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Picked Last for Third Grade Baseball Team--Every Single Time
You know the system: two athletic “Team Captains” choose up sides to
play baseball.
Group of Third Grade Boys: Pick me first! Pick me first!
Me: Pick me before I get too old to play. Pick me before a giant meteor
crashes into the earth, ending life, and peewee baseball, as we know it.
I was verbally advanced for a third-grader, and I have the scars to prove it.
Captain One, pointing to group: Anyone but Edward.
Captain Two, pointing to group: Anyone but Edward.
Finally, there is nobody left in the picking-pit—but Edward.
The captains look at me, then each other;
Both Captains: It’s not my turn to pick; it’s your turn.
A fight begins.
I’d been through this before, so I knew the solution.
Me: Look guys; don’t fight over me. What the football teams do is share
me. I sit on the bench for the first two quarters for one team, and the last
two quarters for the other team.
Captains: What about overtime?
The captains flip a coin; I follow the loser to the bench. I don’t know why I’m
always led to the bench—I know where it is.
The game begins.
I sit on the bench alone. There are only six other players, but John Powell
plays shortstop, third base, and keeps score—while a potted palm covers
second.
A cardboard cutout of Big-Bird plays first base.
Big-Bird is really just a target.
When a runner heads to first, the pitcher can throw the ball at Big-Bird; if
he hits Big-Bird’s head, the runner is called out.
The weather finally takes Big-Bird out of the game, so I’m called up—to
pinch-target.
I’m a hit! I have a humongous head, and I’m a slow ducker. (I’m a hit, or I’m
hit?)
A happy fan catches a ball bounced from my colossus coconut.
Fan holding up the ball: Look! It’s still got some of the bigheaded kid’s
retina on the seams. What a souvenir! Thanks, Melon head!
Your welcome, I wink, happy to oblige.
The other team lodges a complaint, and I’m pulled from my position. I was
an unfair advantage to my team.
Other Team: Look at the size of that head! It’s too easy to hit. It ain’t fair; he’
s got a big-league noodle. Durn, why don’t he duck?
My Team Mates: He ducks; about two minutes after the ball hits his big ole
noggin. His reflexes are kinda funny that way.
It was no use. The potted palm moved to first, and I was placed so far
outfield that I couldn’t get the game on the radio.
My baseball statistics: Batting, 0 for the seventies—and eighties. I carried
this impressive strike-out record into the teenage dating years.
I found my niche in the ninth grade; I earned the coveted first alternate
position on the freshman girl’s sewing team.
The present, i.e. now.
Melissa: Me and the girls are going out to the ball field for an afternoon of
softball.
Me: Uh, Melissa…pick me?
Melissa: Not a chance! You hit like a….Look, I married you; I shouldn’t
have to put you on my ball team, too!!
Door slams. I ride the couch.
play baseball.
Group of Third Grade Boys: Pick me first! Pick me first!
Me: Pick me before I get too old to play. Pick me before a giant meteor
crashes into the earth, ending life, and peewee baseball, as we know it.
I was verbally advanced for a third-grader, and I have the scars to prove it.
Captain One, pointing to group: Anyone but Edward.
Captain Two, pointing to group: Anyone but Edward.
Finally, there is nobody left in the picking-pit—but Edward.
The captains look at me, then each other;
Both Captains: It’s not my turn to pick; it’s your turn.
A fight begins.
I’d been through this before, so I knew the solution.
Me: Look guys; don’t fight over me. What the football teams do is share
me. I sit on the bench for the first two quarters for one team, and the last
two quarters for the other team.
Captains: What about overtime?
The captains flip a coin; I follow the loser to the bench. I don’t know why I’m
always led to the bench—I know where it is.
The game begins.
I sit on the bench alone. There are only six other players, but John Powell
plays shortstop, third base, and keeps score—while a potted palm covers
second.
A cardboard cutout of Big-Bird plays first base.
Big-Bird is really just a target.
When a runner heads to first, the pitcher can throw the ball at Big-Bird; if
he hits Big-Bird’s head, the runner is called out.
The weather finally takes Big-Bird out of the game, so I’m called up—to
pinch-target.
I’m a hit! I have a humongous head, and I’m a slow ducker. (I’m a hit, or I’m
hit?)
A happy fan catches a ball bounced from my colossus coconut.
Fan holding up the ball: Look! It’s still got some of the bigheaded kid’s
retina on the seams. What a souvenir! Thanks, Melon head!
Your welcome, I wink, happy to oblige.
The other team lodges a complaint, and I’m pulled from my position. I was
an unfair advantage to my team.
Other Team: Look at the size of that head! It’s too easy to hit. It ain’t fair; he’
s got a big-league noodle. Durn, why don’t he duck?
My Team Mates: He ducks; about two minutes after the ball hits his big ole
noggin. His reflexes are kinda funny that way.
It was no use. The potted palm moved to first, and I was placed so far
outfield that I couldn’t get the game on the radio.
My baseball statistics: Batting, 0 for the seventies—and eighties. I carried
this impressive strike-out record into the teenage dating years.
I found my niche in the ninth grade; I earned the coveted first alternate
position on the freshman girl’s sewing team.
The present, i.e. now.
Melissa: Me and the girls are going out to the ball field for an afternoon of
softball.
Me: Uh, Melissa…pick me?
Melissa: Not a chance! You hit like a….Look, I married you; I shouldn’t
have to put you on my ball team, too!!
Door slams. I ride the couch.
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