Uniform Day

A uniform announces to the world that a group has formed over a common cause and pledged to support one another in the face of adversity, often representing a greater community. That would-be strangers are now allied and that the welfare of one member of the team cannot be separated from the welfare of the others.

When I played at Barrington High School, the team hat was a familiar red but featured an oversized, unadorned white “B”as opposed to the fancier one of today. Rumor has it my varsity coach, Kirby Smith (a man both helped and hindered by extreme attention to detail), had a slew of hats mocked up with Bs in different fonts and sizes and then, like an optometrist, field-tested each at a distance of 90 feet until everyone said, “Definitely not an 8!” That hat won because, for reasons that remain elusive to me, an 8 would have been a very bad thing.

Everyone on the team wore knee-high socks or stirrups with pant legs cut no lower than the top of the calf and tugged up a few inches. “Red socks, white ball!” was chirped at the ump whenever his zone drifted a bit low and our coaching staff felt he needed a visual cue to right his perception. Coach Smith wanted us to resemble the hard-nosed, no-nonsense Cincinnati Reds teams of the early to mid ’70s that accumulated five division titles, four pennants, and two World Series titles. We were the Big Red Barrington Machine.

In a few hours you’ll have your own uniform, and you’ll never be remembered quite the same. Those photos your parents will surely snap of your tripping over your own pant cuff and awkwardly tumbling into second base while the ball bounds deep into the outfield, or your cinching your too-large belt for the tenth time during a critical at-bat, or your searching for a hand inside a sleeve long enough to pool on the bench in sub-freezing temps won’t capture everything. But they’ll certainly capture what you’ll be wearing, and for at least a spring, we’ll all be wearing the same thing. With pride, whatever the fashion gods one day say.

Hitters rounding the bases will often say of a pitch, “What a gift!” When that pitch comes from something Santa-like, it’s almost redundant.

One way to prevent a goal is to hypnotize the player who would otherwise kick the ball.

From dictionary.com: “camouflage. noun: concealment by some means that alters or obscures the appearance.” Or maybe this team’s pre-game just involves a couple rounds of paintball. 

At first glance it appears as if a medal should be hanging from the point of that V. Until you realize it’s a Canucks jersey and remember Vancouver hasn’t ever won anything.

Dress your best –> Feel your best -> Play your best

The GRID-iron.

The Buc-yucks. I’ll take two eye patches, please.