Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

The final water droplets fall from a freshly used shower head, cascading into the drain to produce a steady metallic clang.

It’s the only sound in an otherwise dark and silent apartment.

The silence is an eerie one. Not a frightening silence of something evil to come. It’s the deafaning silence of something that has long since gone.

The kind of silence that hangs in the air, thick, choking you with nothingness.

It’s like the silence between a faltering couple whose relationship now exists in name only. They’ve both said all there is to say. Now all that’s left is the sad, resigned silence of former lovers who don’t even care enough to fight anymore.

It’s that bizarre, uncomfortable silence that occurs when you find out that someone you don’t personally know, but is like friends with some of your friends, just died, and you’re not really sure what emotions you’re supposed to feel so you kind of just stand there half-shocked.

It’s the silence of loss.

Ping. Ping.

The water continues to fall like the final droplets of urine that only emerge once you put your junk back into your pants. Each ring subtly mocks you, daring you to get up and turn the shower handle two inches to the right, or put in a work order for a leaky faucet repair if it turns out to be a plumbing thing.

Part of you doesn’t want it to stop. Part of you feels like it’s something you’re meant to hear. A permanent stamp on your brain, designed to bring you back to this moment, to this feeling you’re experiencing right now. And a painful reminder to never feel it again.

I’m talking of course, about the hollow, smothering silence that occurs when you lose an intramural kickball championship.

You’re likely reading this on Wednesday the 23rd. But I’m writing it on Wednesday the 16th, mere moments after the kickball playoffs came to an end. Actually technically it’s Thursday morning now — 12:12 AM as of this writing. I’m lying here, shirtless in bed, (sup ladies, you like rampant chest hair and heavily concentrated body fat?), desperately trying to capture this moment in words before it fades away into the night, usurped by the pure panic that accompanies the night terrors I’m sure to have momentarily. Why? Because I want this blog to be real. A raw look into the psyche of an athlete who just lost everything. So with that said, let me paint the present scene for you.

To my left, crumpled in a pile on the floor of my room, sits my hot pink kickball jersey (I wasn’t in charge of uniforms). Its vibrancy is diminished by the brown smears of dirt and, in all likelihood, goose shit, from the field of battle I just stepped off of, maybe for the final time. It bears the same stain that my hands did only minutes before. The stains are all that’s left of the war my team and I had just fought for 3 hours in the dark Southie night.

Just moments ago, I stood in the shower, sullen, watching the dirt and sweat of competition rinse off my body. And as it cascaded down the drain, along with the contemplative shower piss I was taking at the time, a harsh reality dawned on me. This shower could never fully cleanse me. Sure, I rid my body of all its grime. But there’s one stench that even Dove deep moisture cleansing body wash can’t reach.

Side note: this blog doesn’t make any money (yet), so I had to take on some corporate sponsors. I apologize for the inconvenience. Really throws off the gravitas I’m trying to build here. But a contract is a contract. Anyways, you can find the full range of Dove bath & body products at a CVS or Walgreens near you. Dove: The body wash you use because your mom used to buy it for you.

Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh yeah, the stench. It’s a stench so powerful, so pervasive, that no amount of scrubbing could ever wash it away.

The stench of defeat.

6 Hours Earlier…

This was it. After a season of ups, downs, and sidewayses, Kicks on the Beach found ourselves in the playoffs. Only 6 teams made the postseason, so it was a nice accomplishment. Or maybe it wasn’t. Idk how many teams are actually in this league. Regardless, we had our sights set on a larger prize than a mere participation trophy. We weren’t here for a good time. We were here to win. With the Gay Agenda (again, they named themselves don’t cancel me) and Kickelob Ultra as the undisputed 1 and 2 seeds. We found ourselves facing a gauntlet to get to the finals.

First up were the Werewolves. In addition to being the least creatively named team in the league, they were also one of our biggest rivals. They took us down in our lone regular season meeting and seemed to have a good time doing it. This is a team that likes to take massive leads off the base (illegal — we play by little league rules) and talk trash. In was honestly hard to tell which they liked better: running or running their mouths.

Also in our first matchup one of their guys said “woah you’re a big boy” as I was sprinting to second. So needless to say I had a personal agenda here as well. Sideline correspondent/our starting pitcher Alex “Slick” Ricciardelli caught up with me before the game:

Had to go with the red bandana headband for the yoffs. Shoutout Welles Crowther. Anyways, the Werewolves bested us in the regular season by playing some bullshit small ball and catching literally everything.

So we decided to beat them at their own game…

What followed was an evisceration. We absolutely smoked them, putting up double-digit runs and playing flawless defense, while they spent the majority of the game making fun of us from their bench.

Some good their shit talking did them.

Speak softly and carry a big stick. Teddy Roosevelt said that in what was almost certainly a thinly veiled reference to his monster lap hog. Well we kept quiet and did our talking on the score board.

As we shook hands following the win, one member of their team said simply: “Beat the red team.” The red team, our semifinal opponent, was none other than the Gay Agenda.

The Semis

We had a half hour between games as the other quarterfinals match took place. We retreated to the warmth of a teammate’s car, bumping T Swift and relishing in our win. Me? I sat shotgun in silent contemplation. My silence was due in large part to my conflicted feelings. I was happy with the win, but knew the task ahead of us was monumental. How could we beat a team that was both undefeated AND brought their own club-grade speaker to the game? My silence was also due in small part to me watching the MACtion games I had money on. All of my bets lost.

