.
My parents have 46 chromosomes.  Most of my friends have read a book without pictures. I have never spent an overnight vacation on the shores of Lake Shafer in Montecello, Indiana.  I did not take my prom date to "Ryan's Steakhouse."  I have never understood the widespread appeal of the "Car Quest World of Wheels Thunderdrags" (with apologies to the immortal and influential rock-'n-roll phenomenon known as "Paul Ravere & The Raiders").  I have never
felt the urge to purchase a pit bull.  I have never gone
muddin' in a Chevy 1-ton "dually."  Most importantly, I
have never slept with a woman named Misty.

For the whole of my existence, I have felt a little out of
touch with the rest of America.  I have never related to
the problems that seem to afflict a large segment of the
population.  I know nothing about rickets, for example. 
And I can positively identify the current Vice President
of the United States (which distinguishes me from about
95% of Jay Leno's viewing audience).  In short, my suburban upbringing prevented me from obtaining a true understanding of the American people.

All of that changed two weeks ago when I was asked by the Flipside brass to participate in a slow-pitch softball tournament.  But not just any tournament...the world-renowned white trash extravaganza known as the "Bedford All-Nighter" (128 teams, 75 kegs of PBR, two action-filled nights and zero "Gephardt for President" posters).  Buckle up.

Before I left, Handsome Pete gave me a legal pad and the direct order that I take accurate notes of all that I witness.  However, just like a potential advertiser for Flipside, I blew him off.  I went all 4th-period-English-Lit and didn't take a single note.  Didn't need to.

To borrow a line from Terrence Mann, the memories of the "All-Nighter" are so thick that I'll be brushing them from face for decades to come.  How could I possibly forget all that I saw?  All that I heard?  All that I smelled?  I can't.  That's how.

For example, there are so many lessons to be learned by participating in one of these half-baked slices of Americana.  Seriously.  And there are few undeniable truths worth mentioning, if only because they may possibly save your life should you find yourself in an "All-Nighter-type" situation:






























Not only did I learn these valuable lessons, but I also came to the obvious realization that there are essentially seven--and only seven--types of beer-league softball players.  And these are not stereotypes.  They aren't even generalizations.  This is a non-negotiable fact.  Seriously, I spent two nights with over 1,000 of these people, and every one of them fits neatly into one of seven categories:

PLAYER #1--You're my boy, Blue. This crafty and wily beer-league veteran might not be able to get it up in the bedroom, but he can get it up in the
strike zone.  At 74 years of age, this station-to-station player
patrols the mound like Mark Chmura patrols the Hamilton
Southeastern parking lot.  He throws high-arching darts with
backspin, topspin, sidespin, and some other various spins that
he learned while stationed in Korea.  Just give him a can of
geriatric-strength "Boost" and a promise of an "MCL" dinner
and he'll give you a weekend of good work on the hill.

PLAYER#2--In the words of Bib Fortuna in Return of the
Jedi, "No Jabba, no botha." No successful beer-league
team can win without a 350-pound, missle-launching,
Red-Man-chewing caucasian Cecil Cooper in the cleanup slot. 
He will typically be wearing a pair of "Zubaz" and football cleats
and will bring a boatload of bad intentions with him to the batter's
box.  However, "Slim" is prone to the ultimate beer-league faux-paux: being called out at first after one-hopping the left-field fence.

PLAYER#3--I love a man in uniform.  The last 10 years of this guy's life have not gone as planned. His ol' lady, Crystal, got knocked-up after he quarterbacked the Wes-Del Warriors past the Jimtown Jimmies in the 1994 1A semistate.  His driveway seal-coating business had some tax-related problems, and it went under.  Now he's selling knives over the phone.  So to dull the pain of the last decade, he harkens back to a simpler, happier time, a time when he could suck on a chili dog outside of a "Tasty Freeze" (without his ol' lady harassing him). How's he do that?, you ask.  Why he shows up to the games in his 1989 AAU baseball uniform, of course. 

PLAYER #4--I wish I had a peach-fuzz mustache, the Valparaiso kind.  A two-tone pair of "Carhardt" cut-offs and a great big bottle of "Boone's Farm" wine. We've all seen him.  He used to angrily run the go-cart track at "Thunder Island," and his abusive ways delighted his slack-jawed co-workers.  On the diamond, he's three parts greasey and one part smarmy.  He forgoes cleats so that he can sport his patented "Pro Wings" hoop shoes that have the oversized tongue (in an apparent nod to the 1988 "Avias" made popular by Clyde Drexler).  He will invariably try to stretch every weak single into a triple and then get gunned down by an average of 30 feet.  And when the ball is hit to him in right-center field, he will disregard the cut-off man and proudly throw the ball as far as he can, no matter if it happens to two-hop the concession stand.  This jackass is the reason that "Corn Nuts" are still sold in gas stations. 

