Kickball Chronicles: Target on our backs

We knew everyone was against us. The opposing teams. The umpire. Hell, maybe even the entire league. It was to be expected. We were defending kickball champions — albeit in a different league with entirely different opponents, but we carried a certain ‘I’m better than you’ swagger that only champions and Prep school guys (👋) have. Bottom line: every time we stepped onto the field, we knew we had targets on our backs. And that’s just the way we liked it.

2 months earlier…

Kicks on the Beach, (my kickball team - started as Six on the Beach for volleyball as in a play on Sex on the Beach then became Kicks on the Beach because kickball except we don’t play on a beach and Kicks ruins the play on words so it’s ultimately just nonsense *gasps for air*), was riding high.

We were fresh off our first championship and glass boot, the league’s trophy. Last season, we were underdogs. Everything fell into place at the right time and we made a Cinderella run to the title as the bottom seed. This time around, everything was different. The lights were brighter at a beautiful new field in Somerville, the league was bigger (from 8-10 teams to 16), and our team got a shakeup, adding in some fresh new faces like “New Roommate” Dan Abramson, Charlotte “My Girlfriend” Bleiler, and Chad “only shows up for the finals” Higbee.

There were other valuable additions to the squad but I’m only listing three for the purposes of comedy and so my girlfriend doesn’t get mad at me for not including her. Rest assured squad, I love you all equally (except the girlfriend — I’m required to love her more. Making pumpkin soup for dinner tonight hon!).

However, one other thing had changed that added an extra layer of pressure to our title defense: the public scrutiny was amped up to 11. Now that we were champions, the fans and media expected more from us. After all, everyone is rooting for you on your way up. But once you’ve been on top of the mountain for too long, people just want to see you fall.

That knowledge sat in the back of our head for the first game of the season, and it cost us dearly. In a mistake and error-riddled game we still managed to take a narrow lead into the bottom of the 7th against a worthy opponent by the name of Recess Rejects. That all fell apart when the pressure of the moment forced multiple last inning mistakes and cost us a win on a calamitous walk-off home run. All the outside noise had gotten to us and our championship hangover reared its ugly head as we fell to 0-1 against an inferior opponent. We had no choice but to take our lumps in the press, get back in the gym, and do everything in our power to ensure one thing:

The streak

The loss set us back…temporarily. However, we knew with some fielding adjustments and getting our premier talent back from vacation, illness, and forgetting he was on the team in Chad’s case, we had the talent to compete in this new league. And boy, did we.

After losing our first game 10-9, we went on a fucking tear, beating our next 5 opponents by scores of 18-3, 23-1, 3-1, 11-1, and 14-1. We gave up 9 runs in our first match then only allowed 7 for the rest of the season. We were beating up on the team in that 23-1 game so badly that the ump actually came over and told us to take our collective foot off the gas, which we did not. Whether we were just a wagon or the level of competition in this league was so low because it was all a bunch of unathletic hipster Somerville nerds, we were clicking in a big way.

Andrew “The Mad Man” Madigan seemed to be carrying out some long held vendetta against every team we played. I hardly had to move from my position at third base because he covered roughly 100 feet around him in all directions at short. He probably had 10 home runs on the year on balls that were hit to shallow right field because he simply refused to stop running.

Charlotte was a revelation for a team desperate for middle of the order power, racking up more timely hits (kicks) and RBIs than I can count.

Katelyn, our captain Lauren’s new roommate whose last name I do not know and whose first name I’m not even sure I’m spelling correctly, joined us early in the season and proved to be a steadier second basewoman (woke) than anyone the Sox have trotted out since Pedroia.

Gaspard, an old teammate who returned to us after deciding not to pick up his player-option with Miami, was a monster in the outfield, simply refusing to let a ball get past him. He turned in our season’s best web gem when a sharp line drive ricocheted off our second baseman’s hands and seemed destined to fall in for a hit when Gaspard, a talented soccer player, lunged his foot forward and volleyed the ball up in the air before it could hit the ground. Slick Ricciardelli came off the mound to catch the ball and doubled off the runner at first for the world’s first and only 4-9-1-3 double play.

