Monday, May 29, 2006

5.28.6: Can We Get A Jimmy Key?

By Ambrose

BOX SCORE
LEADERS

First things first - on this Memorial Day weekend, before there's any talk of our feats and accomplishments on the turf at Jimmy Walker Park (and there were many), let's give a shout-out to, pour a little of the 40 out for (I'm enjoying one as I type this), everybody serving in Iraq and Afghanistan right now. Whether you're Blue or Red, pro- or anti-war, blogger or reader, top or bottom, it's impossible to be against a sincere wish that no one dies in combat, for any reason. Good luck to our armed forces, both on the battlefield and in the bars of Manhattan tonight (it's Fleet Week).

But enough sentiment - on to the ball!

Tonight was, naturally, Roe v. Wade (or, as some doofus wrote for Game 2: "Wade v. Rode," which is less historically accurate but probably a better description of what actually happened to Roe).

That there were any games to recap at all is a surprise. The owners had evidently locked the players out. The park was tighter than a virgin on prom night. How is it we don't have a key? Didn't we pony up $40 a head to use the goddam field? Luckily, Hans and I espied a chink in the field's armor (I know: racist), and thus did a group of grown men... lawyers, professors, writers, TV producers, architects, power-bottoms, and promiscuous college students... perform a kind of limbo beneath a section of chain-link fence. It felt very early-80s, if you ask me. We should have all gone for a Chipwich instead, listened to Yaz, talked about what we'd do when we were grown-ups.

Game One felt like a bunch of boys playing against their older brothers. Roe, my team, managed only five hits in as many innings. Our opponent scored more than that - eight runs, to be precise. The ball was, to borrow a term, "assy" as hell (or was it "assey"?) and wasn't jumping off the bat. The kind of ball you need to place well. We didn't. Futility at hitting a softball feels like the worst kind of impotence. And wouldn't you know it, didn't my wife choose this very night to come to her first game in at least five years? Another childless summer. Wade pummels Roe, 8-2. Somewhere, Antonin Scalia is smiling.

And yet Game Two was worse. It was more like playing your Alzheimer's-addled granddad in a game of "Simon" (remember that, you children of the 80s?). I couldn't remember how to field a groundball, Dinny couldn't remember how to catch a pop-up, and no one could remember how to hit a ball that seemed to be filled with sand. Of course, Wade slapped the old beanbag around the field with impunity, mounting rally after rally, and cruising to an easy 9-0 win.

Let's now pour what's left of that 40 out in memory of the athletic careers of myself, Dinny, Steve, and a few others. When I was a kid, I followed the Mets. I recall being astounded that analysts thought Keith Hernandez was over the hill at age 35. I couldn't conceive of a reason a player would hit a wall at such an age. Now I'm amazed anyone lasts that long.

Game One Ball goes to James, for a gallant 4-4 performance full of several rips right down the third-base line... moreover, it was his first baseball or softball game in years. Now ice that elbow down.

Game two ball goes to Jon, for a 4 for 4 night of his own in the face of several never-before seen defensive schemes concocted by Dinny (who knew a box-and-one zone could be used on a softball diamond?).

Sunday, May 21, 2006

5.21.6: It Ain't Raining

BOX SCORE
LEADERS

Crack open a history book and have a close look: tucked in among the stories of war, slavery, famine and oppression you might just find a few reminders of what the human race is capable of when people work together towards a common goal. The Freakin’ Pyramids, for instance. The Great Wall of China. That crazy-ass indoor ski park in Dubai. Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

And now, on the page covering May 21st, 2006, you'll find a tale of 14 men getting together to play a game of good softball on a night when it was less than 70 degrees outside and it had rained earlier in the day. We can do it! Be a part of it!

What makes this achievement even more remarkable are the names of some regulars who were absent.

Out: D. Lee, chilling in the Tuscan countryside with a bottle of vino, scribbling notes into the margins of his in-progress NBA Draft Preview.

Out: Ambrose, preserving his stats and shaking his moneymaker at a gay wedding in Massachusetts.

Out: Deion, possibly still stuck in traffic.

Out: Tin Man, off in an underground batting cage somewhere helping the Mantis plot his comeback.

Out: Joe Monkeyweb, once again the victim of The Man's unquenchable appetite for labor and production.

