Yes, I am Bananas for Dolphins.

Though really, I have no idea what that even means, aside from it being the team name for my spring softball team.

We played all of our games at this little junkpot of a field up in Evanstson, which is actually just a patch of grass roughly the size of a couple of football fields stacked next to each other.

No infield dirt, basepaths, fences, backstops... nothing. It felt like we were really back in the 1930s in some old Sandlot, using sticks for bats and superballs for baseballs. Just a terrible, terrible place to play softball.

The outfield, the area which I choose to roam, is filled with winterkill and rocks. There are potholes and bumps within feet of each other. It's a treacherous terrain... and it's scary.

Our squad, made up of a revolving crew of a few grad students and a gaggle of undergrads at Northwestern, seemed destined for a championship, after overcoming the odds by beating seemingly more qualified teams along the way, many times fielding less than our allotted 10 players.

We had heart.

But not yesterday.

We got hammered.

10-runned in the bottom of the 6th.

It was ugly.

On defense, our infield was a sieve. Our outfielders missed the cutoff man and threw to the wrong bases. Our battery... well... they didn't really do anything wrong... but STILL.

On offense, we swung at too many balls. Popped up more than we hit line drives. Failed to hustle out slow grounders.

We were lethargic.

And on the top of that list was me.

In my first game, I hit the game-winning triple -- far over the head of the overmatched left-fielder (remember, there are no fences).

In my next game, I also had the game-winning hit, driving in two runs to take the lead over another dumpy team. I don't think I even made an out in that game...

In the matinee yesterday, I didn't do too much. A few hits... an out... No biggie. Just good enough.

But after the afternoon lull and the overbearing heat of the sun set in, I was worthless.

I missed a diving catch. A ball rolled under my glove after I stepped in a pothole. I hit high fly balls to the outfield no less than four times... The last the worst.

Bases loaded, two outs. Bananas for Dolphins is trailing the aptly named Panty Raiders by two. I'm up. Top of 6. The last four men walked. This guy couldn't find the zone.

I decide to take a strike. Home-slice groves a first-pitch strike -- the first he's thrown in the last 12 pitches. That's fine, I'm thinking. I hate walking. I never walk. Give me something. Something to drive. Something fat...

Next pitch... right down Main Street. Here it goes. I'm going to rip this bastard hard enough to put us in the lead. Just drive it to center. Don't pull the ball. Don't try to pull the ball.

Here it comes. Perfect. A FAT ONE. Don't get too excited. Don't lunge at it. Keep that back shoulder up and snap the wrists... Wait for it, wait for it...

Ping. @#%@#! I lunged. I didn't wait for it. I dropped the back shoulder. I tried to pull it.

Another pop up. Directly to the Center fielder. He calmly puts the clamps on the sky-high fly and we're put to bed, killing our rally.

Our team captain, who was left standing on third becuase of my significant failure, yells to me: "And you were the exact guy I wanted up in that situation!".... I was thinking the exact same thing.

Sensing impending defeat after the ultimate stomach-punch at-bat by me, the proverbial hot air billowed out of our broken balloon. It wasn't going to be our day.

Bananas for Dolphins went down without as much as a whimper. We folded.

But, for only fielding 8-9 guys in our three playoff games, we left our mark on Northwestern Unviersity Intramural Athletics. I hope no one remembers us.

And all I really wanted was an IM champion T-shirt.

Mission Failed.