I Am Now Complete

One of the things that I’ve learned in my times and travels is that you should consider yourself a lucky person if you have a passion. Something that excites you whenever you think of it, vitalizes you when you partake in it, and drives you to succeed in all areas of your life. Some people never seem to find this something, though, and spend years of their lives trying to discover the fuel to light their inner fire.

Internet. Yesterday, I found that fuel. Yes, I attended the gas station of passion, and I got a free tank of plus gas-o-line. I’ve pumped my tank so full of it, I should be considered a walking, talking, mobile napalm.

That passion? That drive? That rejuvenating drink that sends me soaring higher than Red Bull laced with Aderol?

Girl’s. Junior. Softball.

Sitting in my folding chair, coffee in hand, 8th graders played their little 8th grade heart outs. And I became a man possessed. It was like the gates to the underworld opened wide to let loose a bevy of soccer mom spirits, whom, with their nalgenes and bumper stickers, filled my very soul with a hunger for orange slices and a thirst for blood.

As my friend, Carla, and I watched her little sister, Stephie, play her little heart out, I could feel the rage taking control of me. It started when little number 12 made her little double play by catching a fly and smacking the runner smack in the face with a softball glove packing some heat. Her ponytail almost came clean off. After that, it was all downhill.

During the mid-inning switch up, I heard a girl on Stephie’s team, NeatCo, tell her mother that, as she ran to first, the baseman punched her. PUNCHED HER. In her stomach. I slowly turned around, and said very calmly Which. One. The girl pointed out number 7 on the opposing team, The Holders.

Mmm Hmm. Alright. I see how this game is played. I’m gonna go key her parent’s car.

For the rest of the game, I used my loud voice. The one reserved only for concerts, emergency alerts, and bashing little teenage bitches who dare cross the line. Threats I employed included,

*Mommy divorced Daddy back in the last water break.
*Jake Gyllenhaal hates you, don’t kid yourself.
*I will slash your parent’s tires.
*Nice swing Tiger, too bad this ain’t golf.
*You throw like a girl.

Hungry for orange slices. Thirsty for blood.

I’ve never been more enthralled by something in my life. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, fueling my enthusiasm more than anything else I’ve ever felt. I imagined myself coaching the team. Morphing them from a bunch of girls to a pack of feral cats. Pigtails tied with the hair of the fallen. Nail polish applied with the blood of the defeated. They would be my 8th grade army of cleated terrors, and I?

I would be their Softball Master.

I don’t quite remember what happened after The Holders scored 3 runs against NeatCo, but I’m told it involved me saying I am taking command of the team and organizing 2 hour practices 2 times a week, asking Do the girls run laps? And what about weight training?, and finally something regarding sucker-punch-number-7 and finding out where she lives.

Being passionate is exhausting. And may wind up getting me a restraining order. But part of being driven is never say die.

Unless it’s to some little shit who sings We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher. You can say die to her.