Hell even I kicked into extra hardo mode and almost ran down one of my teammates who was ahead of me on the basepath as I lumbered out a home run. She is not the first nor last woman to run away from me frightened. Charlotte even remarked, “wow you’re sneaky very fast,” stunned that a 260 lbs, unstretched mess of muscle could run with the tenacity and agility of a cheetah running down a gazelle.

Chad still had yet to show up to a single game at this point. We were all fairly sure he was dead.

Everyone on this team was firing on all cylinders, putting on a defensive and offensive masterclass every time we stepped on the field. We weren’t just beating teams, we were suffocating them — dismantling them bit by bit until they lost their will to live. They came to the field blaring music, looking to have fun and get some exercise in. We came determined to snatch their souls from their body and make them question their existence. As a result, we finished the regular season 5-1, our loss to the Recess Rejects our only blemish. That record was good for the second seed in the tournament even though we had the best run differential by a wide margin. Apparently Volo goes by strength of schedule for tiebreakers like they’re the fucking NFL. Whatever, that just meant we had to win three games instead of two to defend our crown. Bring it the fuck on.

The yoffs

Quarterfinals

We entered the playoffs cautious but confident. We knew we had the best team in this tournament and we were determined to prove it on the field. Our first game was against a team called I 🙏 we get better at kickball. As the name indicates, they possessed neither confidence nor talent in great abundance. However, we were, admittedly nervous to start the game and it showed. A few errors led to two runs for our religious opponent and we found ourselves trailing for the first time in a long while. However, cooler heads prevailed as our legs kicked into high gear and we eventually completed a respectable 14-5 victory to advance to the semifinals. Sideline reporter/teammate Alex Ricciardelli caught up with me after the win.

I was happy for the win, but personally, I had a major problem. We played that game in extremely cold temperatures, roughly 38 degrees. While attempting to leg out a double and almost trucking some random girl at second with my mass, I rounded first base hard. Too hard apparently. The resulting stretch, combined with the cold weather muscle tightness, shot through my hamstring like a hot knife and had me hobbling the rest of the game.

Now being my size and refusing to stretch before every athletic event, muscle strains are pretty common for me. Usually, I just ice it, take a hot tub, and I’m all better in a few days. However, this one was worse. I really couldn’t walk without a limp. And in this case, I did not have the luxury of time, as the semifinals and final were to be played the following day. It was up to my physical therapist girlfriend Charlotte to Miyagi my leg in time for the biggest two games of my career.

Btw, we didn’t notice this until the other day, but here’s for all the people who say I fake my injuries. I literally bleed (internally) for this team.

Semis

The semifinals saw us facing down a familiar opponent, We Are KENough. They were decidedly not KENough the week prior when we had pummeled them 14-1 in a slaughter rule-shortened game to end the regular season. We were much better than them and they knew that. However, no one is more dangerous than a team who has nothing to lose.

Fueled by a playlist that was 90% TikTok music and ABBA, this team echoed chants of “Why not us?” They weren’t afraid, and we had to be ready for them. Again, we started flat, conceding a run in the first and falling behind for the second game in a row. Their bench was starting to believe and they were rather vocal about it. Now personally, I didn’t like all that chatter. I went to the bench after that first inning and asked everyone if they wouldn’t mind shutting them up. My squad was more than happy to oblige.

We racked up something like 6 or 7 runs in the first in a dominant display of offensive firepower. The opponent didn’t have much to say after that. In fact, the only words I heard from them the rest of the game was after the 4th inning when the ump announced that the score was 10-1. One of their players walking past me off the field simply muttered, “Jesus Christ.” With a final of 14-3 we were heading to our second straight championship game. Sideline reporter/Italian Alex Ricciardelli caught up with me shortly after the win.

We were happy with our resolve and dominance, but we knew it didn’t mean anything if we didn’t win the last one. And who was there waiting for us in the championship game? The only team that got the better of us all season, The Recess Rejects.

