JOAN, THE BASEBALL FAG

October 21, 2003 | 9:23pm

Gay baseball, otherwise known as softball is a popular sport in Phoenix. There are B, C, D, gay and lesbian divisions. On Sundays, we turn an ordinary ghetto baseball park into a gay Mecca filled with jock homosexuals. Four of these teams qualified for the gay World Series this year. Although my team didn’t win a single game the first season I played, we were the most entertaining.

Character Profile
Name: Joan
Real Name: Bob
Skill Level: High, he should be on B or C team but smokes before and after batting…and while catching…and pitching…and while stretching…correction, instead of stretching.
Special Powers: Joan has the ability to kill one’s ego by replacing everyone’s name with that of a girl’s.
Demeanor: Total bitch.
Popularity Rating: Everyone loves him for his catty humor and his deep voice. He talks like Marge Simpson’s sisters.

I never knew Joan’s real name was Bob until after it happened. Those were dark times, we hadn’t won a game, more than once the ump stopped the game after fifteen minutes because we were loosing by…well it was a lot and I had stopped counting.

Joan…from this point on, Joan will be refereed to as a "she" even though her gender is male. Hence, he’s a she, only she’s really a he. And once I finally got used to that, it happened…

Joan is in the outfield belittling the batter with phrases. "I’ve seen better swingers at bar," she shouts. Elias a.k.a. E-Lo at bat misses the next laughing from her comment. But wanting to shut her up, he smacks one right to her. Joan reaches for it, her mit over her head, but it ricochets off it and smacks her right in-between the eyes. Bitch goes down.

As the queens on my team gasp from her un-diva like and very ungraceful collapse, I hear, "SHE’S BLEEDING!"

We all rush out to meet her, crowding around her in circular fashion like secret service men protecting the president from a sniper. No wait, like paparazzi around a half-naked Colin Ferral and Brad Pitt street-fight. Nah, I guess it would be more like paparazzi catching Gweneth Paltow falling on the red carpet if her heal cracked in half. Anyway, she’s breathing but bleeding out of her new third eye. "SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE! SHE’S GOING TO DIE. AND I KILLED HER." E-Lo wails.

She moves. Her lips open and she says, "Someone get me a cigarette!" Bitch is fierce, I’ll give her that. Jonathan a.k.a. Buffy is the biggest guy on our team. He’s 6’1" and about the same in width. He hands her a cigarette. She puffs away as blood oozes down her check. Buffy leans over and asks, "how many of us are there?"

"I see three of you! Oh, wait…that’s just you Buffy."

We get Joan up and walk her to our bench and wait for the ambulance. While we sit, she takes off the bandage on her head and the wound re-opens. She takes a drag of her cigarette and slaps the bandage back on. Those of us who see the gash dry heave from the gore that is Joan’s fucked-up forehead.

The ambulance arrives, ooh firemen! Dana, our smooth talking music teacher/outfielder actually manages to get a phone number from one of the very hunky fireman. We hate him.

Head, shoulders, torso, abdomen, groin, and legs are strapped onto a stretcher. Each Velcro strap is a different color of the rainbow, in order and number in respect to the gay flag, how appropriate. She’s hoisted up and just then her arms loosen. "Are we going to the Chute?"

Joan’s carried away and we watch as if she was the grand marshal of gay pride, leading the parade to the endless field of naked and sweaty men. Maybe she did go to the Chute that night. We’ll never know. We all wave as if we would never see her again. And I never do. She quit the team after she left the hospital to become a full-time drinker and marathon chain-smoker.

I hear she’s still alive, using her special power and cursing the locals. Sometimes, when I’m in a bar I hear a deep voice calling out that name that she bestowed onto me many years ago: Regina.