If I was forced to choose between being on the losing end of a humiliating defeat and being the recipient of a frontal lobe lobotomy, I would sign up for the surgery every time. I hate to lose, and I'm willing to sacrifice my body for a win.
Thankfully, I have never needed to make this stupid decision. Although the lobotomy would leave me pleasantly blissful for the rest of my life, it's probably the wrong move in the grand scheme of things.
I thought my most painful sporting losses were behind me. My previous low happened when I was on the receiving end of a perfect game during my Little League career. The pitcher was none other than Kevin Love of the NBA's Minnesota Timberwolves. Even as a child, he was an athletic freak. He was tossing hard enough to burn through the catcher's mitt. He only had one pitch the fast ball. As a 6'4" 220-pound 11 year-old, he didn't need to worry about variety. That was the last baseball game I ever played.
During the six inning game, Love had 17 strike outs. The one lucky enough to make contact was thrown out at first, by none other than Love, of course.
Did I mention that he was 4-4 with a triple and a home run? Kevin Love, I hope you read this so I can tell you how much you suck.
After years of emotional counseling and support groups, I was finally able to put the loss behind me. I understand that Love is one of the most talented professional athletes in the NBA and that 11-year-old him was still probably more athletic than 21-year-old me.
Some battles aren't meant to be won, and I accept that now. Unfortunately, another unsettling, life-changing loss happened to me this weekend. This time, however, the game took place on a softball diamond.
Everyone who has ever played intramural softball knows that it's more than a game. Bragging rights are on the line. Frats, residence floors and sports teams assemble to assert athletic dominance over the rest of the competition. Barriers that separate class and affiliation crumble winning determines greatness.
On Sunday, I received a call from a freshman friend of mine. They needed an extra player or they would have been forced to forfeit the game. I saw this as my chance to be the hero. I imaged that I could be like Benny Rodriguez in "The Sandlot" (1993) and lead a team of misfits to a heartwarming victory. I had no idea how wrong that hope would turn out to be.
All nine of us packed into one car and arrived at the field excited and confident. After the game, we left bruised and bloody. The final score: 31-6.Thankfully, the game was called after five innings due to time constraints. If we had played all seven, they might have put up 50.
You might ask, "Hollisto, how the hell did you lose that bad? I haven't heard of an ass whoopin' like that since the Navy Seals raided Bin Laden's compound."
This game, which I have declared as the beatdown of the century, actually contained the perfect ingredients for a slaughter.
First, the team we played "The Angles in the Outfield" is comprised of senior varsity athletes that have played softball together since freshman year. The talent and athleticism are exceptional, but the team's synergy is what makes it great.
Second, I was the only person on my team with any IM softball experience. This was the first game of the season, and these kids had no idea what to expect. They played with heart, but heart doesn't win championships without something to back it up.
The game deteriorated quickly. In the top of the first inning, the game was 2-0 with the bases loaded and zero outs. In similar movie fashion, the next batter hit the ball into the stratosphere. Instead of running across home plate, the runner turned around and jumped backwards onto the base while grabbing his crotch and yelling obscenities.From that moment on, I knew that it was going to be a long day.
If anyone has seen YouTube's "Marshawn Lynch (True Meaning of Determination)" video, you will understand the significance of that action. It signified a dominate performance. The Angles told us that they were going to go all out, and they backed it up with big bats and great fielding. The game disturbingly resembled the scene from "Heavy Weights" (1995) where the jocks from Camp MVP crushed the fat kids from Camp Hope in a "friendly" game of baseball.
You don't forget moments like these. They stay with you and haunt you for the rest of your life. Fortunately, I've saved enough money for a good shrink.
