Looking back on my twenty-six years of life, I have only a few regrets. Not punching Chris Randall in the throat for being a compulsive dickhead throughout grade school and high school is one of them. Sleeping with my friend's girlfriend after they both gave me permission is another (it's a long story, and karma caught up to me like a motherfucker). But perhaps the one thing for which I wish I could turn back the hands of time was the day I quit little league baseball.
Season One
I was about nine years old when I started playing. I was on a team called the Burger King Tigers -- sponsored by the very Burger King in which, years later, The Whopper took place.
Foreshadowing?
I loved being a Tiger. I felt like I had an edge over the other teams because we were named after an animal that mauls others to survive. We were a team of vicious little guys, and if our scores weren't intimidating, our mascot was. At least it sounded good at nine.
Baseball provided me with a great summer activity. Saturday mornings, I'd wake up early, eat a bowl of Froot Loops, put on my uniform, and head out to whatever ballpark our team was playing at that day. I was an outfielder, I'm pretty sure because the coach thought I sucked at just about everything else. I couldn't fuck up as an outfielder too much, because not too many nine-year-olds can hit a ball that far. Most of my innings were spent talking with the center fielder and kicking up dirt. I wasn't the greatest player at nine, but I still loved to play the game.
This Saturday morning was no different. There I stood, out in right field, wearing my red and yellow, ketchup and mustard jersey. I was Number 10. Jersey numbers matter when you're a kid on a baseball team. If you're just a Number 3, you're little. But if you got double digits on your back, you're bigger and better -- it was like penis envy before you knew what that was.
So there I was, in the standard fielding position, hunched over with my gloved and exposed hands on my knees. With every pitch thrown, a little wave of nervousness would come over me. I could envision the batter cracking one deep into the outfield, where I'd somehow screw it up and cost the team a run. It was my own paranoia, but when you're playing outfield in a little league game, you get a lot of time to think.
Wait -- this was no longer a matter of nerves. My guts were starting to contort from within. This was my gut telling me those Froot Loops were soon to become Froot Poops. I stood up and rubbed my stomach a little. Coach Ted, seeing me break my fielding stance, yelled, "Get in position, Right Field!" Of course I bent back over, knowing that doing otherwise was just asking for trouble.
It was like giving my intestines a little unintentional cocktease. They would like nothing greater than to hunch over a toilet and let loose. Yet I held it in, totally blueballing them.
Eventually the inning ended. Since I wasn't one of the next three at-bats, I told the coach I needed to go to the bathroom. Coach pointed me to the wooded area behind the outfield. It was a line of pine trees, maybe a dozen or more. I don't think coach realized that I was holding back a steamy number two, not just a stream of piss. Still, knowing that it might be my only hope, I began the long journey into the seclusion of the pine trees. My asshole was winking in preparation, as if to say, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" The opposing outfielders looked on as I walked by and into the trees.
This was a first for me. I had never shit outdoors before; but I knew this was nothing I could hold off until after the game. I pondered how one properly shits against a tree, but my body wouldn't let my mind work too long. The pressure was brewing down below, and I had little time to spare.
I dropped my uniform pants down to my ankles and backed up against a tree. I positioned myself the way one might look sitting in a chair, and prayed that the fallout wouldn't land in my pants or on my ankles. God forbid I slip and fall into my own mess.
That, I can say at least, didn't happen.
With nothing holding me back, I let loose. Shit poured out of my ass, taking its time like hot pancake batter pouring onto a frying pan. "Shlop...plop," said my poo as it landed on the pine needles below. I could hear the game going on behind me. I feared that one of my teammates might nail one out into the outfield where I was, and someone from the opposing team might run after the ball and see me pouring some foundation against the tree. Fortunately, fate wouldn't be that cruel on this day.
When I felt that my ass had been purged of all the evil from within, I penguin-walked over to some foliage, where I managed to find some good-sized leaves. I tried to wipe my ass with them, but I'm pretty sure that I just smeared whatever shit was left around my ass crack. I pulled up my uniform pants and kicked some dirt and needles over my pile. My stomach felt pretty cramped afterwards, and I wasn't sure I was up to fielding any more plays. I told the coach I wasn't feeling too good. He benched me for the rest of the game.
Our team went on to finish the season dead last in the league, with only three wins, and Burger King dropped their sponsorship.
Continued: Season II
