That is, until this past May, when he came face to face with what has become the answer to his social void: a big, red kickball and a friendly team of players to meet each week on the playing fields of Adams Morgan.
The fields are conveniently located to Tom Tom, the bar where the teams converge Monday or Wednesday nights after the games.
Swatting flies away from his face last Wednesday evening in the steamy heat, Orr looked ecstatic just to be there as he waited for his teammates to arrive in their matching gray T-shirts with navy-blue trim. Their team is called Guanacos (slang for El Salvadorans) because some of the team members are ex-Peace Corps volunteers who served together in the Central American country.
Other team names reflect the pre-adolescent age when most participants first played the sport — in elementary school. For instance, last week the Guanacos played Third-Grader’s Revenge. Another team is called the Fockers.
The league, D.C. Kickball, to which Orr belongs, formed in May as a rival to the one existing league, the World Adult Kickball Association (WAKA). D.C. Kickball’s creator, Carter Roabasa, an information-technology consultant in Chevy Chase who plays for the Fockers, says he had played kickball for a few years but wanted to do continue to do so on his own terms. His league has 16 teams, with 12 members per team, four of whom must be women in order for the team to play.
Orr had played softball for the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC) but wasn’t thrilled with its intensely competitive vibe.
“It’s a tougher sport,” he said. “There’s a certain pressure to catch the ball.”
Kickball, on the other hand?
“[It’s] really hard to take seriously,” he said. “It’s the classic silly staffer activity. It’s a vehicle for socializing because we’re never going to get into the Olympics. It’s fun; it’s a nice diversion. Most days of the week, you’re tired, you want to go home, you have your set group of friends.”
Just then, Orr, who exudes a carefree attitude about the game, looked up to notice that there is an injury on the field. A woman was down, lying flat on her back. Orr explained that there had just been a midfield collision.
“Uh-oh,” he said, laughing. “We got an injury.” (The woman turned out to be fine and was seen later drinking water on the sidelines.)
Minor cuts and bruises aside, kickball can truly be as entertaining to watch as it is to play.
“Take risks everyone. Take risks,” shouted the team’s captain, Kate Larned.
It was difficult to know what her order really meant, as sometimes the ball was kicked but flew backwards and other times it soared into the trees.
Louie Meizlish, 23, a legislative assistant for Rep. Joe Schwarz (R-Mich.) appeared to take the game seriously as he served as pitcher for Third-Grader’s Revenge.
After a recent move to D.C. from Beverly Hills, Mich., a friend persuaded him to join the team. He said playing kickball help soothe some bitterness over failing to make the softball team during his freshman year of high school.
“It’s a rubber ball,” he said. “You can kick the s- - - out of it. I can really make a positive impact.”
While alcohol has traditionally been a staple of softball games around town, many fields now impose strict no-alcohol policies, so drinking during the game is not allowed.
“People who played softball got lit,” explained Orr. “Softball used to be about drinking.”
The actual kickball games are wholesome. But that isn’t the case once the game ends.
“The fun part is after the game [when] every team goes to Tom Tom,” said Orr. “That’s the ritual. You come play the game, [and then] you go hit the bars.”
Once at Tom Tom, the teams play flip cup, where the players’ competitive streak continues into the evening. The game works like this: Two lines are formed. Each player’s cup is one-fourth full with beer. One player chugs and then flips the cup with one finger, trying to get the cup to land upside down. If it lands that way, the next player drinks and flips.
Chris Miller, a staffer who works for a Southern Democratic senator, wouldn’t mention where he works because the press office hadn’t cleared it. Miller, 25, who plays for Third-Grader’s Revenge, said he joined the league to expand his social circle. A recent University of Michigan graduate, he said a majority of his friends are from school. So far, he added, “it’s been a blast.”
Not as competitive as softball, kickball is a sport that isn’t taken as seriously. Some people don’t consider it a sport at all — a view that enticed many of the players to sign up in the first place.
Others signed on because they saw it as an alternative way of finding romance. Some of the women on Orr’s team rolled their eyes when asked about the potential of dating teammates. While none had met their dream dates as of yet, Julia Nemon, 26, a petite brunette, looked out into the fields and gestured to all the potential men she could meet.
“You see? There’s a lot of guys out there,” said Nemon, who works as a project officer for the Organization of American States. “The guys kick further. I am the worst player on the team. I [once] kicked myself in the head.”
She shrugs, “I missed the ball.”
Nemon said she joined the Guanacos because her best friend, Larned, the captain, forced her to come along. “I knew there was softball around town,” she said, “but it always seemed competitive. This just seemed more laid back. We’ve been in last place almost the whole time, and we’re just happy to be here. It breaks up the week, gets us outdoors.”
Larned, 27, who works at the American Society of Association Executives & the Center for Association Leadership and goes to school at night to earn a master’s degree in international affairs, was on the prowl for something different this summer. Kickball hit the spot.
“It just seemed like a fun idea,” she said, adding that she hadn’t played the game since sixth grade.
“I’d say it’s more social. We’ve met some nice people who live around here and are looking to have a good time.”
Nemon admitted there are ups and downs to the social aspect of kickball, that “sometimes you meet some crazy people,” that she “never really hung out with people on the Hill.” Either way, she said, the “bar scene is just atrocious.”
Although Nemon’s ego was recently stroked when she and several other women in the kickball league were auctioned off for charity. She and the other women paraded catwalk-style across the top of a bar while the men looked on and made their bids. Nemon received the highest bid: $200. “Yeah, I did OK,” she said, laughing. “I had never done anything like that before.”
As it turned out, on this particular evening, the Guanacos had a good night and won the game. Final score: 7-1.
“Usually I want to just go drink,” Nemon said. “This is fun! I’m excited!”
To find out more about playing kickball, go to www.dckickball.org. The fee to sign up and play is $50. |
