It's the top of the fifth inning. My team is down 5-4, and I am at bat. After taking two pitches -- one a strike, another a ball -- I get a pitch that looks great. I mean, it's right there in my zone. I step into the pitch, and using my strong, 6-foot-2, 230-pound frame, swing as hard as I can.
That's when I feel my hands sting, as the ball meets the outside part of the bat. The ball, clearly unimpressed by my mighty swing, travels about two hops before coming to rest about six feet from the plate. I start running, swearing under my breath -- which I can see -- and make my way to first base. Seeing as it is 36 degrees outside; I am wearing four layers of clothing; and I have the dexterity and speed of a bloated water buffalo, it takes about seven minutes for me to make it all the way to first base. I cross the base just after the ball arrives and bounces off the first-baseman's mitt, which is apparently frozen solid. After all of that, I am safe at first. My teammates, clearly thrilled by my accomplishment, talk about beer.
This is life in the Deep Freeze League, a January-February softball league organized by the city of Sparks. Several dozen teams, obviously made up with people with serious brain damage, are playing in the league this year.
I first heard of the Deep Freeze League last year, when some friends of mine who work for This Fine Newspaper played in the inaugural league. Often times, they would come to work the day after their games and discuss how much fun they had the night before. Then, one of their appendages, clearly stricken with frostbite, would fall off. They would then start talking about beer.
OK, maybe an appendage would not fall off from frostbite. I made that up. The frostbitten limb would kind of dangle there, but it would never fall off.
My initial reaction to this league was something to the effect of "What kind of absolute goobers would play in such a league? Only people with the IQ of a lobotomized poodle would do such a thing."
And now here I am, the next year, playing in the league. I am not exactly sure what to say about this, except that people are now mysteriously starting to call me "Fluffy Fu Fu."
I mean, the league's rules are preposterous. The rules are almost the same as those in the regular leagues, except that in the regular leagues, they halt play for bad weather. If it is seriously raining or there is lightning in the area, they'll stop the games. But in this league, we are supposed to play no matter what, with the possible exception of a "white-out." This means that in can be snowing, 16 degrees below zero, with 40 mph winds, and we're supposed to be out there playing. It's a good thing they don't broadcast games in weather like that.
Announcer #1: The 2-2 pitch is on the way, and the batter swings, and -- the BALL SHATTERS INTO THREE PIECES! One of them has rolled foul and another landed near third base!
Announcer #2: It looks like the third piece impaled the pitcher in the eye. That HAS to hurt!
Announcer #1: Seeing as two of the three pieces landed in fair territory, the umpire is signaling "fair ball"--whoops. One of his arms just fell off.
Announcer #2: The batter's halfway to first, and he just slipped on a patch of ice. It looks like he accidentally hit himself in the head with the bat on the way down, because the bat was frozen in his hands.
Announcer #1: Dang, that's the third time that's happened during this game!
Anyway, you get the point. Softball and winter don't mix when you live at this latitude. Let's face it--the league is a silly, silly idea. But what is even sillier is that it is wildly popular.
That, and the fact that we're all having such a blast. And I guess that is what counts, ain't it?
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who proudly refrained this week from making a joke about "keeping the balls warm." Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.