A moment of his own

/ By / In / 12 Comments

When Evelyn, an outfielder for the Rockford Peaches women’s baseball team, misses a throw to the cutoff player, manager Jimmy Dugan unloads on her in a string of very vocal invectives.

Screaming, “Who’s team are you playing for?!” he reduces the young woman to tears. Evelyn’s reaction leaves a stunned Jimmy bellowing, “Are you crying?!” He follows it immediately with one of the classic lines of filmdom:

“There’s no crying in baseball!”

A problem guy

Dugan, a lead character in the film, A League of Their Own, is a case study of a guy with a short fuse. quickened even more by frustration and alcohol. Happily, for his players, he learns to lay off the booze and get a handle on his anger.

The scene where he first does the latter nearly causes him to implode. It also provides one of the funniest moments of this classic movie.

When Evelyn makes the same throwing error again, he signals with a summoning index finger for her to see him as the inning ends. Evelyn is full of trepidation, and Jimmy is trying mightily (yet visibly) to keep his emotional volcano from exploding. His entire body is in a state of tremor.

Steam rises

He begins his speech in a wordless manner as his hands do the talking while he twists his face into a pained smile inches from her face. Then he says in a forced, hushed tone, “You … missed … the … cutoff … again. Is that … something … you could work on? Thank you.”

His faux smile and the lack of vocal vitriol makes a genuine smile come to Evelyn’s face as she realizes Jimmy is trying to be nice. She knows she has just dodged a hand grenade and merrily runs back to the dugout.

I’ve seen this movie at least 10 times, and each time I realize how hard it was for Jimmy Dugan to tame his inner tiger at that moment. Once done, however, it seemed easier for him to handle the team of professional women baseball players he had been handed. And to win more games to boot.

A real struggle

As one prone to anger in his younger years, I understand the process Jimmy was going through. It was a painful, belated, growing-up experience for him. It’s a process that doesn’t work for all anger-prone adults, and it took time for me to get on the other side of it.

Still, as was the case with Jimmy Dugan, the resulting life just seems more peaceful without the pyrotechnics.

And, who knows? Maybe that peace helps keep crying out of baseball.

A Donkey On The Edge

/ By / In / 9 Comments

 

A Donkey On The Edge

Okay let’s talk short fuses. Not the kind that light your Marlboro cigarettes on the Fourth of July (although, hey, if you do you – then boo hoo for you.). I’m talking about the human variety, the folks who walk around with tempers simmering just below the surface, like a pot of chili perpetually threatening to boil over. You know the type. The ones we have to tiptoe around, carefully enunciating every syllable like they are defusing a bomb with a thesaurus.

Let’s be honest, short fuses can be, well, a pain in the arse. Like that coworker who explodes over stapler theft: “Seriously, Brenda, it’s a communal stapler, let it go”. Or the family member who turns Thanksgiving dinner into a WWE Smackdown because someone dared to suggest cranberry sauce is an abomination. They yell, they slam doors, they make faces that would curdle milk. It’s enough to make you want to invest in a lifetime supply of earplugs and tension tamer stress balls.

But here’s the thing: there’s more to the short-fuse story than meets the eye. Sure, they might light up like a birthday sparkler at the slightest breeze, but there’s often a reason for their pyrotechnics. Maybe they’re wired differently, their neurons firing like hyperactive hummingbird wings. Maybe they’re passionate beings, feeling everything tenfold, the good, the bad, and the ugly sweater your aunt insists on wearing every year. Maybe they’ve got inner demons they’re battling, invisible wounds that make every interaction a potential landmine.

Who are we to judge, right? We all come with our own baggage, our own quirks, our own ways of navigating this messy, glorious, infuriating thing called life. And for some folks, that navigation system involves a big, red “ANGER” button that gets accidentally pressed a little too often.

So, next time you encounter a short fuse, try taking a step back. Instead of running for the hills, try a little empathy. Maybe offer a sympathetic ear, a non-judgmental shoulder to cry on. Or what the hell – just pass the damn cranberry sauce and let the fireworks fly. You might be surprised at what you find beneath the smoke and fury.

Because here’s the other thing about short fuses: they often burn bright. They’re the ones who stand up for what they believe in, even when it’s scary. They’re the ones who fight for the underdog, the ones who laugh the loudest, the ones who love the fiercest. They’re the human equivalent of a Roman candle, spitting sparks and flames, but illuminating the night sky with their intensity.

So, yeah, short fuses can be a handful. But let’s not forget, they’re also the ones who keep things interesting, if worrisome. They’re the ones who remind us that life is meant to be lived passionately, even if it means occasionally setting the tablecloth on fire. And who knows, maybe a little bit of that short-fuse energy is exactly what we all need to spice up our own lives, though just a dash – not a full-on inferno mind you.

So, raise a glass (or a fire extinguisher, whichever you have handy) to the short fuses among us. They may make us nervous, they may make us laugh, they may make us want to hide under the table, but one thing’s for sure: they never let us forget that life is anything but boring. And honestly, in this beige, lukewarm world, that’s something to be grateful for, even if it comes with a side of singed eyebrows.