Here's how Joe's week usually goes, as far as I can tell:

Wednesday: The sign-up sheet goes up. Joe, still a little pissed about having to miss last week's game because of work, immediately puts himself in as a "Yes." There's no way I'm missing another game for work. Fuck that, he thinks, I have a life.

Friday comes, and The Man calls Joe into his office. The news isn't good. Infuriated, Joe privately maintains that he will still be free in time for softball, but posts the first of his many status updates to the website: "In-work permitting" he says cautiously.

At this point, I know he's out, Lumbergh knows he's out, and I suspect even Joe knows he's out. But he still tries to put on a brave face. That's why he's a gamer.

Sunday comes and the work is still raining down on Joe's head. He posts an update: "Looking less and less likely for me."

Finally, after the clouds get thick and it looks like rain, Joe accepts his fate: he'll be tied to a desk until night comes. "Definitely Out" is his final update.

Poor Joe. I feel for you, dude. I guess this is what you have to deal with when you have a real job. If you had stuck it out with me, you'd be free by 3pm on Sunday after overseeing the Chef du Jour set turnaround.

Sorry about that digression. Just making the point that a lot of regulars weren't there but we trudged on and had ourselves some fun.

On to the game.

Like I said, 14 dudes on a 52 degree night that was a little cloudy but never really threatening. Tall Boys were in hand. Dan K. showed up munching on a chocolate ice cream cone. Evan came and brought a dude named Mark who lives in his building. Good job, Evan. Hussar brought his positive attitude in from Jersey.

As we waited for the Little Leaguers to get off the field, a homeless couple got in a spat on Clarkson street. The man snuck up behind the woman as she walked away, and then he poked her in both ribs. In a voice that resonated with all the sorrow of her miserable lifetime, she screamed, "Don't you fucking touch me! I'm an evil motherfucker! Call the cops! Help!" Then she realized it was her man and got even madder. Eventually they agreed to disagree and they went their separate ways.

All the signs were there for a strong night.

Without D. Lee we were a little lost at first. Pete reluctantly agreed to step in and choose teams with me, and he turned out to be a natural. The teams were evenly matched and the game was tight throughout.

We never got an official set of team names so we are going with Dan K.'s suggestion of Brown v. Board of Education (henceforth BOE).* Since I'm writing this recap, we'll be Brown.

There was a whole bunch of wind blowing around and, as illustrated by 3 accidental inning-enders over the first 3 innings, it was probably blowing out.

BOE threatened to blow the game in each of those first three innings, but only managed a single run in each frame. When I stepped up to the plate with two on and none out in the 3rd, I knew I had to call my shot. And on the first pitch I hit a solid homer out to left, tying the game at 3-3.

Here's the thing: I really enjoy hitting the ball out of JJ Walker field. I know, as a grown man who's over 6 feet tall and close to 300 pounds, I shouldn't. It's like 150 feet. But it feels good. Especially when there are men on base.

So we tied it and blah blah blah and then they scored again blah blah and some guy made a nice play here and there and then blah blah and we came back again and took the lead whatevs and then when we were in like the 6th inning Leigh came up and called his shot and muscled out a towering blast to dead center to give BOE the lead for good.

That put them up 7-6 and then like a minute later Pete was on 3rd and he was like, "That was a big shot." I had already forgotten about Leigh's homer from 30 seconds earlier and assumed that Pete could only be talking about mine from like a half hour earlier. "Mine?" I asked hopefully, honestly moved that he was still marveling at my 158 footer from the 3rd.

"Um, no...Leigh's," Pete said incredulously.

Another unwanted reminder that there are other people in the world besides me. Whatever the case, BOE tacked on a couple more and went on to win Game 1, 9-6.

Game 2 was one of those laughers that got out of hand pretty early. New Guy Mark's girlfriend actually showed up at the field and told him he better get his ass home, which may be a first in Leroyball history. Not even the angry cellphone call -- she hit him with the full-on in-person swing-by. Completely humiliating, if that's what really happened. We'll have to check back with New Guy Mark, if he ever shows up again. Once he left it was 7 on 6 and we donated them an extra fielder when we batted. The extra fielder (which was a composite of several of us) did a rather poor job and helped Brown score a bunch of unearned runs, and Kissel launched his first called shot of the season, and the final was like 7-1 or something in an abbreviated 4 inning 2nd game.

