Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[AugustWest]

We won one game out of eight that summer and our marketing plan was a rousing success, inasmuch as we planned to position ourselves as pale, awkward nerds who can't hit or throw but who will talk to you about bands between innings.

From a marketing perspective, losing was probably exactly the right thing to do.  How well are you going to like a bunch of guys who come around and kick your ass at softball?  It's like losing to your boss at golf. 

There are two options:

A)  Those pencil-necked geeks ain't real good ball players, but they knows their music.  I sure do like listening to Screwball and the Mayonnaise Man on my way to work in the morning;

OR

B)  Those fuck*ng cheaty assed bastards.  Spike-sliding, knuckle ball throwing, third-base stealing, Toto playing fucks!  From now on, I'm stickin' with Johnnie Thang on the big Z-103 in the mornings.

While option B is clearly better for your masculine pride, option A is probably better for the ratings.

[KeithHernandez]

I for one respect a competitive spirit in my radio announcers.

[smick]

Once upon a time, I worked for a software support outsourcer.   Someone came up with the idea of having a corporate softball team.   Realizing that we were all pencil necks with very little chance of being competitive, we signed up for the lowest ranked league in the area.

The "A" league contains gentlemen, who wear some form of baseball sock over tights.  We were in the "D" league.  Only a t-shirt with your team's name written in masking tape is required.

We started a weekly practice.   I was elected pitcher, but never quite got the hang of the underhanded, has to arc above 12 feet (that seems high.  I may be.) pitches.   

We learned a tough lesson when the first game was played.  Our co-ed team was made up of folks between 25-50 years old.   Our team had "Software" in the name.   Our opponent's team was comprised of 18 to 20 year olds.  Their team name had "Hay" in the name.

We sat at desks and ate donuts for a living.   These kids bailed hay.

It was short, bloody, and demoralizing.  Each game, the entire season, was a loss to the 15 run rule.

Somewhere along the way, a pitch was returned as a line drive right into the pitching rubber.   It popped up directly into my mouth and nose.  I couldn't ever pitch again after that.  I was assured that every last ball I threw, would in seconds be hitting me square in the face.

[Carlos del Vaca]

Do you have an enormous gut?

Eh, a bit of a gut, I wouldn't call it enormous.  I am freakin' slow like a big slow thing, though.