For today's softball recap I will intersperse my next-day, sober recollections of Sunday's action (in regular text) with my italicized in-game drunken thoughts, as they occured to me live on the field. The result will hopefully be an entertaining, if obviously incomplete, description of what happened on the diamond Sunday night.
6:50 pm:
Joe Monkeyweb, Ambrose and I show up at the field. Some goofy Europeans, clearly swept up in W. Cup fever, kick a soccer ball around pointlessly in right field. Kissel sits alone in the dugout. We all agree that we can't kick 'em off just yet because the permit doesn't take effect until 7. But their presence annoys us.
I hate soccer players. Even when they have big Swedish girlfriends jumping around and jiggling delightfully.
6:58pm:
Our crew has begun to arrive. We are at 12 guys right now and it's time to administer the boot. Kissel Sr. attempts to do the dirty work, telling the soccer dudes it's time to go, wrap it up, etc. They respond by moving the soccer goal into centerfield. He readministers the boot, assuring them that indeed we will need the entire field, and they leave slowly but peacefully. DLee and I retire to the decompression tank for the draft. I open a beer. Joe and Ambrose smoke cigars.
We pick teams. Justin is there, the big equalizer. DLee picks him like he always does. Everyone else mills around uselessly, not bothering to de-tarp the field or get the bases set up. I go and dig out the dirt that has filled in the base-hole at second so we can plant the base there. Leigh does the same thing at third. Our fingers are dirty and sore and for the wrong reasons.
I wonder why most of the people who show up refuse to help unless begged. Do they think I want to grab the bases and set them up? Do they forget that it must be done? Do they think that I am being paid by the league to handle such inglorious tasks? Or are they just feigning ignorance so they don't have to get their hands dirty? This inevitably costs us five minutes of playing time. I am a grouchy motherfucker.
7:10pm:
We start the game and we have a wonderfully mushy ball tonight. Assier than Le Petomane's easy chair. CSHR's, IEHR's and ACSHR's are all gonna be scarce. That's OK because we are no longer keeping stats. There is also some new blood out here tonight. Kissel Sr. has brought a couple of dudes. One of them is wearing a Red Sox jersey and blue jeans. That's not good in any way that I can think of.
This beer is delicious. I don't want to go to work tomorrow. Or the next day.
7:30pm:
We've got a good one going here, back and forth. We have a huge musclebound guy named Jose who has a rifle arm and plays good D. He's keeping us in the game. Dan K. is on the other team and he brought his friend, a guy named Matt who's lefthanded. Kissel Sr. asks me in the dugout if the beers we brought are "community beers." I don't really know how to answer that, so I say, "If by 'community beers' you mean I bought them with my own hard-earned money, then yes they are community beers.' I'm not sure what my point is and neither is Kissel Sr. He goes and grabs a community beer.
Again, I am wondering about what people see as my role here. Am I the guy who has so much money that I want to buy beer for everyone every week all season long? If that's how they see me, I need to reshape my image, because I ain't rich. I'm happy to share a beer or two or ten, but damn people somebody else bring some fucking beer one time or throw me a fiver. Just sayin'.
7:45 pm: The game is like 3-3 and it turns out Dan's friend Matt brought a whole cooler full of imported, delicious, "community" beer. That's how you do it. Not that I really want to drink a Stella while I'm playing softball, but everybody else -- have at it! Matt has earned his stripes with one simple gesture. However, I am finding it very difficult to hit his pitching, and I don't really know why. None of us can hit him. Is he pitching too close? Is he too inaccurate? I don't really know, but I bitch to DLee about it anyway.
Two beers in and I love everyone. I love you. I love America and softball and I want to share my beer with you. Have one.
8:15pm:
DLee's team (damn are we slacking in the name department) has built a 5-3 lead and we are struggling like crazy to mount any kind of rally against the series of junkballers he trots out. There are some good plays I think. Kissel muscles up and hits one off the CF fence. I leap at it but my feet forget to leave the ground and he's in with a standup double. That shot probably would have left a major league park if not for the immense assiness of tonight's game ball.
