But to make tonight's game out to be meaningless or halfhearted would be unfair. Both teams wanted to win, one was just far more capable of doing so. Our team had more soft spots than Kathy Bates's nude scene in "About Schmidt." Then a couple of guys came in off the street, and things picked up. We had one lefty glove for three lefty players, which always makes life interesting. One of the "off the street" guys was a lefty who had to play righty, and in fifteen minutes he was better at "catch the ball, flip off the glove and throw the ball with the glove hand" than Jim Abbott ever was. Granted, Abbott only had one arm.
Game One:
First, let's discuss the Bounty Hunters(!). They played because Matt is producing a doc about a family of bounty hunters and the ties that bind and some such shit. It sounds good. Plus, the bounty hunters were real nice guys and brought a big audience of family members, who were also nice (and I’m not just saying that so they won’t hunt me down and break my spine). All in all, they were a welcome addition to the game. In fact, when a couple of people started grousing (you know who you are), newly-minted egomaniac Dan the Recap Man started yelling at everyone to shut up and play. You want to make a statement? Try adopting a child from an impoverished nation, "Dan." Step up to the plate and do something, instead of running around in that stupid hat acting like King Shit of Fuck Mountain.
At one point, we pulled a "dropped pop-up double play" when Mark failed to run out his pop-up. This was the culmination of a long evening spent arguing about the Infield Fly Rule, and whether it applies only with first and second/bases loaded, or if it also is in effect with just a man on first. Since we had not established the rule, our DP was overturned. This saddened Benge, who was right and knew it.
While the argument raged, I was busy directing some guy and his dog, who'd been walking down Leroy Street and sportingly searched for the ball. (They found it, incidentally, about twenty feet fair, but ricochets are tricky.) I don't know why I tried so hard to recover that ball. I hate that doughy, assy ball. If you don't hit it right on the nose, it goes a maximum of six feet. And any ball that is popped up comes at you with such ridiculous spin it is nearly impossible to catch:
More than the game, though, what fascinates me is the seemingly unlimited supply of do-gooders who only want to help us retrieve the ball. Innocent bystanders, all, who see us grown men pound a ball out of a children's field, smashing cars and windows and people's heads - and they can't wait to get it back in to us. They fetch it out of sewers, from beneath cars, fetid reaches of the park's garden, the pool, the handball court, wherever. We haven't found a place to hit it where someone won't rush to help us out. I mean, what the fuck? Isn't a New Yorker not supposed to help? I suppose there is that immediate instinct, perhaps bred into us all as kids, to run after a ball when we see one rolling around. Not unlike a dog in some ways.
Note: on gay pride day, it’s the women you want to have throwing the ball back into the park when someone hits it out. The guys can’t throw worth a shit.
Game 1 was won by Scissors 1-0, their first-ever victory over Rock in over 100 million tries.
Closer Hans Bungle (is that right?? or was it Rob?), pitching for Scissors, recorded at least three and I think actually four of our final six outs 1-3 or 1 unassisted. That's what I call a lights-out performance. I think I saw M. Rivera spying from Hudson Street, trying to figure out what if any adjustments he needs to make to get the Pinstripes on the right track.
Hans had himself a huge cheering section in Right Field. Curiously enough, that’s where he ended up for several innings. There were all kinds of chants for him, my personal favorite being: “Hans, we’ve got condoms!” Those are true fans.
And where was the Mantis? Busy working? Feeding? Beheaded by his woman during coitus?
Game Two:
I got caught in a hotbox. We missed Dinny in this one, although there was sufficient chaos. I actually feared for my life for a moment. There was a real sense of relief when I was tagged out but permitted to live. There is something glamorous about getting in a hotbox. It's like you're battle-tested after you've been through it, and you can brag to the kids about what it was like. It got to be such a badge of honor that people were purposely trying to get caught in the rundown, and one guy even brought a camera and began snapping pictures from the inside of the hotbox. I guess that cheapened it a little bit, because to me, the ultimate thrill of the hotbox is the sense of both abject terror and utter defiance you feel when you are caught in one. Like, "I may die here in this hotbox, but I am taking some of you down with me."
Danny hit a scoreboard home run. The ball hit the very top of the scoreboard with a satisfying “THUNK!” and everyone started screaming. As we all know, the more screaming, the better. Danny was screeching like a banshee as he rounded the bases and we all congratulated him as he passed by us. Then he was greeted by his own teammates in a big group hug at Home. It was like Hank Aaron’s 715th. All we needed were some drunk, tripping hippies storming the field and it would have been the same thing.
Lots of balls were hit over the fence, many with the wooden bat. The wooden bat is kind of good. Culprits included D. Lee, Justin, myself, Sandals, Alexi, and Eugene. Eugene's shot landed on a sleeping homeless man who cheerfully lobbed the ball back to us.
Alexi hit perhaps the hardest shot since The Thing With The Teeth showed up a couple of seasons back. It left the park in about an eighth of a second, and a debate ensued as to whether it went over the fence or through it. We couldn't find any holes in the fence, so we had no choice but to call him out. But if I had to testify in court as to what happened, I would say that he hit the ball so hard he changed its molecular structure, and it liquefied as it went through the fence. By the time we retrieved it, it had calmed down and become a solid again.
