Squat Body Sam

An optimistic loser at life tries to make it in pro sports; ANY pro sport! Sorry about the end of sentences being cut off, but...!

Squatbody Sam

 

 

     “Hut one, hut two, hike!” came the cry from quarterback Colt Slinger.  ‘Squatbody’ Sam Splunger went from his position at fullback, out on his pass route.  Towards the sidelines, about 15 yards up the field he went.  He turned, and there was the pass.  He cradled his arms, made the catch, and went tumbling out of bounds.

 

     “Great catch, # 44!” yelled Head Coach Adam Archdale. 

 

     Sam was happy.  Even though the coach didn’t remember his name, he had been singled out for praise.  Sam had told himself this was his final shot, that if he failed to make the team this time, he’d hang up his cleats and get a so-called real job.  Making a pro football team had been his dream ever since he had seen his first game.  He had tried out for, and failed to make, 3 different teams, and his parents were hinting they wanted him to move out of their basement.  He’d told them if he failed to make the team this time, he’d get a real paying job, and move out.  This time he was desperate! 

 

 

     Practice was over, and Sam was walking back to the locker room, when Coach Archdale’s voice stopped him.

 

    “Wait, 44, I’d like to see you in my office.  Oh, and bring your playbook!”

 

     Oh s**t!  He’d had to do this 3 times before, and knew he was being cut.  He totally went off. 

 

     “S***w you, Coach!  You brainless fricking wonder!  I know I can play in this league, but nobody sees my talent.  All you guys see is a dude with no neck, short, stubby legs, and no visible talent.  No one looks beyond appearances, and sees my heart.  I’m telling you, I can play!  If you weren’t so fricking blind and stupid, you’d see that.”

 

     Coach Archdale replied, “Well son, I was going to add a play with you as my secret weapon, but if you’re not interested…”

 

     Sam couldn’t believe his ears!  He had expected to be s**t-canned, but here was Coach Archdale telling him, with a straight face, he was putting in a play just for him. 

 

     “I’m so sorry, Coach; I thought you were cutting me.  Yeah, I’m interested, you bet!” 

 

     “Cutting you?  No, no, we’re going to put you to good use.  You’re chunky, you’re short, and we’ll use those things to our advantage.  No one in their right mind would ever expect you to slip out of the backfield and go long for a pass.”

 

     Sam was a little bit annoyed at being called chunky and short, but he was excited for the opportunity.  “Gee, thanks Coach, I guess, and I won’t let you down!”

 

 

     It was game time.  He hadn’t played a down during the pre-season, and now that the games counted for real, Sam was so nervous, as he paced up and down the sidelines.

 

   “For crying out loud, would you give the pacing s**t a rest?  You’re making everybody nervous!” chastised Coach Archdale. 

 

     Sam physically stopped moving, but mentally, he kept pacing.  He was struggling with impatience.  Come on, kick off the damn ball already, he thought to himself.  This waiting crap was too fricking hard.  Soon, he’d have a chance to prove them all wrong, the coach, his parents, his teammates, the opposing team, the T.V. audience, the referees, the stadium employees, and the fans in attendance. 

 

 

     There were only 10 seconds to go in the game, and his team was behind by six.  Sam was seething with anger at the coach.  The whole game, he’s been primed to enter the game and run the special play, made just for him, and now the game was almost over and it looked like Coach had forgotten him.  He was so hacked, when Coach yelled, “#44!” he almost didn’t hear. 

 

     “#44, get you’re a** over here.”

 

     Sam freaked, grabbed his helmet, and ran up to Coach, blurting, “Here I am, Coach.  I’m ready!”

    

     Coach told him “You know what to do.  Curl out of the backfield, go long, and Colt will find you.  Now, we’re down by 6, so we need a touchdown.  Can I count on you?”

 

     Sam practically shouted, “You know it Coach!  You can count on me!”

 

     “Alright then, get in there.”

 

 

     Sam almost tripped over his own feet, as over the loudspeaker, he heard,

 

     “Now entering the game, #44, Splunger!”  As he excitedly ran out to the huddle, a chorus of unrestrained laughter erupted from the stands, the opposing team, and his own players.  Ignoring that, he entered the huddle, and told Colt,

 

     “Coach says run play XX34.”

