I have never been known to half-ass do anything.
Half-ass [haf as] – (adj). Something incomplete or downright lame, disappointing in its partial quality.
Except maybe shave my legs.
Most of the time. Sometimes.
Anyway. That’s what Urban Dictionary says is half-ass. The definition, not my leg shaving abilities.
The work joint has put together a charity kickball tournament this weekend and yours truly decided to step up to the plate (Get it? Yeah, I know…corny.) and form a kickball team.
I haven’t seen, much less kicked a kickball since 8th grade.
Let me break it down for you: This shit is hard.
Nevertheless, the other 5 teams don’t need to know that. I almost have them convinced I received a kickball scholarship. And I don’t even know if there IS such a thing. And they obviously don’t either.
We can have between 10 and 16 players on a team.
I have 16. You know it.
We decided we had to have a catchy name.
We have it. You know it.
We decided we weren’t gonna just show up in a t-shirt and shorts like everybody else at 7:30 on a Saturday morning. Heaven forbid we (I) be average. (“Don’t be acting all average” – I forget what number cardinal sin that is but it’s way up there of the Redhead Handbook. Like in the top 4 or something.)
We’ve practiced. I’ve caught my fair share of fly balls and now my arm hurts. I’ve kicked my fair share of base runs and now my leg hurts.
And I’ve discovered I’m competitive as hell.
Meaning, I flashed one of my own team mates at practice so I could get to the next base. It just happened before I knew it. And before he knew it.
But I got on base. Safe.
I’ve pulled my gear together tonight because well, come Saturday morning when it’s kinda cold and I’m kinda tired (and probably kinda bitchy), I’m gonna want to know who’s lame idea this was.
So, here’s my t-shirt and everything I’m showing up in.
If you read it “Kickin’ it with my Pitches,” then you read it right. That’s our team name.
If you see a big pimpin’ hat, ghetto-fabulous glasses and a boa…you’d be lookin’ right. That’s our team uniform.
The only thing not in the picture is my tooth black-out stuff.
Cause most all the pimps I know have a tooth or two out.
(And well, I couldn’t find a gold tooth so the black-out is gonna have to do.)
The other teams won’t know what hit’em when they get a load of us. Grillz, top hats, feather boas, the whole ghetto gamut.
All 16 of us.
We ain’t half-assin’ it. Cause that’s how we roll.