Joe Monkeyweb, who was catching, signaled that it was a HR. Kissel, from the mound, correctly called it foul. Like a scumbag, I pretended to be unsure. Our team attempted to lobby for the runs to count. I didn't tell them not to. After all, we were down by 4 runs with 7 minutes left. It was cheatin' time.
Kissel immediately moaned the stupidity of the called shot. The other balls were too hard to use without risking death upon bystanders. Soccer players swarmed the field thinking our game is over...
(Soccer players. Oh, boy. They are the devil’s business. Up to their usual bullshit down the right field line. Stretching and doing jumping jacks and twirly-whirlies and all kinds of shit. None of us like that. Not one little bit. Hans decided to do something about it. So, hitting lefty, he raked one down the line and hit a player mid-stretch. Well done, Hans.)
Next inning. We've managed to pull within one. Bases loaded, no outs, and Danny comes to the plate. "Call it!" we shout from the bases, but Danny shakes his head. The police are still out there, talking to Justin. So what does Danny do? Bam, first pitch, deep to left, over the garden, into the street maybe fifteen feet from the cop, who was just about to drive away. The cop himself tossed the ball back over the fence. Danny fell to his knees as the game -- and the moral high ground -- slipped away.
We won Game Two, 12-11, in the bottom of the "ninth" inning. The D. Lee's pulled an "Ambrose Shift" maneuver that really hadn't been set up properly in advance. One of their fielders sprinted over to the left side of the infield at the last minute to try to protect that entire side of the diamond. Matt G. made an incredible throw to the plate from deep in left field, but Dan K. came in high and hard like Pete Rose and jarred the ball loose. Pretty much kinda like that. I was quite worried he wouldn't make it, especially when he smashed into the wire fence "dugout" after rounding third. It was a little reminiscent of Sid Bream scoring on Francisco Cabrera's single to put the Braves in the 1992 World Series.
After the game, Big Jim Lang and I sat in the dugout, collecting our belongings and wondering what exactly cost us the game. I offered up an apology for my big fuckup. It went something like this:
Me: Shit, that was a tough one tonight. I really messed it up with that bad throw to second.
BJL: Oh, yeah. That was the game right there.
Me: Thanks.
T.W.I.S. Notes:
-Ambrose can no longer throw the ball. He claims to be experiencing no pain, but his throws are just terrible. I feel OK about this.
-Matt redefined "minimum effort" on a one-out grounder back to the mound. When the batting team is supplying a pitcher (its other simple duty), the pitcher is supposed to give a minimum effort in fielding his position. Most of us are comfortable with this concept from our work experience, but some truly take it to another level. On this play, Matt could have thrown home for an easy out (or a potential hotbox), or he could have thrown to second for an easy force, but instead, he took the out at first, allowing the run to score and the lead runner to advance. However, he did it with such calm smoothness, nobody on the other team really had the nerve to invoke the "sub-minimal effort" rule. It was like they were mesmerized. The run counted. Well done, Matt.
-Nothing quite like the sound of softball hitting little girl, not even the trappy sound.
-There were two bizarre urinating incidents. I will spare names and details, but come on, people. If you need to piss, remember that's what they made the desolate sidewalk down the block for. You're acting like a bunch of common soccer players.
-Some Dude playing CF had a terrific jumping catch that protected the fence from further damage - I liked that play. Otherwise, nothing too special vis-a-vis the leather. There was a beautiful girl in the stands for part of the game. I did not see her as she left, but I hope she's with a good man.
-Alexi looked like Yaz out in left; he has completely mastered the art of playing the ball off the Wire Monster.
-Ambrose beat The Shift with a hilarious, victorious, intentional check swing blooper to left field. Mark seemed upset by this obvious abuse of the rules, or at least the spirit, of the game. He grumbled mildly and and made a whiny face, even though his team was ahead something like 7-0 at the time. I saw that, Mark. You just cost yourself a game ball. Too bad, you had a hell of a week.
-Chris Lee was pounding the ball, especially when he heard or saw pretty girls by the fence, though they may not have been girls.
-*Item removed at D. Lee's request
-Recap Dan made an amazing backhanded stop at 3rd and nailed the lead runner at 2nd. Well done, especially for a guy wearing a first baseman's mitt and a ratty O.S.U. hat.
-Speaking of hard-ons, I am typing these words with one of my very own. I am thinking of that beautiful, mushy, malleable, pliable gray ball we played with on Sunday. It was like clay, like the ass of a girl I once knew: you could pinch it and your fingers would meet. That ball deserves its own card, its own page on Verbungle.
-Injury report: AJR's arm looked awful, and despite some good hustle, it looks like the arm is done for the season. SRC threw someone out from RF, so the howitzer may be on the mend. We'll see. My arm feels great, but I can't hit worth a damn. I think it's because I have a sore wrist. I also think it's because I suck.
Game ball:
In what will be known as the Jordan exemption, Justin will be ineligible for the game ball from now on as well. He is the best player every week, and the game ball will be given to the Best Player Besides Justin.
Close runner up was Big Handsome, who made what will probably be his only appearance of the season, as he lives in California, where he is known as Big Average Lookin'. He smashed the ball the way you should if your nickname is Big Anything.
Game ball to Little Girl for taking one for the team and striking fear into the hearts of those shitbird soccer players.
Soccer players. Gas face. Again.
