations set for me. I can neither impress nor disappoint; it's like visiting my parents.
I have 0 competitive bones left in my body. I used to get very competitive. VERY. When I was young, I was kind of a psychopath. I would get very aggressive and try cheating to win. I don't know what's happened in the intervening 25 years, but I have developed a Pollyanna "everybody-is-a-winner!" attitude.
I'm the pitcher on our kickball team, so I do get slightly competitive during plays (like yell where to throw balls and stuff), but I don't really care beyond the 10 seconds of the play occurring. If someone throws it the wrong way, I will shrug and move on. What happened to psycho Tedd? I can't say I miss him, but I sometimes wouldn't mind that little extra motivation.
Kickball is very confusing. One of the guys on our team is new to kickball/baseball rules, so I was explaining things to him. We went over force outs, tagging up, and leading off. Literally, 5 minutes later, I was coaching on first base, and he got to first. There were 2 outs, so I go "just run on anything."
And he goes, "But what if it's a popup? I should tag up, right?"
And that's when I realized that there are a lot of rules in this game and it's very complicated.
"Eh," I said. "Just run. Since there are 2 outs, you’ve got nothing to lose."
The poor guy looked very confused, and we didn't really have enough time to go over what the rule is, so I just yelled "RUN!" as soon as the kick went up. Not the best coaching, but we got things done.
Old trauma pays off. When I was young, I played baseball. To be honest, I don't know why. I never liked baseball. I hated watching it. I didn't like playing it. At first, it was just because all my friends did it. My best buddy's dad coached, so we all kind of got sucked into little league.
Then at 10, little league was over and you could join the "traveling team." Oof. I played one season and that's it. There was so much yelling. A lot of dads didn't have their younger, psycho selves displaced, so they were old and psycho and loved yelling at little kids playing a dumb, overcomplicated game.
The only thing I was good at was bunting (yes, I feel like there is nothing more homosexual than that). A couple of games, I was one of the only ones to get on base because of my mad bunting skills.
Anyway, I got yelled at a lot and wasn't good. I got stomach cramps and pains before we'd play every game. It was great.
But, I can say that it was all worth it because as an old gay man, I understand all the rules of kickball. All of them! And my bunting prowess let everyone know that I was, in fact, a future Homosexual of America.
The End.
So that's it. My inner journey of self-discovery is paved with kickballs, bunts, and crushed White Claw cans. In our last game as I sweated on the pitcher's mound and felt my shins pounding with pain, I thought that this may be my last season. I have reached kickball self-actualization. But we'll see what the rest of the season brings. I may have to stay on the team to educate the new children on the joys of Savage Garden. My 0 competitiveness doesn't care if they know any of the rules of kickball, but I'll be damned if they don't appreciate the lyrical brilliance of the phrase “Chicka-cherry-cola.”