Red Sox man, Johnny I think his name is, keeps checking the score of the Boston game on his cell phone. Refresh Refresh Refresh. Apparently it's in like the 89th inning. I yell at him playfully. Maybe I'm drunk.
If I live my life as an asshole, but I'm always trying to improve, does that make me a better man than someone who's an asshole on purpose? Is a repentant asshole, one who swears to get it right next time, any better than an unapologetic asshole, or is he somehow worse? My name is Joe Roberts. I work for the state I'm a Sergeant out of Perrineville, Barracks number 8. I always done an honest job, as honest as I could. I got a brother named Frankie and Frankie ain't no good. Are Ortiz and Manny the best 1-2, or rather 3-4, since Ruth and Gehrig?
8:30pm:
The wheels come off. DLee's squad lays a severe beating on us in like the 13th inning, going up 12-3. In a gesture that touches me deeply, Evan keeps calling out "1 out" after each batter, as if we are still in the game. It's hopeless. Kissel Sr. makes a sweet sliding catch in CF, but the Puma races home with another run. Did he leave early? Nobody knows. We argue anyway. It's all we have left.
I want to kiss you. I couldn't care less about the team struggling. We're looking to next season. We're looking to make some noise now. And I want to kiss you. Yeah!
8:42pm:
There are no soccer players in sight. We decide to reset our laugher and play a quick three inning game. I have to pee. I cross Hudson and run down Clarkson to my usual spot. I'm already unbuckling my pants but there are two homeless guys camped out on blankets right in the golden zone.
Homeless Guy: Yo, not here man. Not here.
I keep running and find a good spot. I do my biz and I jog back past the homeless guys again.
Homeless Guy: I gotta go clean that up, you know.
Is he trying to shake me down? Like he's never had to go on the street.
Whatever. I am handsome. Really, really handsome. I have a little pee pee on my shorts maybe but I am handsome. Perhaps I should lose a few pounds but damn I am handsome. Definitely. I'm not handsome. Soul Patrol!
9:12:
The second game is a tight one. We are tied at two after three innings and then we are tied at three after an extra inning. People are starting to grumble about going home. We need to settle this. Ideas are bandied about.
Somebody: Let's have a home run derby.
Somebody else: In honor of the World Cup, let's have a shootout.
Me: Sounds good, but we have no soccer ball.
Various unuseful suggestions follow. Then:
Dan K.: Listen to me for five seconds, I have an idea.
Me: OK
Dan K.: Let's do a shootout, but you have to throw the softball past the goaltender instead of kicking it. He gets to wear a glove as he tries to stop it.
Me: That is the single greatest idea of the past 500 years.
We set up the soccer goal. We march off what seems to be a reasonable distance. Each team picks five throwers. Now we need goaltenders.
Evan (whispering to me): just so you know, I used to be a goaltender in hockey and soccer.
Me: Get in there, goalie!
D. Lee picks Dan K. as his goalie.
I throw first. I shoot for the upper right corner. I miss by about three feet. D'oh! Baggid'oh!
We trade off. Justin throws. He misses wide left. He mutters something about how ashamed he is to be a part of this ridiculous contest.
Ambrose fires low and hard, and it bounces past Dan K. to give us a one goal lead. We keep alternating, and nobody can get it past Evan, who is remarkable in goal. Finally Kissel steps up and fires a one hopper past Evan, who lays out in a futile attempt to stop the shot. However, Kissel was like 4 steps beyond the starting line when he threw, so we force him to make another attempt. Evan lays out again and makes a diving, clean catch to preserve the lead. I collapse on the floor, paralyzed by happiness.
One more thrower each. We miss. Their last attempt is blocked by Evan, who gets on the ground and gets his body in front of the ball. Team player. Winner. He cements his status as my official favorite player, and he gets the Game 2 Game Ball. Game 1 goes to DLee for thoroughly outpicking me and for having a good night at bat and in the field despite a lingering case of poopy tummy.
This is the most fun I have had in years. Why do we even play softball? This is way better. I wonder if that girl Julie in my 11th grade English class liked me. I liked her. Can you look that shit up on the internets? Where's my beer? Holy cow it's 9:30. Let's tarp up, bitches.
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