    

    Colt stared back at him with incredulity “XX34?  Are you sure he called that play?”

 

     Sam answered in the affirmative.

 

     “Okay, listen up, everyone.  XX34 on 3.  Ready, break!”

 

     Sam ignored the hostile looks he received from his teammates, and concentrated on the play.  This was the moment he would make the name ‘Squatbody’ Sam Splunger a name among the immortal heroes of the gridiron.  Colt was set to take the snap.  He screamed,

 

     “Hut one, hut two, hut three!” 

 

     On the third ‘Hut’ Sam was off.  He curled out of the backfield, and just as Coach had predicted, no one had covered him.  He was wide open!  He sprinted up the field, turned, and there came the ball, arcing lazily toward him.  The home crowd was on their feet and screaming; they could sense looming victory.  Sam prepared himself to make the grab.  Now, he had to remember to score a touchdown, although, the way the pass floated towards him, staying on his feet should be no problem.  It was coming right to him.  He cradled his hands, ready to catch the pass softly in his arms, and"missed it!  The ball bounced off his hands, and high in the air.  He could still catch it.  He started to lunge high, and his cleats caught in the turf, sending him sprawling, as the football thumped harmlessly to the turf.  From the ground, Sam heard a collective groan from the crowd, and then the booing started.  He couldn’t believe it; he’d had his big-time dream right in his hands, and he’d fricking let it slip through away, along with the football. 

 

 

     The booing grew more intense, and he heard horrible taunts from the crowd, but the worst was from Coach:

 

     “Ah, s**t!  You screwed that one up, but good.  You suck steaming s**t, you fricking reject.  Yeah, that’s what you are: a steaming s**t-sucking reject!”

 

     As he ducked all the debris thrown out of the stands, and made his way to the sidelines, he felt, rather than saw, the angry, dagger-like stares from the other players. From somewhere down the bench he heard,

 

     “Just keep on going, there, #44, you’re through playing for my team!” from Coach Archdale.  Great!  Now what?

 

 

 

     He strode confidently into the gym.  He heard the others laugh, and kept his head down.  Sam (Squatbody) Splunger knew he didn’t look like anyone’s idea of the classic basketball player: tall and lanky.  No, he was short and chunky, but inside him beat the heart of a warrior, the heart of a champion!  After failing in four attempts to make it in pro football, his best sport, he had been totally depressed.  It didn’t help much that his parents called him a loser, and kicked him out of their house.  He’d found a menial job, rented a one bedroom dump of an apartment, and lamented the fact he had failed to make in his dream of playing pro football.  After wallowing in self-pity for three or four months, he began to revise his dream: if he couldn’t make it in football, maybe he could in basketball.  True, he sucked at basketball, but he had enough heart to get better, quickly.  And so, when he’d seen in his newspaper there was an open tryout for the Duluth Tusks of the Junior Round-Ball Outdoor Basketball Confederation, he’d jumped at the chance.  And so, here he was, and found himself surrounded by 6-6 or taller dudes who looked at him , and they all started laughing.  Then the coach, who was also laughing, said,

 

     “Eh, ha , ha!  And just are you?  Whoever’s playing the practical joke, it’s a good one.  No more jokes.  Let’s start practice!”

 

     Sam replied, “This is no joke; I want to try out to make your team!”

 

     “As what?  The new mascot?” shot back the coach.

 

     Sam had his feelings hurt, and retorted, “Not the mascot; as a ball player!”

 

     The coach looked incredulously at him, and said, “Phi, Slama Jama, you?  You’ve got to be kidding!”

 

     “No, I’m not kidding; this was supposed to be an open tryout, but I guess not!” Sam yelled at the coach. 

 

     The coach replied, “Okay, sure; you’ll get your chance!” then, to the others, he said, “Let’s begin with a scrimmage.  You, you’re over here!” he said, pointing to Sam, and, after choosing nine other players, and, after taking the others off to the side and whispering something, the scrimmage began.  Sam ran down the court, and screamed,

 

     “I’m open!” and the ball was passed to him, much too hard he thought, and as he tried to catch it, bounced off his forehead, and flew out of bounds. 

 

     “What was that?” yelled the coach.  “Take it out right here,” he then added, pointing to a spot on the sidelines right in front of him. 

