So, blame her.
Every year since 1975 (I know, quite a few of you weren't even born then), my brothers, cousins, anyone we could convince to walk in from off the street, and I competed against one another in an annual Wiffleball Tournament.
The winner of said tournament would win the oh-so-classy trophy pictured above. Then he (or she-my daughter has played in the last few tourneys) would host the following year's competition. According to one of my brothers (you know him as 'Gary'), it was kinda like hosting the Olympics. Your home is swarmed by all these people eating your food and drinking your beer (especially those smarty-pants from East Germany). I suspect this attitude lead him to complain of a knee injury a couple years back. This resulted in me winning by default and him coming in second.
Hmm....seems too convenient, if you ask me.
I really don't know which is sadder:
1. The fact that we actually have a trophy for this (I still have it).
2. Last year, one of my other brothers (you know him as 'Phil') and I "retired" from this contest because it got too tough to recover (yeah, imagine that). So, now me and the other old-timer just play team wiffleball during family get-togethers.
And reminisce about the time Gary weenied out of playing me in the 2008 Championship Game.