I really shouldn't play softball, ever.


Which is unfortunate, because I'm on three different softball teams this summer. That's a record for me, and it's likely no coincidence that it comes in the first summer after I turned thirty-five. I feel like I'm in Logan's Run; once you're too old and fat and out of shape enough to exercise any other way, they come chasing after you to fit you for a catcher's mitt and a hernia brace. It's a little scary.


(Oh, for you younger kids -- Logan's Run was one of those 'moving picture' shows we used to have before DVDs or pay per view came out. And before any of you smug young healthy bastards were born, either.


You might like it, though -- Basil Exposition was in it, and so was Farrah Fawcett.


Again, for you younger kids -- Farrah Fawcett was what passed for 'eye candy' back then, before whale tails and wardrobe malfunctions. And before internet porn. See why we old geezers are so goddamned bitter now?)


Anyway, it's not the actual softball playing that's a problem. I can hit the ball okay, and I can still make it to first base in a way that looks more like 'running' than 'a clubfooted ostrich having a heart attack'. Marginally more.


I can even flash the glove a little, for a man my age and in my less-than-mint condition. If you hit the ball right at me, that is. Smack it precisely in my direction, and I'll often make a play -- but there's no lateral motion left in these legs, apparently. If the games so far are any indication, I have the fielding range of a three-legged patio chair buried in quicksand. It's not pretty out there, people.


But that's okay. This is not the 'Spring Chicken' league, remember. Most of the guys out there -- we won't bring the girls into any conversation concerning advancing age -- are as old as I am, give or take a couple of rings on the old trunk. We're in that gray(ing) area of the world of Mansport, between sports like soccer and football and basketball on one side, and shuffleboard, gin rummy, and solving the Sunday jumble on the other. In our younger years, we played for the glory; these days, we play so we can hit the bar after the game and drink on a Tuesday night without feeling 'weird' about it. So I guess there's still some 'glory' in it, after all.


Still, I shouldn't be playing softball. Or any team game, for that matter. I shouldn't even be watching my teams play, and that's because I'm no good at cheering. I'm a pep rally's worst nightmare; a rooting train wreck just waiting to happen.


Don't misunderstand -- I want to cheer for my teammates. I try to advise and encourage and morally support them. It just never works out very well. There are basically three things working against me:

• 1. In the thick of a hotly-contested game, my mouth works much faster than my brain.


• B. I have a very smartass-centric vocabulary, with words like 'asstacular' and 'bumblepecker' in heavy rotation.


• III. In the immortal words of Homer SImpson, 'Lord help me, I'm just not that bright.'

So in a situation like, say, when our best hitter's up to bat, and the rest of my team is, quite reasonably, calling out things like:


'Base hit now, base hit!'
or

'Wait for your pitch; nice and easy now!'
or

'Just a little line drive, brother!'


How do I add my support? With this unplanned little gem:


'KNOCK HER UP THE POOPER, MAN!'


Which wasn't at all what I'd intended to say, but it got quite a look from the other team's pitcher. The other team's female pitcher, who I surmised was quite against the idea of being knocked up the pooper. And who could blame her, really?


(Not me, certainly. I would never intentionally suggest that our slugger knock up the opposing pitcher's pooper; it just slipped out that way.


I don't even think he knows the girl, frankly. And pooper knocking's hardly a proper topic of conversation for a first introduction. I read Miss Manners; I know these things.)


Sadly, that featherbrained faux pas fiasco is par for the course. My cheering starts out normal, like everyone else's... and then something happens. I get lost in the moment, forget what I'm saying, and -- just as everyone else conveniently shuts up, of course -- I blurt out some ridiculous nonsense that's neither 'rooting' nor 'rallying'; it's just retarded.


I don't discriminate, either. I've shouted horribly embarrassing non sequiturs in every conceivable game situation. I've asked our pitcher to 'send this batter back to Mrs. Butterworth', informed the infield, with men on base, that we should 'toss a log at the lead beaver', and told our relay man, with the runner at first not tagging, that there were 'no pants on the donkey'. Then there was the time, coaching third on a close play, when I yelled at our runner to:


'Slide! Slide! Like a pirate! Slide!'