 

     The ball was thrown in to him, and Sam somehow hung on to it this time.  “Shoot, shoot!” he heard someone yell, and so he turned towards the basket, jumped into the air, and cocked his wrist to let the shot go.  As he reached his release point, a big tall guy suddenly loomed right in front of him , causing him to lose control of the ball, as the tall guy’s fist smashed down on the top of his head.  With the impact, he summer-salted, and landed hard on the court. 

 

     “Foul!  That’s a foul!” he said loudly.

 

     “I didn’t see a foul; play on!” replied the coach, who was refereeing the scrimmage.

 

     “What?” Sam screamed in a rage.

 

     The coach answered, “No foul, I said!  

 

     Sam couldn’t believe his ears.  “Come on; how could you not have seen that!” he snapped.

 

     The coach replied defiantly, “Are you calling me a blind liar?”

 

     Sam answered, “Not a liar!”

 

     The coach then said, “Well, never let it be said I didn’t give you a shot; I’m trimming down the roster a little, as we have too many players.  Consider yourself trimmed!”

 

     “What?  You call that a fair shot?” Sam shot back.

 

     The coach replied, “I never said anything about fair!”

    

 

     Sam walked dejectedly towards the locker room.  Behind him, came the sound of catcalls and open laughter, and Sam whirled around to see that not only were the players pointing and laughing, but so was the coach.  Damn them all! 

 

 

     Maybe football and basketball weren’t his sports, but he’d try other sports, until he found the right one.

 

Chapter Two:

 

     He could smell the grass even before he got to the baseball field.  His eyes started watering, and he fought back a sneeze as he walked towards the baseball diamond that represented his latest shot to make it to stardom as a professional athlete.  He had terrible allergies, and, his broken leg hurt terribly, but he wasn’t going to let any allergies or broken bones stop him.  Sam (Squatbody) Splunger knew that this was almost his last, best, shot at glory.  He’d broken his leg two weeks before, and, sure, it was bad, but, thanks to the pain medication he had been doubling up on, he had almost forgotten why he was even taking it anymore, but, wow, the buzz!  It had been bad timing, but if he wanted to achieve his dream, he’d have to play.  The doctor at the hospital wouldn’t release him, but he’d taken a double dose of his meds, snuck out in the middle of the night, and somehow, he’d made it to the field. 

 

  

     Wow, was he ever tripping!  This pain medication was some wicked s**t; he was flying!  He strode over to where the other players were gathered around what looked to be the manager.  He’d arranged this tryout with the very-minor league Laramie Lassos of the Arena Indoor Winter Baseball League while flat on his back in a hospital bed by totally b*********g.  He claimed to have a fastball which clocked at over one hundred miles an hour, a curve that looked like it dropped off the table, and a knuckleball that looked ‘to be dancing the twist’ as it floated towards home plate.  How he was ever to back up those wild claims?  The manager had noticed him limping up to his side and said,

 

     “You don’t look too good, or rather your leg doesn’t.”

 

     Sam glanced down at his broken leg, and saw the bone sticking out, and what looked to be a river of blood running down to his shoe, where it disappeared.  He didn’t feel a thing.

 

     “Oh, that.  It’s nothing; it’s just a scratch.  Let’s play ball!”

 

     “It sure looks like more than a scratch, but, if you feel okay, ah, what’s your name? replied the manager. 

 

     Sam told him, “My name is Sam Splunger.”

 

     The manager answered with, “Splunger?  From what you told us, you can pitch.  This I have to see for myself.  Hit the mound and show me what you’ve got.”

 

     Sam knew he had to think of something plausible as to why he couldn’t pitch.  “Oh, I just pitched both ends of a double header yesterday, for my church league, and my arm is so sore.”

 

     “Oh, that’s too bad.  Well, are you okay to bat?” asked the manager.

 

     “Sure thing, Skip,” and he grabbed a bat from the bat rack, and headed up to the plate.  Damn; his pain medication seemed to be wearing off.  Suddenly, his lower leg was shooting burning, nauseating stabs of pure torture up his leg. 

