After a 3-month hiatus, welcome back to Seven Days!
A few months ago, I constructed my first ever “Bucket List.” Since I’m such an avid sports fan, I made a separate list just for sporting events I hope to attend or be a part of in the coming years. This past week, I was a part of an interesting sporting feat...one that wasn’t exactly found on my original Bucket List. It was something that I had never dreamed of doing and one that I think is fairly unique - reserved for only a select few individuals. I, Kevin Vaughn, was ejected from a co-ed, slow-pitch softball game.
Let me preface this story by explaining that I gave up “competitive sports” after my freshman year of college. Now anyone that knows me fairly well, knows that I still have plenty of the competitive juices flowing when it comes to any activity - whether it’s rolling the rock at the bowling alley, shooting up a game of h-o-r-s-e, or even playing something as simple as a match of “Name that Tune” in the car. I like to win. I love the feeling of satisfaction that goes along with a job well done. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t a part of many successful teams during my childhood and teens. Or, maybe it’s because I’m a guy.
Another thing you should know about me. Thanks in large part to genetics, I started losing my hair at age 20. Now at 24, and with a cleanly shaven scalp, I’m used to the ideas of never buying shampoo again, of regularly applying sunblock, and having a stockpile of hats to wear for whatever occasion may arise. Honestly, being bald doesn’t bother me. Just like anything in life, it has its pros and cons, but it’s not something that makes me want to stay in bed every morning. Ya know?
Now at this point, you might be wondering how all of this information is going to tie into the aforementioned ejection from a community league softball game. And I’m getting there, but these details will come into play - I promise!
Last Thursday night, our team was scheduled to play at 8 p.m...the same time that Mother Nature was planning to bless Provo, Utah with a thunderstorm. For fear of ruining my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates hat, I decided to play this game commando - no hat at all for me. As I approached the field, an umpire came close to me and joked that the glare from my head would certainly cause issues with his calls. We laughed it off and soon, the game began.
Our opponents, team “Wing Nutz,” jumped out to a 6-0 lead before two of our fielders arrived and before we even took our turn at the bat. Hitting 2nd in the lineup, I dug into the batter’s box, ready to chip away at their early lead. From the opposing bench came a cry, “Hey buddy, cover that head up!” Again, I laughed off his comment and figured that a quick smile in his direction after my double would serve to put an end to that type of heckling. After all, he was probably 35 and sitting on the bench in a recreational league game. Was I really going to let his jeers affect me? Most certainly not...
The Wing Nutz again came to the plate to start the 2nd inning, which eventually featured everyone’s favorite 35 year-old benchwarmer in a pinch-hitting role. After he walked, the next batter hit a ground ball that came my way. I decided to step on 2nd base to create an out and end the inning, but not before the 35 year-old said “You’re lucky I didn’t knock you out on that play!” Again, I shook my head...Who was this guy?
After 5 innings, we were settled into a groove and held a comfortable lead. Our friend, the benchwarmer, continued with his comments, always directed at me during my at-bats or when a popup or groundball was hit in my direction. Time after time, I let it go.
In the 6th, our friend had entered the game defensively, to play 1st base. My approach in this situation was to hit the ball to right field. As the pitcher wound-up to toss the ball my way, the 35 year-old first baseman yelled, “The glare from your head is killing me!” Immediately, my competitive spirit flared up. Mid-pitch, I decided to switch my approach and swing as hard as I could and see how far the ball would go. Surely a home run from the smallest (and baldest) player on the field would send him a message and we could finish the game in peace. Well, after rounding the bases on a home run, we found out that not even that could muzzle this guy.
As we took the field for the final inning, my new found rival maintained his role as trash talker, even when he popped up to me for the 3rd and final out of the inning and the game. We had won 16-7, I had played well, and to top it off, I just caught his fly ball to end the game. How sweet a feeling! Except, my mind wasn’t thinking about the sweetness of the win or the satisfaction of a well played game. It was thinking about the 35 year-old, Wing Nutz benchwarmer. Instead of running into my dugout to celebrate with my friends, I ran across the field to our opponents’ area.
Here, in enemy territory, I found my man and confronted him. All bald jokes aside, he had broken one of the basic rules of baseball (or softball in this case) etiquette. What player that you know of yells at an opponent as they try to bat or field a ball? It’s simply not done. Tapping him on the shoulder so he would turn around, we engaged in the following conversation:
Me: “Hey man, I’d just like to know if you have a problem with me because you’ve sure been yelling at me like you do.”
35: “No, I don’t have any problems with you, except that bald head of yours really made it tough for us to play well tonight.”
Me: “I noticed that man, because the scoreboard shows that we just got done kicking your butts!”
At this point, I turned to leave the Wing Nutz dugout. I said my piece, and now that I had, I was done. The game was over, and I would never see this guy again. Or so I thought....
***Cue yelling/finger pointing/racial slurs/cursing/crying babies/***
The split second after my “butt-kicking, scoreboard” comment, I found myself outnumbered, 11-1. My team was close behind me, but I was a lone wolf, in unchartered territory. I weaved my way out of there, amid yelling and screaming and threats on my life and made my way back to the calm waters of the winning team’s dugout. As the shouting continued, I gathered my things and began to make my way to the parking lot. Before I could step out of my shoes, the umpire was chest to chest with me, hurling his right index finger towards the sky, yelling words I never thought would be directed towards me. “You’re outta here, #8!”
But the game was over! The umpire was the one that started it in the first place! I was the victim! But in reality, I was also in the wrong. Should I have gone to the Wing Nutz dugout? No. Should I have taunted my rival when he was surrounded with backup? Heck no! But I did, and in that moment with the umpire, I realized my mistake. I let my respect for the game and for myself cloud my judgement. I let my emotions get the best of me. In my mind, I was protecting my name and the game that I love. But in reality, I really embarrassed the game and myself even more than my buddy in the other uniform did.
Baseball gods, I’m sorry. Mr. Umpire, I’m sorry. 35 year-old, benchwarming trash-talker, I’ll see you in the playoffs!
