We Must Protect This Haus! -or- God Doesn't Care About Softball

"The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. "

It wasn't quite the Ernest L. Thayer poem, but the outlook was most certainly not brilliant for your heroes four innings deep with the champeenship of the league at stake. The Gorilla's arch-enemies, who had handed us our lunches on a couple of occasions already this year, were leading 9-0. The best damn softball team this side of Seinfeld's Improv team had a grand total of four (4) hits by two (2) guys. The bad guys were hitting the shit out of the ball, and the only thing keeping us from run-rule territory was a few great catches by the cheapest Ice Mogul (Flemwad) known to man. We were in grave danger of getting in a massive brawl in front of our mother if that fucking guy quick-pitched us one more time. Rice (aka Tin Donkey, Hammy, NickName, Meat) pulled a thumb muscle keeping score. Doom and Gloom were our biggest fans, and they were drinking our bier.

Then something funny happened. A fat kid fell down in the parking lot. But then something else funny happened. We started to hit. Most of us knew, just knew, that we were gonna hit. But yet, with despair setting in and heads a-hangin', there was some question in the minds of even the most faithful of Gorillas. Seven (7) runs in the bottom of the 5th and eight (8) in the 6th, and when the dust settled the Gorillas were champs. The sun shone. A band played. Hearts were light. Men laughed. Children shouted.

It was pretty money.

And as we're shaking hands, these bastards did something that really pissed us off. They were nice. We hate that shit. We had just come from behind in extremely dramatic fashion, and beat their asses. And we were anything but nice whilst doing it. That's how we roll. So the last damn thing we wanted to hear from these guys is a sincere "good game." We like our enemies to be assholes. It makes us hate them, and gives us the fire we need to compete. But u know what? That nice bullshit - "way to hit the ball... great comeback...Etc." - just made us hate them even more. And the blue yummies were that much sweeter.

You probably wonder why it is we despise this "church team" so, and possibly you fear for our eternal souls. Well, we'll tell ya.

• They don't drink at softball games. We can't trust people that don't drink. Hitler didn't drink. Know why? It made him mean.
• Jesus is a shitty co-pilot. Apparently he sucks at giving directions and encourages one to stay in the fast lane driving 10 m.p.h. under the limit and repeatedly checking one's hair in the rear-view. Every time we get behind a mini-van w/ a fish on the bumper we start looking for an embankment to drive into and end the pain.
• The Bible makes no mention of softball, IU basketball, or Pardon The interruption, and makes more false promises than BK in an internet chat room. Where's Harry by Steve Stone is, for our money, a better read.
• Anyone who likes to quick pitch us when they're up 15, throw behind the slowest guy on the team when he's two (2) feet off the bag, bitch and moan about every damn ball/strike call, and then pray on the damn mound after the game is more hypocritical than a pregnant nun. God does not want you to play softball that way, pal.
• We hear they hate puppies and are happy when they die.

All that being said, we think God is kinda money. We're down with His cause. We have an understanding with Him, and He allows us to make blasphemous jokes without being stricken w/ horrible diseases (so far.) We just don't enjoy folks playing softball in His name in a manner we find less-than honorable.

But enough about that. More about us. We're champs. We showed heart. We got home in time to watch the Cubbies earn one of their 12 wins this year in the 18th inning. We're gonna be vying for our 4th straight league victory come Fall League play. Life, for a brief time, is less sucky.

In the Mudville we call home, there is joy.