Softball Often Takes Back Seat To Life’s Changeups

I like to refer to the Boo Radley’s Fightin’ Scouts as “America’s Team.” (What a rich fantasy world I have, right here in my own head.)

Anyway, I am convinced that millions of fans nationwide are breathlessly following the fortunes of my co-ed Spokane County C League softball team, although I am at a loss to explain our disappointing attendance totals (eight) except to say that if you count dogs the attendance was closer to 10.

Maybe the crowds stayed away because they could not stand the heartbreak of another Fightin’ Scouts late-season collapse. Maybe our fans had a premonition that once again, the Fightin’ Scouts would not “put their game faces on,” or would not “come to play.”

I mean, literally, not come to play. I regret to say it, but “coming to play” appears to be my team’s insurmountable weakness. I’ll explain later.

First let me explain the meaning of our name. Boo Radley was a pivotal character in “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and is also the name our sponsor, a store in downtown Spokane. So, for a nickname, we chose the Fightin’ Scouts, because Scout is the name of the little girl who narrates “To Kill a Mockingbird.” She happens to be a feisty little kid who gets in fights all the time, most memorably while wearing a ham costume for a school play.

“Hey, I know,” my brother once said, helpfully. “Maybe your mascot should be a ham. Your ham could dance around between innings, perform wacky antics, frolic about on the …”

No, I’m sorry, we have too much dignity for that. We believe too deeply in the history and tradition of the game to ever trivialize it with a ham. Instead, our mascot was “Jimmy the Idiot Boy,” a puppet/doll donated by the Boo Radley’s management.

However, we had a brief losing streak early in the season and I was forced to fire Jimmy. He wasn’t getting the job done. So I banished Jimmy to my trunk, and we went on to a winning season for the third year in a row.

However, for the third year in a row, we collapsed when the pressure was on. Like the NHL or the NBA, the regular season means nothing. The season-ending tournament means all. Like the Boston Red Sox, we come up with creative ways every year to blow it in the playoffs.

Here’s the sad litany: Two years ago, my car’s engine seized up on the way to the championship game. Then, during the game itself, the entire team seized up.

Last year, we fought our way valiantly into the championship game, only to discover that half of the team had plans to attend a wedding that day and the other half had plans to nap in the hammock. So we had to forfeit the championship game, which was devastating to our eight fans.

Which brings us up to this year. We were moving slowly and inexorably up the bracket toward the championship game when I noticed a little problem as we sat on the grass between games. As the wily old skipper, nothing escaped my steel-trap mind.

“Hey,” I said, counting on my fingers. “We don’t have enough players.”

One of our players had just left, and his replacement hadn’t shown up yet. So I called his replacement, the man we call Bop (partially because of his hitting, but mostly because of the song “MMMMBop”), and he told me the bad news: He was home with a very sick little 4-year-old.

“That’s OK,” I said. “Bring her along. She can keep score.”

Bop declined, proving that even a Fightin’ Scout can have the right priorities.

So with a half-hour to go, we pinned our hopes on another player, the man we call Nellie (because of his Nellie Fox-like talent and because his last name is Nelson). Nellie is one of our best players, a hard-hitting, slick-fielding speedster who has been responsible for many of the Scouts’ finest moments over the years.

So we had this elaborate scenario constructed in which Nellie would come walking down from the parking lot at the very last minute, we would all cheer, play the game, and Nellie would win it all for us with a clutch home run.

Unfortunately, this failed to transpire because Nellie happened to be on Kauai at the time.

So for the second year in a row, we had to forfeit the tournament. Even the Boston Red Sox aren’t this pathetic. They may blow their big games, but at least they show up.

So as of now, we have a new nickname, one that will strike terror into the hearts of our opponents. I hereby present to you, the Boo Radley’s Forfeitin’ Scouts.

, DataTimes MEMO: To leave a message on Jim Kershner’s voice-mail, call 459-5493. Or send e-mail to jimk@spokesman.com, or regular mail to Spokesman-Review, P.O. Box 2160, Spokane, WA 99210.