Years ago, I used to watch Dorkass' occasional softball game. Actually, I was more of a participant. I'd stand behind the backstop during her at bats, heckling.
"You really should think about vertical stripes," I'd say as she swung. And she would positively crush the ball over the outfielders' heads, pausing to glare at me before she sprinted to first. I have no idea what she was imagining the ball was, but you couldn't help but admire her power.
I hadn't gone to her softball games in 10 years when I decided to take one in recently. She was not thrilled. A decade of gooey slugglishness has softened her skills considerably. I even felt a flicker of empathy. No, this time I remained on the bleachers, from which I heard her ruefully snap "You know you suck when John isn't saying anything."
Truer words.
They played on. Dorkass stepped to the plate for the fourth time. Immediately before the windup, the opposing pitcher turned her head and yelled "LEFT FIELD!!" to her left-fielder. Ca-RACK! went Dorkass' floating fly ball, straight to the left-fielder.
I was finally properly motivated. "Hey Dorkass, you're supposed to call your shot, not the pitcher!"
Ah, there's the glare.