Backstory: The habit Little Rock can't seem to kick

Mr. Betz, also known as "The Grand Poobah of All-Things Kickball," or "The Poo," for short, began the league in 2004 in memory of two friends. The trio had talked about setting up a league on New Year's Day in 2002 as a lark. But by the end of that year, one of his friends had died in a car accident and the other had committed suicide.

So he followed through and formed a league that is separate from, and more informal than, the World Adult Kickball Association, which has 20,000 registered players in 20 states in the US. The first year, 16 teams paid the $200 entry fee. Now more than 60 groups compete on a typical Sunday afternoon.

The players and team names reflect the polyglot nature of Little Rock. The Los Diablos is an all-Hispanic team with a majority of players who are first generation US residents. The SuperFriends is a scrappy all African-American team whose coach is the mother of one of the players. The Busch Hawgs – more blue collar. The Hot Tamales – all female.

Then there's the Zombies – a group of punk artists, musicians, computer technicians, and restaurant workers who dress up in white T-shirts with "Zombies" scrawled in black paint. They sometimes spatter their faces in red. The group has become a league favorite, known by the chant "Zom-bie, Zombie Up!"

"The diversity of the league is great," says Jeremy Brasher, the Zombies captain, an embroiderer. "The neighbors from up the street, a bunch of bar dwellers, some [red] necks from the country, wealthy entrepreneurs, thugs, carpenters, people of assorted sports backgrounds, people without [sports] backgrounds, they're all there and everyone basically gets along."

The Zombies practice weekly with their unlikely counterparts, More Cowbell. It is a team of 30-something professionals who were high school friends but drifted apart as careers and marriage intruded. Leslie Cloar, the team's captain, heard about kickball last year and knew it was the perfect solution to reconnecting.

"We get to spend so much time together that it has truly become one of the top priorities in my life," says Mrs. Cloar, who will soon begin work on her doctorate. "We practice once a week, then go out for dinner."

Many players only know each other by their kickball name. Michael Wolcott, who works for a cellphone company, probably throws the ball harder than anyone and is called "RPG." "I can be driving down the street and hear, 'Hey, RPG!' I just wave my hand out the window and continue on with a smile," says Mr. Wolcott.

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For those who lack competitiveness, Betz created a laid-back division of the league. While sportsmanship counts, the teams displaying the most spirit and creativity win the playoffs. Seriousness? Not allowed. This year, the Marquis De Sod remained the laid-back champions, thanks to a homemade guillotine and a player dressed up in velvet knickers, white wig, and gold mask in 90-degree F. heat. Their opponents, the Angry Penguins, featured lawyer Michael Moyers in a penguin costume offering players a chance to get wet on a slip-and-slide at first base.

Even though it's now the off-season, tournaments and scrimmages still bring players out. On this day, more than 30 people have gathered in a park that was a former landfill. Mr. Moyers – minus the beak and flippers – has joined the Unholy Alliance to play first base while Mr. Pierce umpires.

Pierce, a Vietnam veteran, sits on a lawn chair wearing a Ball Hawgs T-shirt. He's thinking of hanging up his cleats and doing more refereeing next year. One thing's certain, though: He won't leave kickball. "This keeps me young," he says. "I might stop playing, but I'll be here on Sundays."

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