by Annie Scott
March 16, 2008

Adult softball? I stood with my coworkers trying to decide whether to make up an excuse or agree to help them avoid forfeiting the next day’s game.

Playing as an alternate on our office team sounded like potential fun and a good way to bond with new coworkers, but it also sounded a little risky. All I could think of was my last experience playing…in 3rd grade…when I fielded a solidly hit line drive with my face. Not my happiest sports memory. But, in an effort to develop a social connection with my new Capitol Hill coworkers and get some exercise, I took it under consideration. The team consisted almost exclusively of junior staff — both sexes — and played in a league made up entirely of teams from other Hill offices.

“It’s just for fun, right?”

“Of course,” explained our office press assistant, the team’s self-appointed coach. Then, reconsidering, he offered a more honest answer: “I mean, some people take it kinda seriously, but whatever. Some people are pretty good and others suck. It’s basically just an excuse to get fresh air and drink beer after the game.”

“Oh…well, okay. If you absolutely cannot find another girl to play, then I will.”

As luck would have it, they were able to recruit a girl from a “good” office down the hall, so I was off the hook for a week. That saved me from the fate of a fellow intern who was “encouraged” to leave work early on game day so that, as the lowest ranking member of either team (a fact that was pointed out at every possible opportunity), he could run out to the fields located on the National Mall around the Washington Monument and reserve a good one.

I fought the urge to laugh as I overheard the press assistant/coach trying to impress upon the intern the importance of the role: “You’d better hurry. Don’t mess around; this is serious. Once you get a field — and don’t get a crappy one — do not let another intern steal it. No matter what.”

First thing the next morning, as I distributed the newspapers, some of the “team” walked in still discussing the game. I listened in horror.

“That really sucks that she has a concussion. That guy had no business stealing on that play anyway!”

“Not surprising, though, coming from that office.”

It was then that they realized I was trying to get up to speed on what happened. “So…rough game?”

Derisive laughter. “Yeah, you could say that. Wasn’t much of a game, either, since it was called off during the 3rd inning. A guy on the other team [profane, derogatory twist on the team’s name], thought it would be a good idea to steal third and collided so hard with our third basewoman she was knocked unconscious for a moment.”

Knowing my luck, that could have been me. It’s just for fun. Ha! “That’s awful. Is she okay?”

“I guess she has a concussion, so no, not really. But I’m sure she will be. But we needed that win. ”

Good to see that priorities were in order. Throughout the day, a hostile string of BlackBerry communications was exchanged between players on each team. By day’s end, I’d decided Capitol Hill softball wasn’t for me.

Despite this rough introduction to DC rec leagues, I decided that the lure of fresh air, exercise and socializing they offered warranted trying two other sports — outdoor volleyball and kickball (the latter now an astonishingly popular adult pastime in that town). This time I opted out of Hill leagues and played with my former coworkers from my old consulting office. Volleyball took place Wednesdays after work on the Mall near the Capitol – a scenic bonus. It was also an amusing contrast — the hardworking professionals exchanging their business suits for t-shirts and sweats, surrounded by grandiose, historical icons of architecture as they played games common to any grade school playground or gym.

Volleyball was a relatively dignified affair — though by no means low-key. While most players didn’t act like they wanted to kill someone if they lost a point, there were notable exceptions (usually the one guy on the court who was sporting knee pads, cut-off sleeves and sweat bands while complaining the net wasn’t “Olympic regulation”). The winning team was declared on the best-of-three rule and, following the last point, everyone would congratulate each other on a good game, then head over to honor tradition by sharing several pitchers of beer and discussing a variety of mostly civilized topics that would carry over to the Metro ride home. Thank goodness for public transportation.

Our kickball league played Thursday nights in the bar-friendly Adams Morgan neighborhood. Of the two sports, it was certainly the rowdier and more dramatic. My brother, after observing a game during a DC visit, noted his surprise at how intense it all was…and how it had inspired language he had never heard come out of his little sister’s mouth. His nickname for me changed from Anners to City Sass.

In kickball, the stakes seemed higher, the skills as important as the unsubtly innuendo’d team names. Antagonisms were enflamed by what was published in the league-wide e-newsletter each week. Possibly because the players were generally younger and determined to prove that this game, learned on the playground as children, was a serious athletic pursuit for their professional adult selves, kickball was a raucous game. The drinking tradition was honored not just post-game but also pre-game, making things all the more entertaining and volatile. The overall atmosphere was unmistakably, disturbingly “college”… a fact of which nearly all participants seemed inexplicably proud.

Before our first game, our coach passed out brightly colored jerseys and shouted out the batting order. I was dead last and would play outfield every inning. Shocking.

The game started and the level of play was…surprising. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this. How naïve. The field was animated with serious trash-talking, a full range of skill and effort levels, and not-so-subtle partisan clashes. When I got my first “hit” I made it to second before getting the wind knocked out of me by the giant red ball. The other team’s 250-pound shortstop apparently felt the need to summon all his kickball-heaving force to keep me from the base. It was enough to make me forget we were all technically adults.

But by now I should have guessed that even recreational sports in Washington, DC broke down along party lines and were to be taken as seriously as everything else in town. In DC, competition was competition; “recreation” was just another word for it.

Annie Scott lives and works in San Diego, where she tries to make a difference every day.