 

     “Just give me a minute to clear my head.”  He went behind the backstop, and popped a handful of pain pills into his mouth.  Damn, did that leg ever hurt!  He washed down the pills with a long, deep pull on his flask of whisky he had hidden in his sock.  After a few seconds, he was feeling much better. 

 

     “Okay, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”  He stepped into the batters box, and stared out to the pitching mound.  Wow, maybe it was just him, but, the guy doing the pitching looked to have three heads.  Suddenly, the scene was hilarious to him.  Just as the as the middle head stared in to get the sign from the catcher who was crouched behind the him, Sam started laughing uncontrollably, and his allergies hit with full force.  The 3-headed pitcher reared back and fired his pitch; Sam’s eyes were watery, convulsions of laughter caused him to stagger forward, and then everything went black.

    

 

     Sam came to with the concerned manager’s face leering above him.  “Www-what happened?” asked a groggy Sam. 

 

     The manager replied, “Good, you’re awake!”

 

     “Www-where am I?” Sam managed to sputter.

 

     “You walked right into the pitcher’s fastball,” the manager answered.

 

     Then, it all came back to him.  “What happened to the three-headed pitcher?  Eh, ha, ha!”

 

     The manager looked concerned, and responded, “A three-headed pitcher?  Its way worst than I thought.”  

 

     Sam didn’t like the sound of that.  Suddenly, he was confused, and his leg was killing him.  “So, do you think I’ll make the team, skip?”

 

     The manager patted his shoulder and replied, “Ah-sure, kid!  You’ll be my opening day starter.”

 

     Sam had done it.  He’d finally made it in pro ball!

 

 

     Sam woke up later that day and could hear the manager talking on his cell phone just outside his hospital room,

 

     “…and the pitch hit him right in the head.  Well, things like he swears the pitcher had three heads, and I had to tell him he’d be my opening day starting pitcher to calm him down.  And, he appears not to have noticed his broken leg bone is sticking out of his leg.”

 

     What?  He had completely forgotten about his broken leg!  He looked down at his leg, and saw the jagged white of bone which protruded from his baseball sock.  Well, that would explain his leg hurti…then came the blackness.

 

 

     “Fore!” yelled Sam (Squatbody) Splunger.  He needed to practice, for the big pro golf tournament was tomorrow.  He’d come here, the local public course, to get in a few holes.  But he was only on the first tee, and already, he had lost three of his golf balls, two in the river which ran nearby, and now, this one.  He’d shanked it off the tee, and it was heading for a group of golfers who had finished the 18^th hole, and were walking towards their cars.  Upon hearing his cry, they looked up, alarmed.  They all covered their heads and dove behind a new-looking luxury car.  The miss-hit ball shattered the windshield of the car, prompting one of the group to exclaim,

 

     “Son of a b***h!  I just bought that car!”

 

     Sam walked briskly away, and dodged through some woods which bordered the golf course.  He removed his hat and outer sweater so they wouldn’t recognize him, and headed for his car.  Behind him, he heard the angry voices of the golfers,

 

     “I tell you, the b*****d came through these woods!”

 

     Sam started running, until he had reached the parking lot, where he resumed normal walking just as the group of angry golfers came storming out of the woods. 

   

     Glancing around, all they saw was a golfer, dressed in white, casually stepping into his car.  The golfer responsible for the broken window had on a yellow shirt, so they kept moving, right by Sam Splunger.  After the angry group had rounded a corner, out of his sight, Sam removed his yellow sweater from his golf bag, and threw it in the back seat of his car. 

 

 

     Sam was set to tee off next.  He was very nervous, remembering his last tee-off attempt.  He had to tee off, if he wanted to achieve his long-sought-after dream of becoming a professional athlete.  He had crashed and burned on his three previous attempts, first, as a pro football player, second, as a professional basketball player, and, in his last futile attempt, as a professional baseball player.  He was just about to give up, when he’d seen a professional golf tournament on television, and his eyes bugged out when he’d heard the prize for finishing first.  He couldn’t believe it; all that money!  He’d decided then and there he’d give golf a try.  He’d gone to a local amateur pro-am, and paid his entry fee for the Greater Kalamazoo Amateur Golf Tournament.  True, it wasn’t exactly professional, but if you finished in the top three spots, you earned the right to play in the next professional golf tournament.  

 

     “Teeing off next, we have Sam Slunger.”