The Ship

The season had come full circle. Our first opponent of the year would also be our last. Only this time we hoped for a better outcome. However, we were playing the semifinal and championship back to back, with maybe a 5-minute break in between. I didn’t know how we could muster up the motivation and vitriol we needed to be mentally ready for this game. Thankfully, the ump handed it to us.

When the Rejects arrived at the field for the title bout, they asked the ump, who all year had been an annoying douche, if we were a good team. He responded, “They have a few good players, but they’re not very good overall.” Last I checked, outscoring your opponents 107-24 is usually considered to be decent, borderline good, but what do I know?

That snide little comment from captain bitch boi likely would have gone unnoticed if not for the lovely Charlotte Bleiler who happened to be standing in earshot. She ran over and quickly made it known how the officials viewed our team. That was all the motivation we needed.

We scored three early runs before settling into a defensive struggle. The Rejects’ offense lulled as they employed some strange strategy where they essentially bunted every play even though you’re not allowed to. Unsurprisingly, the ump let it slide repeatedly. He did take the time to yell at Katelyn for taking a 2-step lead off first base though, so his selective enforcement was in effect. The small ball shit reached a point that I was playing essentially 5 feet from home plate as a third baseman because that’s where the ball was most likely to come.

Were they testing my bad leg because they knew I was limited movement-wise? Definitely not, but maybe. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyways. Thanks to Charlotte’s elite PT skills, a heating pad, and a dangerous amount of lidocaine, I was moving around on that leg just fine, twice refusing the ump’s patronizing offer of a pinch runner. I even managed to score a run in a full sprint before immediately one-hopping to the bench where there was no oxygen waiting for me cause the injured Mark Hatem refuses to steal any from his doctor dad like a coward. Regardless, this isn’t about me. I’m no hero, but am I? The anals of history will tell. Yes, that misspelling was deliberate.

Anyways, my Kirk Gibson-esque performance aside, the game was tight all the way through. The Rejects weren’t going down without a fight. In the latter innings, they decided to stop being pussies and kick the ball for real. Threatening with runners on, someone kicked a ball into no man’s land between second and center field. It looked to be a sure hit and likely a run or two. Until, sliding in on his knees, came Chad “only shows up for the finals” Higbee to make a spectacular catch. The man has a flair for the dramatic I’ll give him that.

A few great Chad catches later we found ourselves in the bottom of the 7th, up by 3, with 2 outs and one on. A ball was hit sharply on the ground to Andrew. He turned towards second, cocked back, and fired the ball in his weird spinning over the top discus motion that usually does more harm than good. Only this time, it was right on target. Katelyn caught it, stepped on second for the force out, and the ballgame was over. Kicks on the Beach were back-to-back champions.

There was little fanfare this time around, but merely some hugs and congratulations. We knew we were the best team and we did our job. You don’t go crazy for doing your job, but merely bask in the realization that you’re the best at what you do.

However, as Captain Lauren lifted the trophy above her head to the height of everyone else’s heads, we let out a cheer. A cheer of accomplishment. A cheer of relief in some respects. A cheer of champions. Before the celebration could formally begin, sideline reporter/extreme prescription contacts user Alex Ricciardelli caught up with me to discuss the championship win.

We tried to go to that bar and celebrate our title with the customary drink from the boot, but they were closed for a private event which appeared to be like 10 people. Either the worst startup perk of all time or a really late fantasy draft. Regardless, two crowded bars later, we ended up at a place that could accommodate our victory celebration. And from there, the party was on:

As I sat there, drinking from a boot that 11 other people had put their mouths on and eating food that would later prove disastrous for my already injured stomach, I thought about our newfound title and realized that while I was happy for this moment, the next day, the hunger for a title would just start up again. The chatter would only get louder. More people would be gunning for our heads and trying to take away our crown. And to all that, I say, good. Bring it on. I want all the smoke because I believe in this team more than anything in this world. And I know that no matter who steps onto the field across from us, Kicks on the Beach will be more than ready for the challenge. Back-to-back is a great accomplishment, but I’m far from satisfied. I can’t wait to get back out there with my brothers and sisters and fight for our third straight title. Because you know what my favorite boot is? The next one.