Kickball Chronicles: Redemption
The silence was all too familiar.
I sat there at my desk, my legs tired, my mind spent. My green uniform was soiled with splotches of brown dirt, giving it the look of army fatigues. A fitting decoration after the battle I had just fought. Leftover beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, my trademark headband only releasing a drop at a time, like a camel rationing its reserved stores of water.
The intramural kickball playoffs were now over. The screams of competition, revelry, and agony had long since died down. Almost as if they never happened. It was a sensation which I found to be, at the same time, both oddly peaceful and utterly perplexing. This evening was, after all, everything we had worked towards for the last 8 months. Ever since that fateful night last November when an errant line drive stole away the dream that every little kid with two legs and an inflated rubber ball grows up dreaming.
To be crowned champions of the kickball world.
Though I emerged from the confines of Teddy Ebersol Field in full physical form, I left pieces of myself behind — unseen mementos now forever bonded with the earth. My heart, my sweat, my left hamstring (pulled) and my soul all stayed back — I, nay, my team had left it all out on the field.
For those who don’t recall, I wrote about my kickball team once before. This was back in the good times. The times where I knew only a love and passion for a game, not an unquenchable thirst for a title that may forever elude me. The post was titled, Kickball Chronicles: The Final Chapter, a name which implied there were earlier installments of the series. There were not. But it told a tale of a scrappy intramural kickball team in South Boston, who banded together, found their team identity, made a run through the playoffs as the tournament’s last seed, entered the final inning of the championship game with a lead, then had it all ripped away on one errant line drive which deflected off of our shortstop’s chest, and allowed the tying and winning runs to score.
That was the day kickball stopped being fun. The day it ceased to be “just a game”. It couldn’t be — it was so much more than that now. It was a war to be won.
Since that fateful day, I have spent every moment of my life, every ounce of effort, every fiber of my being to get back into this tournament, to have a shot at redemption.
And yet here I sat. In that same silence I first met all those months ago.
I eventually arose, not fully sure of what was next, other than a hot shower to rinse away the layers of sweat and dirt from my wearied body. As I began to disrobe, I stopped to look in the mirror in the hopes that a handful of 45-foot sprints had somehow given me abs. They hadn’t. However, I did notice something else. (Pants were still on, get your mind out of the gutter).
My headband was still draped across my forehead, propping up hair so short that it wouldn’t move when the headband was taken off. I had grown so accustomed to its presence that I forgot it was there, almost as if it had fused to my skin and become a part of me. However, I also had forgotten which headband I was wearing (Yes, I have multiple themed headbands. Don’t tell me how to spend my money).
I stared at it for a moment, and then suddenly I began to smile. And then I began to laugh. And then, I started to cry. Because embroidered into the stretchy fabric of my headband was a single, simple message:
“Believe.”
6 Hours Earlier…
My nerves were jangled. The kickball tournament was about to begin and I was unprepared — I couldn’t think straight, my focus was drifting, and I barely had the appetite for my 3rd and 5th lunches. On top of that, we were getting a late start. My dinner was mediocre and eaten in haste, both of which were my fault because I cooked it.
The result: my teammates and I jogged our way to the field about a mile away, burning energy I didn’t have before the tournament had even started. Our first match was at 7PM, a play-in game. We were the 5th seed, the worst in the playoff field. As a result, we had to win 3 games, not 2, to claim the title and the coveted “Glass Boot.” It wouldn’t be an easy road.
It had a been an up and down season for our team, “Kicks on the Beach.” A lot of new faces on our revamped roster meant a lot of growing pains. Team chemistry took time to develop and we suffered some uncharacteristic losses. Plus, one of our founding members “Absent” Alex Ricciardelli decided the team wasn’t his top priority and missed about 75% of the season. So I didn’t know what to expect going in to the playoffs.
Having said that, our team had started to find its form towards the end of the season. We dominated our final regular season game to sneak into the playoffs and had figured out where we all fit on the field. Collectively, we were focused as we entered that first playoff game. We were confident. And as it turns out, we had reason to be.
A 20-5 mercy-rule shortened drubbing later and we found ourselves in the semifinals. Despite having to play the game on the outfield grass because of poor field quality and me immediately rubbing what I quickly found out was manure on my hands, we cruised to an easy victory in Game 1.
Then came a lull. We had about an hour and 15 between games as we geared up to face the 1-seeded, undefeated, “She’s Got the Runs.” Rather than absconding to a local watering hole for some adult beverages and potato skins, we chose to stay focused and stay united as a team. We went to a dock on the Charles River and sat there, as a team, just talking. Talking about hopes, dreams, and life. I also think I made a few dick jokes in there somewhere.
But as the sun set and we looked out over the peaceful, garbage-laden water, an ease came over us all. And despite annoying some old guy off the dock with our noise and vulgarity, we felt together for the first time in a very long time. Our batteries recharged, we were ready to face down our toughest opponent yet.
The Semis
This wasn’t going to be easy. “She’s Got the Runs” was an undefeated juggernaut who had taken pride in beating us during the regular season. On top of that they were somehow more annoying than I am out there and I wiggle devil’s horns with my fingers to indicate to the outfield when there are 2 outs. When we first played them, their third baseman argued so many nitty gritty calls that I eventually had to yell “Wahhh” in a high-pitched baby tone to shut him up. That being said, they were a tough team.