To this day, I have no idea what I was trying to say. Maybe (hopefully?) I was asking him to 'hook slide'. Possibly, I was hoping he'd 'swashbuckle' into the bag -- though I'm frankly not sure I'd know swashbuckling if I saw it, nor could I say whether our runner was carrying the necessary equipment at the time. Most likely, I just wanted to hear him growl, 'Arrrrrr!' as he slid into third. At worst, that'd show some team spirit. And at best, the third baseman might think he was being boarded, and abandon ship befor the throw arrived.


That, or he'd think the guy was going to knock him up the pooper, which would probably get him the hell out of the way, too. Either way, somebody on our team was going to score that inning. Maybe my cheering suggestions aren't so bad, after all.

There are times when my lack of social grace can be a tad embarassing. Luckily, I have a wife and a few friends who've seen me occasionally act like a regular human, so my public faux pas aren't completely crippling. Just humiliating is all. Oh, goody.


My latest social gaffe -- that I know of, anyway -- came on Tuesday night. I play pool in a league on Tuesday nights, because I'm just that sort of dirty reckless heathen. I know billiards is the 'gateway game' to snooker and punting clubs and betting the farm on Nicaraguan jai alai. I still don't care. That's how I roll.


On this particular Tuesday night, I felt the call of nature and decided to take a trip to the little boys' room during one of the games. Our table was across the large room from the bathroom area, maybe eighty feet away. I was in the middle of a close game in a tight match, so the walk gave me a chance to strategize and clear my head. It was a nice added bonus to being able to play without hopping back and forth and crossing my legs during every shot. I really had to go.


As I wiggled my way to the rest room, I passed a table where two people were playing. The person not shooting was a girl I'd played a few weeks before. She's a very good player, and knows a lot of the players from leagues past and spending off-nights in hte pool hall. We hadn't talked much during our match -- crippling social deficiencies, remember -- so there was no reason to believe she'd remember or recognize me. By the time I passed by her, I forgot she was even there.


So of course, she said something to me.


(Friendly people always throw me off. I'm beginning to think I was raised by wolves. Lonely, isolationist, clumsy hermit wolves. With howl impediments and mangy coats, living in caves away from the rest of the pack.)


Specifically, what she said was a cheery, 'Hello, hello!'


Just as I passed by, deep in thought, lost in my own little world, and full of piss and vinegar. Or in this case, piss and Guinness.


It took me a step to register that she'd spoken -- and more preceisely, had spoken to me. I was past her already, but a sunny greeting from a friendly stranger requires a response, so I did my best to reply in kind. As I turned past the table, I looked back over my shoulder and said:


'Hrrrnnng!'


Or grunts to that effect. Basically, she said 'hello' and I made Wookie noises at her. And not in the good way.


Meh, what could I do; she caught me off guard. I don't expect people to actually speak to me in public. Especially people I don't know, and particularly people who obviously have normal people nearby they could be talking to. She's lucky she got a grunt; I'm sure I've failed to register unexpected salutations hundreds of times, and just kept on walking. I don't mean to be rude; I'm just an idiot.


I briefly considered whether there was any way I could fix my error. But I was now twenty feet away from the girl -- screaming 'HI!' from across the room didn't seem measurably 'better'. And walking back to explain the situation and my unfortunate pitiable condition wouldn't help much, either. She wanted a greeting, not a life story. Also, she probably wanted to not be peed on, and I couldn't guarantee that wouldn't happen if I returned to her table. So I kept on walking.


And when I was done, I walked around her table the other way, to avoid any sort of spontaneous 'fixing' I might feel compelled to try. I'd much rather just chalk up another perfectly nice person who thinks I'm a douchebag, and get back to my sad little hermit wolf cave out in the hills. It's just easier that way. Plus, the TV reception out there is phenomenal.