Thirty is the New Fifteen

One thing I never anticipated about playing a game made primarily for adolescents is that it actually makes you regress to adolescent dating rituals. It turns out kickball comes with nervousness, beating around the bush and silly love songs. Ahh to be 15 again.


Last week's game was notable for more reason than one, not only did "Wishful Drinking" win our first game, but I also spent a few hours on the patio of our sponsor bar with Sadie the Dog and Hipster Guy. Here's how it went down: After a highly competitive and suspenseful night of kicking, catching and throwing a giant, red, bouncy ball, Sadie and I sashayed into the bar to find Hipster Guy hanging with his team inside. I stopped to chat a bit and may have mentioned that Sadie and I would be on the patio since some lame bureaucrats think dogs shouldn't be in restaurants. A half hour later Hipster Guy and a teammate join us and I turn on the charm. (No, really, my wingwoman/teammate even told me so.)


Topics of discussion included movies, music, Canada. The evening flowed right along with a long debate regarding the song we should sing for karaoke. There were little smiles, blinking eyes, hair pushes behind the ear (on my part, that is.) I brought up my favorite movie as I so often do, "The Departed." Here's the thing, he's never seen it! I kindly mention to not watch it with me because I'll just ruin it with my incessant run-through of every other line. His response? "We'll just have to go see a movie neither of us have seen." Yep. Sweet, flirtatious but not too pushy. Liking this. I quiz him as I do most people of a certain age: Pearl Jam or Nirvana? Sadly his answer is neither but I chalk it up to being Canadian and just not understanding the Seattle angst we were all experiencing via dirty jeans and flannel. At one point Hipster Guy suggested a song that should be saved for our tenth year of marriage and the many nights of karaoke to come. Uh huh. He said it. Near the end of the evening we select and rock, I might add, "Don't You Want Me Baby." He's got dogs. He's a mechanical engineer. He laughs at my jokes. And eventhough I'm a bit freaked out about the fact that his divorce has JUST gone through, I'm feeling pretty good.


He very gentlemanly walks Sadie and I to the car and he pulls his phone out of his pocket. For some reason I choose this exact moment to say "so I'll see you next week, right?" He hesitates for a moment and then says "definitely." Somehow I find myself confused as to why Hipster Guy didn't ask for my number. The next day my roomie helpfully explains that I did an unspeakable thing: I blocked him. Apparently men have pretty sensitive egos and my cutting off Hipster Guy's attempt has put him in a rather awkward position that will have to be dealt with delicately.

The following Tuesday I'm thinking, "alright, I'm going to be super sweet and extra cool. Sadie's excited and despite a sore throat and not-so-sexy scratchy voice, Hipster Guy is obviously going to beg for my number." Sadie and I walk onto the field and Hipster Guy yells from first base "here comes trouble." Haha. Okay, so far so good. Cheesy but cute. The rest of the evening we chat occasionally but nothing of substance. I'm starting to feel discouraged. I stop by to say goodnight and that I'll be substituting nyquil for the bar. He's smiling, he's talking politics, he's only somewhat paying attention to the game he's still technically playing. After he mentions that he'll be attending a concert the following night I cleverly bring up a local band that will be playing soon. His response is what convinces me that this game must have put us back into 1995. He says "you should take me to a show sometime because I know no local bands." Oh but wait, he still doesn't ask for my number. What the what?!

I go to the source of guy mentality for the answer to my conundrum: the roomie. He informs me here's what it comes down to, I'm going to have to just give Hipster Guy my number. I'm going to actually have to put myself out there and make it clear that I'd like him to call me. Damn. Granted I've done this once before as an adult with the Frex and it worked out okay, I guess. Well, if "okay" means 2 years of fun followed by heartbreak. Double damn! Well, in the spirit of kickball, the 15 year old me wouldn't have thought twice about asking a guy out just because of the fear of rejection, maybe the 30 year old me should listen to her this time around.

Kickball is for Cool People

In order to avoid a spinsterhood filled with organized senior citizens trips to Laughlin, I took some initiative this spring and joined an organized adult kickball league. Before you laugh out loud, let's just get this out of the way: 1) I have no athletic ability; 2) the only team I've ever belonged to was the swim team in high school and i sucked; and 3) I go to bed at 9:30 pm on weeknights so that I can read in bed for an acceptable amount of time prior to a good night's sleep. Regardless, I found a kickball team nearby and used the handy-dandy internet to sign up. A week later I was placed on a team called "Wishful Drinking." This suits me just fine since 2010 turned out to involve plenty of evenings visiting my Pops in the hospital followed by wine, lots of wine. And let's be honest, I was just happy to not be put on teams with witty names like "Fifth Base" or the Frex's former team, "Pink Tacos."

Three weeks into the season, the Drinkers and I had yet to win a game but damn it, we're having fun. The team is made up of a mix of misfits. Some young and still in school and way too cool for me. Some older and settled down and just as sleepy at 9 pm as I am. There's another teacher from the Westside (insert gang sign here), an engineer, a boombox with theme music ready for our "at-bats," and pitchers with really creative form. So far our team leaders have taught me how to catch, kick and throw and have also somehow maintained their patience when I don't perform those skills in a game with the same efficacy I did during practice.

In one particular game, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability to cover 2nd base. So confident, in fact, that I was wisely using my time to flirt with the opposing team members that happened to find their way midway on the diamond. Hipster Guy from the maroon team was my favorite. Hipster Guy has retro glasses, a super trendy watch and fun shoes. I like this. We're talking, we're chatting, we're smiling. This is good! Well... that is until two innings later when Hipster Guy is up to bat again. The pitch comes right to him. He kicks. It pops up. I make the sweetest catch, not to mention athletic act, of my life. The Drinkers cheer! I cheer! Actually, I yell "Did you see that?!" and proceed to gloat for another 90 seconds. I realize in the midst of my one and only moment of kickball glory that I have probably just seriously insulted Hipster Guy. Crap. After the last pitch has been thrown and the final ball has been kicked, Wishful Drinking does what any good sportsmanlike team would do and slap hands in a line with the other team, muttering "good game, good game, good game" to each maroon t-shirted enemy. When I reach Hipster Guy in the line I say "I'm so sorry! It's the only good thing I've ever done on the team and I got excited." He mumbles some sort of conciliatory remark and I leave feeling like a jerk.

The next week I am determined to make nice with Hipster Guy. At the bar after another night of losses, my teammates and I join the maroon table and it doesn't take long for Hipster Guy to gracefully say "hey! You're the girl who was talking mad crap to me last week!" Yep, that was me. I apologize sincerely and we chat for a bit. Unfortunately for me, I also use this time to make fun of Hipster Guy for being Canadian. Now, the roomie thinks this was totally justified for as everyone knows, Canadians are just naturally targeted for teasing. However, the roomie also thinks my flirting skills have somehow deteriorated to those of a twelve year old boy who pulls the pigtails of the girl he likes. Again, I leave feeling like a jerk.

Luckily, this jerk has a new plan: buy Hipster Guy a beer next time and DON'T insult him. Okay, game on.