May 30, 2009: Jagged Little Pilsner

One of the more difficult things about growing up and finally becoming an adult is coming to understand certain things about yourself that you were able to ignore when you were younger. Most of us reach a certain age, usually in the mid twenties, when we have to take a good hard look at ourselves and refrain from living in denial. Just recently, I've realized that as much as I love sports, I'm just no good at some of them. I'm not going to say that I have no athletic ability whatsoever (mainly because I'm still living in denial), but there are certain traits that I'll never really possess when it comes to sports. Recently I joined a softball team with my Brother, Sister-in-law, girlfriend and some of our close friends. I've always adored the sport of baseball, and for most of my life I've tried to convince myself that I could actually play the game well, but joining an adult co-ed slow pitch softball league has completely shattered any athletic delusions I may have had.

Simply put, I suck at softball. I'm not fast enough to run down tough balls in the outfield, I suspect that I'm still somewhat afraid of getting hit by the ball, and I have about as much discipline at the plate as a recovering alcoholic in Dublin on St. Patrick's Day. Our team is a mix of a few very good players, and a bunch of not-so-greats (myself included, of course). Most of the teams we play against are stacked with die-hard, ultimate softball types who carry $400 bats and will crush any weak player like a bug underneath their shoe. One particular game, when I had pulled my quad and was particularly hungover, the opposing team crushed four base hits in a row to right field where I was trying my best not to puke all over myself. These assholes actually picked me out as I limped and shuffled my way awkwardly around the right field grass and picked me apart mercilessly.

On days like these, I find myself asking why I even attempted to join a softball team in the first place, but it all comes back to me then minute someone suggests pizza and beer after the game. Whatever I may lack on the softball field, I more than make up for with my ability to eat and drink most men under the table on any given Sunday. Some men were born with the ability to crush a softball 300 ft., and others like me were born with the god given talent to drink beer in copious amounts. Today was our first official game, and we've just had a rude introduction to the league with a 14-0 drubbing, so I've decided to drown my sorrows in a pint of something called Jagged Little Pilsner. We're at the local pizza joint across the street from from where our games are played, and there's a little microbrewery attached to the backside of the building called Back Street Brewery. Aside from being a pun on the incredibly annoying singer/songwriter Alanis Morrisette's debut album entitled Jagged Little Pill, Jagged Little Pilsner is essentially your run of the mill pilsner. There's nothing ground breaking or innovative with this one; it's simply a tasty little lager that tends to run a bit on the light side. While a pint of Jagged Little Pilsner was decent and refreshing enough, I don't think I could have handled an entire pitcher of the stuff without getting bored halfway through. But for a beer that's meant to drown the sorrows, wash down the greasy pizza and make you forget your troubles for a bit, Jagged Little Pilsner was not a bad choice.

Cheers,
Ian

http://www.lamppostpizza.com/backstreet/