PLAYER #5--Uh, well...yes, I used to issue towels and low-interest lunch-money loans to football players in high school. This is the dweeb who keeps his own stats and wears a 1982 Gary Gaetti Cardinals jersey to games.  He just finished reading "Moneyball" and now believes that taking a base on balls is the best way to manufacture runs in softball.  He's like the Japanese players in Gung Ho, but without the smarts and Yeoman-like work-ethic.  For the record, ANYONE WHO LOOKS TO WALK AT A BEER-LEAGUE SOTBALL GAME DESERVES TO
BE RUN-OVER BY A MENIACALLY SPRINTING GEORGE
WENDT, GUNG HO STYLE.  No questions asked.

PLAYER #6--The OWAACC's evil caucasian cousin: the
OWCCC. He comes to the game straight from work.  And
because 91% of OWCCCs have jobs that require shirts with
their name on it, we know that his name is Chuck. And Chuck
has either been drinking on the job or drinking in the car,
because he's about seven Schlitz tall-boys deep by the time he
arrives.  He is the Overweight Caucasian Color Commentator,
and he always, ALWAYS plays catcher.  Why?  So he can taunt
the opposing batters at close range.  If there's ever a beer-
league brouhaha, there's a 98.4% chance that is was initiated
by the OWCCC, and more specifically, his mouth.  He never,
EVER shuts up.  He's constantly uttering the following phrases, without change, without fail (of note is the fact that OWCCC is far less creative than OWAACC):
     
  











Player #7--The White Bo Jackson.  He was on a path to the MLB Hall of Fame before suffering a career-ending injury at some hill-jack junior college.  Or so he says.  (It was either an injury or a coach who personally hated him and thus refused to play him.  Either way, the situation was out of his control.)  He may have been a legit All-State 2nd team'er in high school, but his three felony convictions and his 210 "Verbal" score kept him off the recruiting radar.  So he was forced to walk on at Southern Indiana or Vincinnes or Purdue.  And he might have even been decent.  But for one reason or another, now he's just the best player in the beer league.  And he'll stop at nothing to make sure everyone knows it.  He's the guy carrying his plethora of  "Easton Black Magic's" in his bat bag.  He's wearing metal spikes and has more tape on his forearms than Carlos Beltran.  He's got the flip-down shades, regardless of the weather conditions.  When he's not at bat, he assumes the 3rd-base-coach's position and starts throwing up incomprehensible signs to his already inebriated batters.  And he's the asshole whose not afraid to take out Milton-the-57-year-old-taxidermist at second in order to break up a double play. 

Those are the seven types of beer-league players.  Believe what you want.

Needless to say, the "Beford All-Nighter" was an eye-opening experience.  I now consider "Mama's Family" exemplary documentary film making.  I learned that rotweilers are really good with kids if you beat them unconscious with a rolled-up newspaper (the dog, that is).  I learned the intracacies of the "Indiana Beach Diet," which consists entirely of fried twinkies and porky burgers.  But most importantly, I learned to say "No!" to Handsome Pete when asked if I want to do it all again next year.

Go find redneck somewhere else, Handsome...we're all stocked up here.      
'The Bedford All-Nighter'
"No Fear" is America's clothier.  "B.U.M. Equipment" fills the coveted number-two slot. (Beware: All other manufacturers are worn by "dem metrosexual queers.")

The only good Democrat is a dead Democrat.
(Beware: Mitch Daniels had better be your man.)

To paraphrase Mama Boucher, "Computers are
tha debil." (Beware: Leave your PDA at home.)

Abortion is a complicated issue. (Beware: Beer-leaguers may vote pro-life, but they're not opposed to aborting you in your 173rd trimester should you begin a sentence with "A woman has the right to control her own body").

The beer-leaguers' overall sense of humor is about as deep as their gene pool. (Beware: Sarcastically asking the lead-off hitter "Who his baby's mamma is?" will undoubtedly invite an Easton to your skull.  If it ain't about hog-ties or "Moon Pies," keep your otherwise clever one-liner to yourself.)

Restictor plates--like queers, Democrats, computers, abortion and Ebonics--are bringing this country down. (Beware: Danger befalls he who initiates a NASCAR discussion at a beer-league softball game.  It parallels striking up an astrophysics discussion with Stephen Hawking...inevitably, you'll lose the debate.  And you'll probably end up getting punched in the back of the head as well.)
"C'mon buddy, you ain't gunna git another grapefruit like dat one!  Open up your queer eyes, queer guy!"

"Hey, Devon...no need to git in no ready position!  This kid couldn't git a hit off a water bong!  I think he's queer or somethin'."

"Who-wee!  Man is ya sister hot.  Did I tell you that she asked to see my Skoal Bandit after the game?  Eh...and that's long-cut, in case yer wonderin'.  You queer."
...and nothing says "I'm an unemployed bad-ass" like "No Fear" apparel.
The best softball pitcher in the world is 87 years old.
In Gung Ho, Norm went all Pete-Rose-on-Ray-Fosse when he ran over Wang.
Nothing attracts unemployed
bad-asses like the Thunderdrags...
.
(Update: in case you want to see how this article went over in Bedford, click here.)
'The Bedford All-Nighter'