Kickball is a serious sport here in the district.
My team was called the Chicken Kickers (I had nothing to do with the name. All things Chicken related seem to find me). Last Wednesday, during the second round of the playoffs, we were knocked out of the season in a spirited nail-biter in the shadows of the Washington monument. An era has ended.
But there was something different about this last foray. Maybe there was something in the air. Maybe it was the added thrill of being in the playoffs. Maybe the spirit of the great sport of kickball was with us. One cannot say with certainty what it was, but for the first time this season, I, Seth, writer of this blog and kicker of many a pop-up and foul ball, made it to base. And not just one base, mind you. With my partner in crime Emily right behind me, I made it to two bases, also known as Second Base.
“Ha” you think. “Kickball?? The game of grade schoolers?? Anyone can make it to base!” you snicker. Indeed. As Billy Joel said, “you may be right. I may be crazy.” But the point is, and I don’t want to exaggerate here, kicking that single was a monumental achievement the likes of which may never be seen again here in DC or anywhere else for that matter.
DC Kickball is no playground recess activity people. There are rule books and refs and leagues and hierarchies and bars that sponsor teams and there is this whole shadow sport of flip cup that so many ballers find themselves engulfed in come 11pm on game nights. I’ve been down that dark staircase into the flip cup world, my friends, and it is a rough trip. But that is an entirely different subject and to be honest, I might not be comfortable telling that sordid tale here. Plus I don’t remember much except that “Don’t Stop Believin” was playing and basically I’m a flip cup champion.
I digress. I want to salute my fellow Chicken Kickers. Thank you to all of you for enlightening my life this season. Thanks for the memories. Thanks for the wings and the miller draft. Thanks for running over to my side of the outfield when the ball was hit my direction so I wouldn’t even have to attempt to catch it (which would never happen anyway). Thanks for supporting me through my long dry spell. Thanks for making me a better player. Thanks for sharing memories and taxis.
Go Chicken Kickers!