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An Unfiltered Look At Intramural Softball Season

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Spring is a magical time. People shed a few pounds, then immediately put those pounds back on in Cabo. The countdown to the end of school, and to the beginning of your equally spirit-crushing, unpaid internship begins. And, somewhere in between these enduring spring milestones, is a time-honored tradition that turns boys into men, and men into complete dickheads. I’m speaking, of course, of intramural softball.

Usually, you guys are okay at intramural sports. You actually took an unexpected intramural football championship last semester, despite the fact that your quarterback was drunk out of his skull 100% of the time (or, maybe, because of it). But softball is your actual shit, and you would’ve been in the finals last year if those douchebags from Beta weren’t using an illegal bat in the semis. And, this year, no one important has graduated, and you even picked up another kid during fall rush who hits absolute dingers. A team hasn’t been this primed to win a championship since the 1989 Oakland A’s had Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco, who were both eating bowls of anabolic steroids for breakfast and going back for seconds.

The rosters are set and the first game is about to be underway. Your guys are physical, they’re skilled, and they really fucking hate losing. Especially to those pussies from Beta.

It’s not a great sign when it’s the bottom of the second and you’re already down 9-1. You thought you guys had a shot earlier, but your best hitter popped out with the bases loaded and now he’s in full Milton Bradley head case mode (not the toy company – Milton Bradley, the former San Diego Padre who sustained a season-ending knee injury while arguing with an umpire. I’m not kidding, Google him for some quality YouTube content).

So you got crushed on Opening Day. It happens to the best of them. Even the Cubs dropped their first game this year, and they’ll win about 100 of those in 2017. Unfortunately, that is not the case for your squad, as they go on to lose their next two games and are now eliminated from playoff contention. They’re pissed, and they all can’t help but notice the negative correlation between losing softball games and the amount of girls who attend the next ones. What started as a vast array of Thetas looking to be swept off their feet by handsome, athletic men has been diluted to the usual frat rats and a random slew of GDIs that your center fielder met on Tinder.

“Do they even go here?” you ask yourself at the tailgate. “Do I even care?”

Clearly, at this point, your apathy toward your fraternity’s pursuit of a championship is as apparent as the fact that you’re just here because it’s your excuse to get drunk on a Monday night.

By the time you arrive at the game, you’re piss drunk and it’s the third inning. No, the fourth inning. It’s one of the innings. You’re piss drunk. You see your buddy Brandon yelling at the home plate umpire about something. “HEY, BLUE! YOU NEED SOME FUCKIN’ LASIK!” you shout, not having actually seen the play in question.

Now, time to converse with the crowd.

“What’s the score?”
“Us or them?”
“Them? Or us?”
“No wait, us.”
“So, us.”

This kind of meaningful dialogue can only be found at the intramural field. As you ponder this, your team erupts with joy.

“Wait, we won? Who did we beat?”

A beautiful sound of spring — one more intoxicating than any robin’s call — emanates from the huddled mass of overjoyed 20-year-olds congregated at the mound.


You guys did it; you beat those dickheads from Beta. It’s a victory sweeter than a championship could ever be.

Beta would, ultimately, go on to win that year’s Intramural Softball Championship.

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Mr. Jones is an avid watcher of television, player of music, and shotgunner of beers.

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