 

      Oh s**t!  His hands were shaking as he thrust his tee into the hard dirt.  Calm down and grab the 3-wood, he told himself, as he unsuccessfully tried to block out the many spectators.  He approached the ball, took a couple of practice swings, concentrated on lining up his tee shot, and swung back his driver.  Well, after all, how bad could he do? Down came the club face, driving into the ball with power!  The ball shot away to the left, scattering spectators, and a television crew from a local television station, filming a spot for the evening news.  “Thump”, then “Ouch!” His tee shot had arced crazily into an older gentleman, and he went down.  Sam was mortified, and wanted to run away, but made himself run over to the older gentleman and blurt out,

 

     “Are you okay?  I’m so sorry!  I don’t know what happened.”

 

     The older gentleman replied, as he struggled to a sitting position and gasped for breath, “Hhuuuhhh-I’ll tell you what happened-hhhuuuhhh-you’re an uncoordinated moron,-hhhuuuhhh-that’s what the fricking problem is!”

 

     Sam was taken aback.  He hadn’t expected the old guy to berate him in public.  He quickly managed, “Like I said, I’m sorry and I hope you’re not hurt too awful bad.”

 

     The older gentleman started a sarcastic reply, which was cut of as he was racked by pain.  “Thanks for nothing, you son of a---oh, ahhh!”

 

     With his cry of pain, Sam ran back to the tee, placed a new ball quickly in place, and teed off, with much trepidation.  Too his relief, the ball rocketed out onto the course safely.  Man, that had been embarrassing!  He walked down the course, the golfers playing behind him, who all had rented a golf cart, yelled at him to hurry his a**.  He was much too broke to afford renting a cart, so he half-ran, half-walked briskly to where his ball rested.  Hurriedly, he selected a 5 iron from his bag and gave the ball a wack.  This hole was a par 4, and he judged the club should be enough, except he had hit it wildly and the ball flew off to the right.  It was headed right for another group of golfers.

    

     “Fore!” he screamed.  Not again!  The second group of golfers looked up, alarmed, and seeing his drive heading towards them, scattered, and dove out of the way.  After his ball landed safely, on the wrong fairway, the group of golfers stood up, giving him plenty of dirty looks.  He called out,

 

     “Sorry!” then slunk by them to play his ball.                           

 

       

     He was on the tee of the last hole, finally!  He was dog tired, and he had found out pro golf wasn’t in the cards for him.  He had so far shot a 103, which, considering par for this course was 65, meant he was well out of the top three, hell, he was well out of the top 85, which, considering there were only 85 golfers, meant he was last.  He saw his 103 on the board, and saw his name in last place, and said,

 

     “Ah, the hell with this!” and took a vicious swing at the ball.  Figuring he would never play again, he didn’t have anything to lose.  He would try to drive the ball over the trees lining the fairway, which curved around a bend.  His drive sent the ball left of where he was shooting for, and, considering the fairway bent right, it wasn’t good. 

 

     “Fore!” Sam screamed, for the third time today.  A third group of golfers had to hit the deck to avoid Sam’s stray missile.  Even as the third group was standing up, Sam was running for the parking lot.  This day had been a disaster!  He heard angry shouts behind him, as he reached his car.  Spraying loose gravel over the cars behind him, he floored the gas, and thought to himself,

 

     Well, I sucked at that; maybe I should just pack it in and flush the idea of ever making it big in sports, right down the s*****!

 

 

The End 

Reviews

[char]

I don't follow football, but I love baseball. As for this guy, he is completely strange. But I love the fact that he doesn't give up. But it gets pathetic fast....

[Michael Stevens]

If there's one thing I consider myself qualified to write about, it's pathetic; lol! Baseball's by far my favorite sport also.

[Junert]

Hahahaha I hate sports. And if you want something so bad that you even refuse to see you are no good, it's a disease. I love this story, and with good length too. Just that I thought his last play of the golf would have been near successful. Maybe get him on number 84.

[Michael Stevens]

Thank you; yeah, this guy is delusional; and I like your idea; but I can't see ANYONE being worse than this guy!

[Junert]

Hahahaha yeah. Still amuses me.

[Michael Stevens]

Thank you, and it still cracks me up, and I know what's coming!