Coming around on kickball

About a month ago—when the weather was nice enough for me to foolishly believe, in spite of six years’ worth of contrary evidence, that summer might come early this year—I found myself drafted into a game of adult kickball.

My entree into this endeavor was not without trepidation. The very idea of adult kickball has always made me roll my eyes. This is partially because I’m the kind of jerk who judges other people’s choice of fun. But it’s also because there is something very strange to me about a group of people (and, fair warning, I’m generalizing here) that never toss a football around or shoot hoops or watch a popular televised sport, yet get invested in a game like kickball. I can understand people who don’t care about sports in any way, but I couldn’t understand people who only care about kickball. I assumed that a game of kickball among 28-year-olds was just some kind of elaborate hipster-ironic performance piece.

The various characters that populate Portland’s kickball scene don’t help to dispel this idea. There’s always one or two “crazy” guys wearing ultra-small, brightly colored shorts and homemade T-shirts and huge socks and the wackiest head and wrist bands you’ve ever seen because, you know, kickball! They run around manically, begging for attention and generally annoying everyone within range.

They are joined by several varieties of bare-chested dude. There’s the quiet but enthusiastic shirtless hippie, pasty as the belly of a fish, who nonetheless has a shredded core from years of handstands and tightrope-walking in public parks. There’s the beefcake who’s barely out of his car before his shirt is off. And there’s the cool but slightly self-conscious dude who’s basically there to talk to girls sans shirt. (By the way, kickball girls? Thumbs up.)

You can see how deep-seated—and probably weirdly specific—my assumptions about this game were. But I came across some friends of friends kicking the ol’ ball in the park one Saturday, and I didn’t have the heart to turn down their gracious offer to join in.

And it was super fun.

In some ways, my gut feelings about the game were essentially correct. There were a few goofballs in their costumes and there was an appalling degree of public shirtlessness. One rugged individualist played in a flesh-colored body suit (which I personally thought was…hilarious). But I quickly learned a few things about the kickball scene that totally changed my mind about how much of a genuine blast the game can be.

First and foremost—and I cannot overstate this—kickball is a drinking game. It simply does not exist as a form of adult entertainment independent of beer. The players I joined that day displayed absolutely none of the ironic detachment I had projected onto them, but even they were aware that, without drinking, you are just a group of adults playing kickball. And that is sad and a little desperate.

The second thing I learned that altered my opinion is that kickball is really competitive in a positive way. Obviously, it’s extremely good-natured and beer-fueled, but the participants care about winning and losing. I’ve always felt that caring about winning is a really important part of sports; yes, games are fun to play and good exercise, but I can’t appreciate people who play games without feeling invested in the outcome. You don’t have to go crazy or be some kind of jock zealot, but you should definitely care. It’s healthy. It’s attractive.

And these kickballers cared. They wanted to kick well and defend well and win. It was important to them to actually try. And there was a fair amount of strategy: kickers would “bunt” to advance runners, fielders communicated about situational defense and there were even base coaches (whose utility I had never appreciated until I made a base-running gaffe that cost my team an out). These teams kept score, played people in specific positions based on ability and carefully crafted a batting order.

It was that genuine spirit that really won me over. Adult kickball wasn’t about meticulously preened cool kids begging to be looked at. There was plenty of trash talk, there were plenty of peacocking jackasses and there was plenty of beer. But there was also a deep earnestness that bordered on the wholesome. It was utterly charming and refreshing.

Adult kickball, I’m sorry I rolled my eyes at you for so long. You’re all right.