TWIS NOTES:

-The soccer players are getting out of hand. They made several snide and wholly incorrect comments about how we had played past 9:00 last week (wtf? that was our mother's day debacle when 7 guys showed up. plus we've never played past nine. maybe the dude is stuck on GMT) and they encroached annoyingly down the line in right. I did turn around and bat lefty once Game 2 was out of hand so I could take a couple potshots at them. I managed to hit one screamer that almost decapitated a few of them, which was even more satisfying than my 158 foot homer. Stupidly, I yelled "Heads Up" and they managed to get out of the way. There will be major beef with these guys very shortly. They need to understand the rules of the park and respect our permit-granted rights, and maybe line drive to the head is the only language we can both speak fluently.

-Justin is a ridiculous player. He was roaming CF like an antelope. He leaped up against the fence to rob us of one hit, and he made several other big plays as well. At one point after he effortlesly cruised about 80 feet to catch a looper, I said to Adam R., "Would a major leaguer look much different than that while chasing down a flyball?" Adam said no, probably not.

-Doug gets a gold star for climbing into the garden/bocce area at the end of the night to retrieve two of our balls. He also had 4 hits in Game 1. Climbers are key. Without Original Mark, it's down to Doug and Deion. They deserve something extra for their troubles. Next week I will bring them each a donut of their choice, and one for Original Mark if he re-enters the fold.

-Jon R. may be my favorite player. He's fast as hell and has plenty of skill but he's got some weird clumsy streak that causes him to take huge awkward dramatic spills where it looks like all his limbs are gonna pop off and roll around. Tonight he took one at first and one at third. He's also a hell of a nice guy.

-Justin hit a gargantuan homer that somehow failed to be entered in the box score. I think it was in Game 2 and it went so far out of the field that it reminded me just how teeny our little park is and how chintzy my homers are in comparison. It was both awesome and humbling.

-Evan had an off night with the bat but played some excellent D, including a nice play on a line drive and an over the shoulder Jeter-style catch on a popup.

-Leigh is the opposite: his D remains shaky as he wrestles with the middle-aged man's understandable reluctance to buy new glove, but his bat is lethal. He can rip it.

-Pete B. was all over the field in both games, and he went 5 for 5 in game 1. He has established himself in the top non-Justin tier among Leroy ballplayers. Right now I'd put him and Jon R. there for their athleticism and all-around play. Julian might be getting there but we need to scout him a little more. Oh, and you. You're there.

-Dan K. had a strong all-around game as well. He's one of the better early-round picks you can make because he's always on base. He's got a swing that was custom built for Clarkson, hard liners every time. He did manage his annual drive off the fence in this game, too, and it was in a called-shot situation. Maybe next year.

-I hereby put forth a motion that if Game 1 is close and it's around 8:10, we just play one game instead of two. The second game is sometimes a rushed dud. I would say we can reset the called shots at 8 o'clock but the park is closed at that point so all balls hit into the park require a climb.

-The Puma had another good night at the plate, but he proved his real value in directing street-retrievers away from the garden before they threw our balls back to us. Incredible, it was like he had the Jedi mind trick going out there. Pete observed that Lex could probably be bringing in 747's if the architecture career falls through.

-The Kissel brothers are breaking down physically. I hope we can get a full season out of them. Kissel Jr. has a serious wrist injury and big bro Adam is all banged up as well. But they are toughing it out for the glory of love.

-Game Balls:
Game 1: Pete/Leigh
Game 2: Hussar/Kissel Jr.

-I'm not gonna harp on the scorekeeping because I know it's a pain. I will however gently remind you to please make sure you mark down runs and rbi's. It helps.

***New Feature***

Recapilogue:

When the game was over and all the ballplayers had gone home, I noticed that I still had three Tall Boys left in my Tall Boy sack. Without Deion and Ambrose there I guess our Tall Boy consumption was down a little bit.

Since I was going to ride my bike home and I had to pick up some stuff at Whole Foods, the idea of lugging three Tall Boys home with me didn't make a lot of sense. I considered leaving them on top of one of them newspaper dispenser things and letting some hobo make a wonderful discovery. Then I decided that such a move would be much better if I could be there to present the hobo with his Tall Boys, so I could actually see his face light up.

Then I was like, what the hell is the matter with me? I'm treating hobos like doggies, tossing them a little treat in exchange for some weird sense of superiority. Plus, if a guy is all down and out on the street and he's addicted to booze, should I really be giving him more booze?

The answer: probably yes.

But I didn't feel right about it so I crammed the tall boys into my gym bag and got on the bike for the ride home.

I rode down Leroy and passed the Village Tavern on Bedford. The Yankee-Met game was on. I slammed on the brakes. Jeter was up, 4th ininng, 2 outs, men on 2nd and 3rd. I had a perfect view through the window.

So I cracked open one of the Tall Boys and drank some of it while I watched the game. Jeter came through with an RBI single. Then Giambi walked. Then A-Rod lined out and it was time for me to go. I rode home through the cool night, taking tugs on my brown-bagged Tall Boy the whole way. Breeze, Bike, Bud. No worries. It was as close as a man can come to Spicoli's model of complete personal satisfaction.

I rode east across 8th street and headed up University Place, passing the spot where nearly every day for four years on the walk home from high school the Puma would hand me his leftover Twix wrapper and I would inexplicably take it. As I hit 11th street I drained the last of my Tall Boy save a half ounce of backwash. As I hit 12th I spied a garbage can on the right hand side of the street, next to a streetlamp. The window of opportunity was small. The lamppost was blocking about half of the can, leaving only a sliver of can available to me. I knew I had to attempt the shot, and of course I knew that slowing down would be cheating. At around 19 mph, I let it fly. Money. I thought of that line from the first Lethal Weapon movie: Ten guys in the world coulda made that shot.

I went to the store and bought food for the nanny and then I rode home buzzed and content.

* Although perhaps using this name frivolously is inappropriate.

Monday, May 15, 2006

5.14.6: You Don't Need a Weatherman

By Pete B.

To all those dads who sneak out on Sunday to play softball and leave Mom & the kid(s) at home to sort out the bath & the pj's, the DVD player, and the homework, you are hereby absolved for staying home on Mother's Day. However, the single most insidious thing about Mother's Day in my book is it always falls on a Sunday, which means it always packs a punch in terms of its high guilt factor and its rampant commercialism. But I might as well be telling you the Sun sets in the West; you already know and there's not much you can do about it.

If you had planned to play and decided against it because some weatherman told you it was going to rain, I want to give some friendly advice: Don't listen to the weatherman on TV, please. Those guys are instructed by their bosses to hype 'weather events' because they are in a constant fight for ratings. They are always going to err on the side of predicting bad weather, and that's what they did yesterday. This isn't a myth; it's a true fact about the news business and god knows I know it firsthand. You just can't trust the weatherman with a key decision like that; not only is he generally kind of dumb, but he's also not acting in your best interests. Instead, I recommend going on the computer and checking out Accuweather and clicking on the 'local radar' page. This page never fails to give you reliable information on whether it will rain in the next few hours; one time using Accuweather animated radar I predicted the arrival of a summer thundershower within five minutes of its arrival and departure. The weatherman is fine for getting comme ci comme ca forecasts for a few days out, but when it gets down to the nitty gritty, you want to go with the Internet.

Softball had these two strong factors working against it Sunday. And the turnout suffered. In the end, we had seven players: myself, Ambrose, Lex, Hans, Evan, Adam and Danny. Adam was depressed because his beloved Red Sox haven't played a game in like weeks but he brought me the news that the Os came back in the 9th to sweep the lowly Royals. Julian showed up for about 15 minutes but left when it became clear there would be no game. I myself went through a not insignificant amount of trouble to rearrange my sked and show up which makes me either a) a statistical outlier or b) an asshole depending on whether you are into science or not.


What emerged was an extendo batting practice with lots of beer drinking. Thanks again to Hans who brought a six-pack. I generally bring one beer in hopes of just catching a tiny little beer high. But of course I rarely say no to a second if there's another around. I would add that this behavior from Hans is not limited to beer; Hans is one of the world's truly generous people.

During the BP session Danny perfected his behind-the-back catching technique.

There was a hot rumor on the diamond that actress Julia Stiles was in the little park area behind center field. I believe it was confirmed at some point to be accurate. I had to really stress to Ms. Stiles a few years back that she should no longer call my cell phone late at night so I kind of stayed away from that little sideplay.

After an embarrassingly long BP session we hastily arranged a game of 'every man for himself' with six guys in the field, a pitcher throwing overhand, and no catcher. The batter received ghost runners for hits and they advanced as far as he did on subsequent hits. We staggered through two rounds of this and everybody seemed to be enjoying the outright idiocy of it all to a fair extent. The overhand pitching added a tiny element of danger and mystique to what surely would have been a failed attempt to get something lively going at all. It was hard to score runs off the overhand pitching and there was no incentive to take pitches because, with no catcher, the batter had to retrieve the ball. Also, there was a brisk wind pouring in from the power alley in left, which would have made 'called shots' during a regular game a real challenge. This was no July night where the ball jumps off the bat. Ambrose hit the only ball out while batting leftamundo. There were more trick catches and stuff like that; Hans was seen working on his 'glove on head, catch fly ball with bare hand' trick.

At least one bladder was relieved in right field.

After the 'game' we proclaimed ourselves winners and headed into the dark night a little shook by the bad turnout but confident that a moral victory of sorts was achieved in that we hung out and did something, anything long enough to hamper the French speaking soccer players from running wild on the field of play.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

5.7.6: The Falcon and The Snowman and The Puma

By Ambrose

BOX SCORE
LEADERS

.636

That's a mighty number. A landslide in any election. A healthy majority, silent or not. A strong correlative to whatever "1" is. If a given person is 63.6% an asshole, most people would say, with certainty, "Why--ye-es, he's an asshole."

.636 is also Lex's batting average right now. To quote Bull Durham, "that's a career."

Right or wrong, keeping track of stats this year was my idea. It was my wife's idea that we go a step further and play Rotisserie softball amongst ourselves using our own stats - I'm still not sure if she was making fun of me, or us. Either way, bitch, my number one draft choice is Lex. You guys can have your Dannys, your Justins, your Jons, your Richies.. I'll take .636 any day. For god's sake, the man's nickname is "Puma," and it's an unironic one - he is a superb outfielder, probably the best we have along with Justin.

"The Puma." That's a career right there.

Moving on, I have to say, I prefer playing ball when Hans is there. His presence fills me with confidence. He is a man and I am not. I once read somewhere that it takes a boy to admit he is not a man. I am that boy. In a drunken stupor, I once attacked Hans in a bar. He had me in the yoke, thrashing about and begging for mercy within a minute. At the moment I attacked him, however, I had only love in my heart for him. That he remains my friend to this day amazes me. Another time, I punched him in the testicles while he was choking on something. He was looking to me for a slap or two on the back to help dislodge it, but instead he got a solid uppercut to the gonads. I was sure I'd killed him, but I couldn't stop laughing.

Hans still talks to me. Think of that when you're annoyed at a friend for not calling you back quickly enough, or for borrowing your mower and not bringing it back.

I cannot wait for Baby Bungle to grow up so I can tell her about punching her dad in the balls.

I am also dumbstruck by Hans's humble willingness to bat last, even though it obviously hurts his team. Moreover, his Billy Martin-esque micro-managing (shifting one defensive position every three innings - didn't Billy do something like that with Pagliarulo and Meacham back in '85?) inspires me to play harder. I run to first when Hans is my manager. He is obviously thinking several innings ahead at all times. D. Lee's teams usually have no chance, despite his stable of pro athletes. Hans is the straw that stirs my drink.

On to the game, a crisp early-May affair with no Hans anywhere... Falcon vs the Snowman. I am not running anything out, I am not fielding well (though the shouts of 'hit it to Ambrose' have died down a bit), I am sad and looking for leadership. In steps the Puma. Despite leading Christendom in batting average, he takes the time to post a lineup, build a defense, step up like a goddam man.

Snowman got the early lead, with a double by the Australian known as Wazza (Aussies tend to use 'zz' anytime they encounter a person with a double-R in their name. Hence, Jerry becomes Jezzy, Harry becomes Hazza, and Warren becomes Wazza) that brought in a run in the second. The Falcom stormed back, plating four with a string of singles in the next inning.

