Friday Open – Game 6: Bonding with the Ump
As I showed up to our Friday game a few minutes late (as usual), there was only one thing running
through my mind: “I hope that old man with the glasses is umping our game tonight”. I had previously
spent the afternoon getting my face made up by a special effects makeup artist for our costume contest
this warm, Friday evening, but that didn’t matter to me now; I wanted to see the ump. “Perhaps he’ll
finally notice me”, I thought, as hustled my ass onto the field at approximately 6:36pm.
“Lyndsay’s here!” the giant rabbit shouted from the pitcher’s mound. For a split second, I thought it may
have been the ump who had shouted my name. “Who am I kidding”, I quickly thought. “A guy like that
would never notice a girl like me.” I resorted to sulking on the bench as I sat that first inning out.
As I examined the field to make sure no one else was flirting with the ump, I noticed the rest of the team
had also spent some time that afternoon preparing for the costume contest. The tallest dude on the
team was obviously Canada Day – with his red attire from head to foot. The nice white lady was Cinco de
Mayo with her sombrero and ole serape, while another lady who I had never seen before was New
Years Eve (and who was also hella good at softball, might I add). Two people were St. Patrick’s Day: Red
Shorts Guy and Sarah Za..something. Krystle was Valentine’s Day in her red mini dress, the pitching dude
was Easter, and this other guy who I had also never seen before must have been Canada’s Day as he was
wearing a red shirt that said “Canada” on it. The two French dudes were representing the baptizer dude
from the bible, and the other French dude was ready to blast somebody in the face with his Boxing Day
After a few innings of getting our asses handed to us, and also after a few innings of me avoiding direct
eye contact with the ump every time I spent a turn slinging those back-catching balls, I sat on the team
bench thanking some version of God that Krystle assigned me to back-catcher one more time. “I can do
this”, I thought. “Just suck your gut in, twirl your hair around your fingers and say something
I strode towards home plate with pep in my step and butterflies in my stomach. The first batter had yet
to make it to the plate. “So, uhh..”, the ump began. I felt the thunder of anxiety induced cramps pound
through my loins. “You don’t talk much.” We paused and stared at each other for what felt like 30 years.
I glanced down at his glistening exposed calve muscles, covered in age old leg hair. “I’m just an old-timey
drifter looking to stick my hoo-ha in some glory holes. Do you know where the glory holes are?”, I
responded. The ump looked at me as if I had just been released from The Royal Ottawa Mental
Institution and I was about to lick the back of his ashy hands. He said nothing and resorted to avoiding
me for the rest of the game.
The night drew nearer, the game wrapped up and as we proceeded to shake the opponents’ hands,
reciting “good game”, “good game”, I wondered, “would I ever get it together and act like a normal
person around the ump?”. My anxiety cramps rumbled back, “nooOOOoooOOOooo.”.
Oh, and uh yeah, we lost the game, I think.