It was a beautiful night last Thursday under the lights at the Don Mello Sports Complex in Reno. The temperature was perfect; the winds were fairly calm. I was in good spirits as I made the lineup for Sparky's Machine, while my friends and teammates warmed up for our game against the C&C/Wendy's team.
Our team, which I would say is about average for a co-ed city league softball team, is made up of Tribune employees and some of our assorted friends. We all are fairly young, and enjoy each other's company. I am the manager of this team -- not an easy job, but one that is usually enjoyable.
After the game ahead of us finished, we took the field. Sparky's Machine was the "home" team, meaning we batted second and took the field first. As I took my place in right field, I watched my teammates assume their various positions. I took in a breath of fresh air, looked around, and smiled. It was beautiful.
It was a sort of beer-commercial moment. Does it get any better than this?
Ignorant, stupid little me. I had no idea what hellish carnage was about to take place.
It started innocently enough. A solid hit here. Then, a dropped fly ball, a muffed ground ball. A walk by our pitcher.
Nine years later, or so it seemed, we finally managed to get three outs. We walked off the field, and I turned my head to see the scoreboard.
C&C/Wendy's 10, Sparky's Machine 0.
Being the manager, it is my job to give little encouraging gems of knowledge to my players, to motivate them and enhance the game for them.
"Let's GET SOME RUNS!!!!" I yelled.
My team, showing absolute respect for my moving words, promptly went out and made three quick outs. I was so moved, I almost cried. As I took the field, I turned to my center fielder, Jerry, who also serves as the managing editor for This Fine Newspaper.
"What was the name of the captain of the Titanic?" I asked him.
C&C/Wendy's promptly scored another quick three runs, and we had another chance to bat. And again, showing the type of resolve and perseverance that has made the Los Angeles Clippers so great in recent years, we went out and scored total of zero runs.
We trudged onto the field again. It was the third inning, and we were down 13-0. As I took my place in right field, I became almost oblivious to the activity on the field. I was thinking about how Lucy Van Pelt has felt all these years, as the beleaguered right fielder for Charlie Brown's team, watching her team get utterly spanked.
Except I do not have a crush on a piano player named Schroeder.
Anyway, my dreams were interrupted by the fact that C&C/Wendy's, somehow, managed not to score. I think God decided it was time to intervene in our favor, because it was getting ugly.
Things were REALLY looking up in the bottom of the third inning, when-- wake your kids for this revelation-- we scored. Twice! Man, heading out onto the field for the top of the fourth, things were looking up. It was 13-2... we were on our way back!
Of course, this apparently only ticked C&C/Wendy's off, and they promptly started bapping us again. God apparently also had something else to do, such as to tell a tele-evangelist that he was going to zap him unless he collected $37.1 million dollars.
They (C&C/Wendy's, not the tele-evangelists) scored five more runs. It was 18-2, and we were held scoreless in the bottom of the fourth, to compound things.
I put in someone else for me in right field in the fifth inning, and I watched my team promptly give up another seven runs. It was 25-2; we were down by 23 runs.
But we had one more chance to bat. We mustered all of our energy, and... scored one, single, solitary run.
The game was over. C&C/Wendy's 25, Sparky's Machine 3.
I gathered my team around for our post-team talk. My teammates kind of stood there, wondering what I would tell them.
"Would someone PLEASE take that bat away from coach?" asked Heather, one of our outfielders.
But no, I did not go on a bloody rampage, because I happen to like my teammates. And I know they are not as bad of a softball team as they were on that night. So, I said some parting words and told them to get better next week.
As I left Don Mello that night, I had two thoughts. The first one was that despite the fact that we got thumped, big-time, I still had fun! Do not get me wrong; I would have preferred to win about a million times more, but it was still fun. It was a beautiful night with friends, after all.
My second thought?
If we lose this bad again next week, somebody had better take the bat away from me...
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who dedicates this column to his teammates, who had BETTER BE PRACTICING. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays.