Momma, Don't let your Babies Grow up to be Spoil Sports

Sore Loser.

Sour Grapes.

Thaz what I am.... Grrrrr.

So things were going swimmingly in the bottom of the second when I got my first at-bat on this blustery fall day in Playa Vista.

Outlaws were up by a few runs and I planted one in shallow center for a 2 RBI single. And then we rallied on two outs and were up 11-0 by the third inning.

We basically had the game in the bag, or so we thought... then Stephan loaded 'em up-walked a buncha runs in and squandered our plush lead. Our second baseman made a few costly errors, there were a lot of bobbled balls in the infield and simple plays that had they been made successfully, would have gotten us out of the inning with minor damage. Then the jerky guy with high knee socks that I have a distinct distaste for hit one to RF and I wasn't able to play it off the carom so it was a grand slam. I blame the wind. It made it very difficult to judge where the ball was carrying so I grossly misjudged it and was off by about four feet, much to my embarrassment and utter disgust. I'm pretty sure my Pop was rolling over in his grave. I rarely miss balls in the outfield.

Oh and then there was also that time I STRUCK OUT! The count was one and two and I decided to swing on a ball that was fifty feet out of the batter's box so much that I had to scoot up three steps to swing at it like a complete dill weed. Humph. Let it be known henceforth that I will swing at everything and the kitchen sink ...

Anyway, we were down two runs in the last inning and I got on first with two outs and then Farrah struck out. Game over.

After the game, when everyone lined up to "Good game" and high-five, I headed straight towards the dugout, pretending as if I was fiddling in my bag for something. Truth be told, I was fiddling in my bag for something. I was trying to find my good sportsmanship. I had lost it somewhere back in the sixth inning when our team lost our lead and began to implode before my eyes. I didn't want to good game anyone, least of all that jerk wad with the knee socks. A) He's a total douche bag for wearing red knee socks. The only male to successfully pull off this look is Jason Varitek and only marginally, I might add. Even for him it's a bit of a stretch. And B) I wanted to tell the other team to eat soot and poo and go kick rocks.

I'm not good at hiding my emotions. My friends and family pretty much know what I'm thinking or feeling at the exact moment I am thinking or feeling something. My point is, you won't catch me in a poker game. I'd lose the shirt off my back and the whole farm. Bluffing is not my forte.
So I thought it was in the best interest of the other team to forego the stupid ritual of wishing them good will and tidings of joy when we had no business blowing a TEN RUN LEAD for the love of Jehoshaphat. TEN dog damn runs.

I would have said, "Good game" with gritted teeth and clenched fists. I don't even think it would be physically possible to high-five someone in the state I was in.

My parents certainly did not raise me to be a poor sport, so I'm not sure where all this is coming from.

So now I'm going to take a moment to put myself in the corner and think long and hard about what I've done.

Rats!

And the Winner is...

Wait for it...
Me.

I think I'm up for the Worst Friend of the Year Award...

My best friend, Bean, called me during the game (Red Sox v. Rays) and miraculously I picked up. And I NEVER answer the phone for ANYONE when there's a game on. But I made an exception for Bean. Partly because I was delirious from my head cold and mostly cause she's my Little Twin Soul. It takes a lot for me to speak to anyone during a sporting event, let alone the World Series...

I was proud of her. She actually watched most of the game with me while on the phone and even declared it as ... "exciting." Soon I'll force all my friends to watch baseball and the world shall be all MINE!!!! *evil laughter* Dance, puppets! Dance!!!!!

I had texted her earlier in the day to make sure she was feeling ok. She'd been sick for two months straight and had been having fevers every night, so I told her in a haze of Nyquil: "Um, I pretty sure I can take you to emergency if you need to go, but just not until around 8.30 or whenever the game is finished..."

She laughed. I wasn't kidding.

I was dead serious.

I'm a horrible friend. I know this. I admit it. I'm owning up to it.

So the moral of this story is: If you need me desperately and are in dire need of assistance in a life threatening emergency... there'd better not be a game on. (Or you'd better pray that the ER has HDTV with a sports package)