Rollie Being Manny Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Championship

Normally, I think that people that talk about their slow-pitch softball games are of the same degenerate ilk as the people who will bend your ear about their fantasy team even when you're not in their league. But last Thursday's events were so bizarre, inexplicable, stupid, ultimately awesome, and, considering what occurred just before 4pm that day, oddly appropriate, that I just have to pass this story along.

It's our men's intramural softball championship, the bottom of the seventh (last) inning, just before midnight of a long day. I've just walked with the bases loaded, capping off a three-run comeback to tie the game, and there are still no outs. Just before my at bat, I looked around and felt confident that, pretty much no matter what, my unreliable baserunning (I'm the slowest able-bodied, less-than-obese, under-30 runner in America today) was not going to make the difference. If only that were true.

The next hitter, Daniel, does one thing and one thing only, and he does it well: every time, he (a righty) takes a step towards right and slaps the ball over the head of the first baseman. Positive that this is what's about to happen, I say to the first base coach, "With no outs, I am not moving from this base until the ball hits the ground. I don't want to get doubled up on a line drive." True to form, Daniel slaps one to right, but because of the situation, both the infielders and outfielders are playing way in. When the ball enters the glove of the right fielder on the fly, two steps into the outfield grass, my foot is still planted on first.

Even moments later, I don't recall anything about the next three or four seconds.

When my brain turns back on, I'm about two steps from second base and running full bore, and Nick, the runner on second, is looking at me incredulously. I'm equally surprised to see him. Oh my God, I realize, I've tagged up! On a soft liner to right! What have I done?! I turn around to look at first, expecting that I'm already out (forgetting that I've tagged up and they need to do a bit more than just touch first base), but I see that the right fielder still has the ball. I take a couple of steps back toward first. The right fielder and I are maybe 20 feet apart, staring at each other, the theme from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" playing in our heads. Then, he takes a step toward me, like he's going to try to catch me in a rundown. This was unwise - there's nowhere for me to go, as Nick is standing on second and wisely not going anywhere, so all he has to do is walk the ball to second and tag one of us (where I would have volunteered myself, as Nick is a former track star, and my footspeed could best be described as "glacial"). But there he is, thinking "rundown." I'm thinking, "dead meat."

By now, all 20 or so players, two umpires, and the handful of wives and girlfriends (Mrs. Tomasi says later that as soon as she saw me leave first, she stood up and turned around, unable to watch) are all yelling, not one person saying the same thing. In the confusion, Dmitry, the runner on third, has gone about a third of the way toward home, but hesitantly. Just as the right fielder is getting ready to run me down, he sees this, and suddenly I'm no longer the center of attention, as Dmitry is the winning run. As the right fielder cocks to throw, Dmitry makes a break for home. The throw sails up, hits off the outstretched glove of the catcher, and trickles away. Dmitry triumphantly stomps on home and our bench empties to celebrate an undefeated season and our second straight championship.

Meanwhile, I'm still halfway between second and first, doubled over like I'm going to wretch. The rest of the team makes its way over to me, happily laughing and calling me a hero and asking me if I'd planned that, which I most certainly hadn't. If I'd remained on first like nearly any little leaguer would, we still have just one out and the bases loaded, and our one professor (one of my dissertation advisors, of course) would have had the chance to be a hero with one of his patented right-down-the-foul-line line drives. Of course, it would have been no sure thing, and you have to score when given the opportunity. Ironically, my boneheaded decision to run forced the events that led to the winning run scoring when it did ("pulling a Homer," if you will). But I think I can safely say I'll never do that again.

While all that is quite grand and possibly legendary, there's one delicious morsel left. Our team doesn't have uniforms, so what was I wearing during this game? My Manny Ramirez jersey t-shirt. Godspeed, Manuel Aristides Onelcida Ramirez. Your childlike wonder and inexplicable decisions infect us all.