However, they hadn’t seen our full squad yet as two of our best players were missing the first time around. “Absent” Alex Ricciardelli chose a family trip to Italy over an intramural kickball game in punishing humidity like an idiot. But we had them both back and felt good about our chances. My only concern was mindset. Had the sunset bonding session relaxed us too much? Made us too complacent? I worried we needed some fuel for the fire. Thankfully, our opponent was more than happy to provide it.
They began the game by asking the ump how many girls they had to play in the field. In other words, they were trying to keep their girls on the bench, while keeping the patriarchy alive. That was all our squad of talented ladies needed to hear. What followed was a masterclass in kickball defense, led specifically by our pitcher Sam (female), and spectacular contributions from our first baseman Pauline.
We locked it the fuck down and for the first time possibly ever, pitched a shutout in intramural kickball. I can not emphasize how embarrassing it is for “She’s Got the Runs” to neither get the runs nor utilize their “she’s” very much. Perhaps a little girl power would have helped. More like “He’s Got No Runs,” AM I RIGHT?!
I was elated after the win, but knew there was still one more to go.
The Ship
The situation was eerily familiar. Last seed in the tournament, advancing past an undefeated team to make the championship game. Only this time around, we hoped to finish the job. We had to finish the job.
We had only mere minutes between games and our opponent was well-rested. The nerves were palpable. Just then, our captain Lauren stood up on the bench, making her almost equal to myself in height and delivered a rousing speech that will forever live in kickball lore.
“Let’s go guys. Championship game, let’s try to win this one.”
Adrenaline burned in my stomach and my eyes flooded with tears. She had met the moment and then some. Lauren was right up there with the great motivators in the history of sport: Vince Lombardi. Herb Brooks. Hitler. (War is the ultimate sport).
We were ready. Kicks on the Beach vs. Wipeout’s Big Red Balls for all the marbles.
The game moved quickly, with neither side willing to concede an inch. Wipeout’s BRB had some kid who looked like/may have been Jesus and is almost definitely a semi-professional Hacky Sacker. He ensured we would have to earn every hit we got. Our defense was equally up to the task, and shortly, our offense followed with some timely hits.
We entered the bottom of the 7th and final inning with a 2-run lead, the same lead we had blown in the championship game less than one year ago. A couple fielding miscues gave them two baserunners, but we were able to counter with two quick outs. Thus, the stage was set: two outs, up by two, runners on 2nd and 3rd, the championship winning run at the plate. Eerily familiar.
Though we didn’t show it outwardly, the seasoned members of our team were nervous wrecks. This is how close we had come to glory a season ago only to have it taken away by a spinning line drive. I rubbed my hands in the dirt/manure to dry off any nervous/fat guy sweat, then crouched into ready position at third. Sam, our pitcher, rolled the ball in, a quick bouncing pitch to one of their better hitters. He arched back his foot and struck the ball with purpose. It leapt off his toes and spun end over end down the line. Right towards me.
In the brief second that ball was in the air, everything flashed across my frontal lobe. The devastating loss in last year’s championship, the depression of having everything you dreamed off ripped away in an instant, the surprisingly much less impactful moment of getting laid off from my job in November. It all hit me at once. And after 8 months of fighting and clawing our way back to the top for a second chance at glory, our fate rested once again in a line drive to the left side. My hands instinctually went up and the ball approached my outstretched arms…
“Ping!”
Despite somewhat shoddy camera positioning, I can tell you that the ball hit me square in the chest and came to a screeching halt in my arms. I caught it.
Game over.
Tournament over.
Heartbreak over.
Finally, after 8 long months, Kicks on the Beach could call ourselves champions.
I threw the ball in the air and ran over to dogpile onto our pitcher before realizing I’m about a foot taller and like 150 lbs heavier than her and tackling a girl, even in celebration, is a bad look. Regardless, the party was on.
Our captain Lauren, the mighty mite who led this team to this great moment, fearing nothing but low-flying hawks who may see her as prey, lifted the Glass Boot, and with it, the burdens that we had been carrying around for the last 8 months.
All that was left was my postgame interview. As you’ll see at the end, even I struggled to find my words to sum up what this team, this journey meant to me.
The title was ours, the glory was ours, and there were no more battles left to fight. Now, all that was left was the celebration. Because we were fucking champs.
Back to the present
So there I stood, in my bathroom, the party now over and a championship boot decorating my mantle. As I looked in the mirror, irrationally pondering if a pimple on my chest was cancer, I reflected again on my headband and smiled. I smiled because I had the chance to take the field of battle with the most amazing group of guys and girls I will ever know. And I smiled because now, we could forever call ourselves champions.
I thought back to the celebration we had just had on that field no less than 2 hours ago and realized that we had been right all along. Kickball was a lot more than a game. Not only for the 3 fans who watched it, but for those of us who played in it.
I've often been asked in the week since that night, what was the best moment for me. Well, it was on that field. The sight of 14 young men and women of essentially the same backgrounds now standing as one. Young men and women willing to sacrifice so much of themselves, all for an unknown.
A lot of kickball teams nowadays assemble an elite squad of ringers. Dream teams. I always found that term ironic because now that we have dream teams, we seldom ever get the dream. But on one Tuesday, as America and patients in elevated window rooms at MGH watched, a group of remarkable young men and women gave the kickball world what it needed most. A chance, for one night, not only to dream. But a chance, once again, to believe.
(I stole the vast majority of that speech word for word from the movie Miracle)
