For a half second, all of my hopes and dreams of fatherhood flashed before my eyes.
Then I realized that I really wanted another beer.
Then I scoped out this cute blond shortstop on an adjacent field, sporting a Giants hat no less — so hot.
Finally, in a last ditch effort, I threw my glove in the dirt in hopes of corralling a softball slung at me from my flame-throwing third baseman that originally looked as if it would take my balls off and impair my ability to ever have kids. Instead, in classic Cody Ransomesque fashion — sorry fellow Frisco fans — the ball scurried out from under my glove and popped up into some dead grass, allowing an incompetent hitter to reach base safely.
“Fuck. My bad, guys,” I slurred. “Natty Light is a hell of a drink.”
For those of you who have not yet experienced the wonders of playing intramural sports a wee-bit liquored up, I feel sorry for you. Stop reading this mundane Bud Light-induced rambling and go reserve your spot for softball next quarter and ready up a couple of 30 packs.
This summer was pretty amazing. Twice a week, in the midst of a serene afternoon in the best goddamned square mile on the central coast, we elected to post up around a smorgasbord of cheap beers and impair our vision before intramural softball games.
Smart Sean, really fucking smart.
Perhaps not the brightest decision, it did, however, make for a hell of a time — I’ll give myself that much credit. Whether it was trying to run down fly balls or merely trying to make enough contact to lift the ball into the outfield, incoherence and laid back intramurals make for a good mix – especially if you’re not the most athletic dude in the world, like me. Now you have an excuse for your softball worthlessness. On a good day, you’re just struggling to even make contact with that white blurry thingy that more closely resembles a can of Budweiser — oh yeah, the ball.
The best part is the post-game party. When you loose, you have to drink away the sorrows. When you win, you celebrate your epic victory by furthering your inebriated state with consumption of additional alcoholic beverages.
But don’t let your intramural drinking debauchery be limited to just softball. Be creative; pick your poison — and your drink of choice. Lace up the basketball cleats and go get balled up by a bunch of people who are already far more superior than you on the hardwood. But hey, now you’ve got an excuse, you have two 40s of Mickeys hurting that midrange stroke and that already porous perimeter defense.
In time, young padawans, you will reach the level of sports-related intoxication that I have mastered. Last week in one of my intramural basketball games, I jacked up two easily makeable jump shots from the right baseline. Both, in deer-in-the-headlights, Sacramento Kings game-seven style, I aired both of them out. Didn’t even catch iron.
There was some strange chemical balance malfunction.
Something was wrong — very wrong. I was sober!
I was like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sans the jelly.
My intramural equilibrium was completely thrown off without a little bit of a rocking buzz going on. Before I went to try to regain my shooting touch around the perimeter at the Rec Cen over the weekend, I neglected my Kirkland sports drink, opting instead to drown myself in some Southern Comfort – since we were already on the topic of shots. Never had my shot been sweeter. I put on a shooting clinic; Peja and Dirk would have been licking their chops.
Or maybe I was just misfiring horribly. What can I say, SoCo is a hell of a drink.
Which reminds me, its 10:30 p.m., I need to polish off the rest of these Bud Lights and go to my Nexus editor intramural game to get our asses kicked.
Daily Nexus assistant opinion editor Sean Swaby would like to congratulate his fellow intramural Nexite ballers for notching their first win — as well as thank the team that forfeited several hours earlier.