If you were to watch Steve Buford in the stands in weeks past cheering for his son at a local little league baseball game, you would probably say that it isn’t “cheering” as much as it is “making the manager fear for his life unless he chances his kid mistaking a bluebird for a baseball.”
That’s because Buford’s son, Freddie, would see more playing time as the guy smoothing out the dirt on the groundskeeping crew than as the kid who commits more errors than the blades of grass he counts, and this kid counts a lot of fucking grass.
“Unfortunately, this league doesn’t allow a fourth outfielder, which would have been the best way to hide Freddie’s inability to give a shit about baseball. I’ve had to play him and be the dick who interrupts his nacho and chili cheese dog feast in the past to make sure his dad wouldn’t be waiting outside my house the next morning smacking a Louisville Slugger against his palm. Even though that would still be a better batting stance than this perfectly healthy kid can muster, who looks like he’s trying to convince you he has scoliosis at the plate,” said little league manager and hardware store assistant manager Scott Thomas.
Luckily for the other parents who are often hit with collateral spit during a Buford temper tantrum, like shrapnel from a bomb of Busch Light day-drinking, Steve is starting to realize that baseball might not be the right sport for his son.
“Over the years I’ve realized that Freddie gets more excited when he sees something fried at the concession stand than when one of his teammates hits a home run, so a sport like bowling might fit his sensibility better. I’m pretty sure you have to either be holding a bowling ball or a nacho at all times if you’re in a bowling league, so Freddie would fit right at home,” said the elder Buford.
“Whenever he focuses he always has a look on his face like he just saw a hot neighbor leave her window curtains open, which is the best way to describe a bowler right before he plows through ten pins. That’s the perfect sport for him,” echoed Thomas.
Maybe it’s bowling, or maybe it’s chess, but if there’s anything that wobbles more than Freddie chasing a pop fly in the outfield after getting distracted from trying to decide which Jersey Shore character he would be, it would be a corner pin after a bowler barely misses a strike after forgetting to wipe his hands after savagely devouring a plate of hot wings.