Soon my reflection was interrupted by the realization that the previous game was ending. It was time to take on the Gay Agenda. Sideline reporter/cheese afficiando Alex Ricciardelli got my thoughts just moments before the game with his upgraded microphone, a bag of pretzels:

We were not standing under the lights for this interview.

The nerves were palpable as we came up to bat to lead off the game. After all, this was the Gay Agenda (they named themselves and are predominantly gay, I’m not saying it again, don’t cancel me). They hadn’t lost all season. We knew we had to punch them in the mouth (not in a literal, homophobic sense. Like metaphorically on the scoreboard).

We did just that, putting up several runs in the top half of the first. We were excited, confident even. But we were humbled quickly.

The Agenda responded with a 6-spot in the first, effectively stunning us before we were able to finally stop the bleeding. But after the initial shock wore off, I regrouped our squad on the sideline before our next at-bats.

“We got this guys. We expected them to come out hot. Now we respond. Our game to win.” I said with very little confidence.

But this team, unrattle-able as we are, did respond. We put our foot back on the gas and kept scoring. After 4 or 5 innings, we continued getting runs across home, while they struggled to find any success offensively. Our defense locked down as we could feel the momentum shifting our way. And the Agenda did what every desperate team does when they feel an undefeated season slipping away: they tried to argue with volunteer intramural umpires.

Alas, their efforts were in vain. A shallow popup ended the 7th inning, the game, and their season. After a moment, it hit me. We did it. It was over. We had finally defeated the Gay Agenda (the team, not the social justice movement, stop trying to cancel me). From my position at second base (the actual base, not fondling someone, stop trying to cancel me), I pumped my fist emphatically and held up one finger indicating we had one game to go until glory. The championship.

The Ship

We again retreated to the safety of our car before heading back to the field ten minutes early to scout our final opponent. It was a team we hadn’t played before: Kickelob Ultra.

They were good. Very good. Not as technically sound as the Gay Agenda, but with much more firepower. They had 3 aggressively tall guys who could kick the ball a mile, and one of those girls that you know played on the boy’s baseball team until she was forced to stop in high school.

It would be a tall task to beat them and claim the coveted Glass Boot. Sideline reporter and glasses wearer Alex Ricciardelli caught up with me before the game, now using a half-peeled convenience store banana as a microphone:

The game got off to a rocky start. Nerves were visible across the board as we struggled to put runs on the board and made at least 8 fielding errors. Going into the 5th, we found ourselves down.

But the comeback kids were determined to live up to the name that no one has called us until just now. A 2-out rally late in the game put us ahead 2 runs, a lead we held going into the bottom of the 7th and final inning.

This was it. Everything we had worked for and somehow gotten actually injured for was within reach. We just needed 3 more outs. 3 more outs until we could drink from the glass boot. Three more outs to glory.

We got 1 out no problem. We conceded a run to get the 2nd out. But they had the bases loaded.

2 outs, bases dicked, 1-run game. This was kickball. This was what you play for. This is what you dream about as a kid.

Slick rolled in the pitch. Bang! A tailing line drive rocketed towards short. Our shortstop ranged to his right, but the spin on the ball changed its trajectory at the last moment. It hit off his chest then hand with a dull, resounding thud. Nothing he could do about it. Two runs scored. Game over. We lost.

I fell to my knees and put my head in my hands. Our right fielder patted me on the back assuring me it was alright.

But it wasn’t alright. It never would be again.

The loss was no one’s fault, I want to make that absolutely clear. We made roughly 15 errors in that final game. I accounted for at least two of them. It was our game to win, but we managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. That’s kickball. Sometimes the ball doesn’t bounce your way.

As the old saying goes, you win as a team and lose as a team. We did just that. Even in defeat, I told my squad how proud I was of every single one of them. Because they went out and competed their assess off. And that’s all I can ask of anyone who steps onto the field of battle with me. I was gutted, but was also so unbelievably grateful for this amazing run we had and the things that we accomplished.

I hope my team will remember me as a voice of optimism and inspiration, not as “guy who yells at people to get the ball when an opposing player falls down injured.”

And even though we fell short of the ultimate prize, and most of our team still has no understanding of basic base running rules, I’ll forever remember this team.

Back to the present…

Ping. Ping.

I sat in my room, cleansed of dirt, but not of defeat. Sideline reporter/losing pitcher Alex Ricciardelli entered the locker room, ready to conduct his final interview of the season.

Reluctantly I arose and prepared to face the music. It’s an unfortunate, but mandatory part of the job. You have to answer questions after a loss the same as you would after a win. Slick met me in the showers with his somber postgame voice and a slipper for a microphone:

Thank you to my teammates and to all the fans out there, both of this blog and of my team. Your support means more than you could know.

As I said in the video, I won’t be making any decisions regarding my future anytime soon. I’m just going to enjoy a vacation with my family and deal with the tough stuff later. But rest assured, one way or the other, you’ll be seeing me on a kickball field near you, playing the game I love.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. Won’t be posting much during the holiday but check back in here once work resumes and life gets sort of shitty again!