Snowman brought it to 4-3 in their half of the inning.When the score got to six-all, there was talk of pressing the reset button. (which I intially typed as "rest button," which might be closer to the truth). Cooler heads prevailed, and in the end, the reset came at 8:20pm, and all that was reset was the called-HR capability.

At around 8:45, Snowman erupted with five runs in what was (sort of) the bottom of the ninth. The Falcon had no response. Snowman 12, Falcon, 8.

The World Cup qualifying match (I could be wrong about that) got to begin a couple of minutes early.

Game ball to Wazza, for a fine 5 for 8, 3 RBI performance and just a loose understanding of the rules.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

4.30.6: The Two Jakes

By Joe Monkeyweb

BOX SCORE
LEADERS


Sometimes two lopsided games make for a fun evening. Such was a case at ol' Jimmy Walker Memorial Field and Proving Gound on Sunday evening. It was a nice evening. Not warm, but certainly not too cold. I played in a sweatshirt. Ambrose wore a mock turtleneck. There was a generally laid back kind of vibe the whole time. Some guys showed up late, not much bp. But there wasn't a sense of apathy. Just a bunch of grown men relaxing on a field that only minutes before had played host to a little league game. Play ball!

Before we get into the details, I must take a step back for a moment. I suppose the old adage is correct: bearded transvestite sightings are good for softball. I drove Hans and Ambrose down to the field in the Monkeymobile. We hit a red light at Bowery just north of Houston. We were stopped next to a parked big shiny Escalade-lookin' thing. And out of it stepped a guy who was truly mint. If the Village People had a mafia guy, he'd be it. All done up, jewelry, hairpiece, makeup, sweatsuit. Fantastic. So, he walked into one of the kitchen supply stores on Bowery. Huh? Then Ambrose noticed that the store had trophies in the window. Weird. Then we saw her. She stepped out of the kitchen/trophy store. She was wearing a tight little tanktop-type dress and high heels. And she was showing lots of skin. She also was sporting a full-grown beard. Turns out "she" not so much. Rather "he." We all waved, snd s/he waved back. S/he was awesome, and despite the fact that it was clearly a he, s/he was modest enough to cover his/her possibly erect nipples due to the cool breeze. I hope the point of this story is not lost on you, fair reader.

So, back to the game. It was Jake v. The Fat Man. Pretty good names. The first game was a complete blowout. Fat Man was whacking the ball all over the place, and when it wasn't up the gap, it was right at Ambrose, which was almost as good because he had one of his worst defensive games at Jimmy Walker. Actually, that's unfair, he just had one horrible inning. Poor defense notwithstanding, we managed to get into Jon's head by playing a 1-1 zone on the left side of the infield when he came up. So what if he stroked a base hit where I should have been. We got him thinking and that's important. But it still didn't stop the Fat Man from storming to a 7-0 lead. The crushing blow was a called shot by PtotheBtotheDtotheC. Pete had been muscling out shots during bp, and this was on a windy evening when nothing was carrying. Sho'nuff he hit a blast to left that got caught in the tree, threatened to come back into play, and then plopped softly into the garden. Time to hit the reset button fellas. A quick note: it's damn good to have Doug and Mark back. Those guys can climb like the devil. No more lost Clinchers for us!

So the reset button was hit and Hans called a team meeting. He asked/told us that we would have assigned positions. He made me pitch the whole damn game. But, importantly, Jake came alive. The team had snap! We played with purpose, with abandon, with beer. It was a drubbing; we beat the Fat Man 13-1 behind some good hitting and some better defense. Smooth D by Julian at short. Just a solid all around effort. But kudos to Danny for agreeing to jam the games together to make the 2nd game interesting before the soccermotherfuckers took over the field. (Prediction: near fisticuffs this year between us and the soccer players. Which softballer do you think it will be?) So I guess technically, Jake won 13-8, but I think a win is a win and when you hit that button, it goes in the books.

Injury report: my wrist hurts. What's that injury ballplayers get in their hand from swinging the bat? That one, that's what I've got. Kissel fractured his finger and sprained his wrist on the same arm (separately and within minutes of each other). Hussar came in with a gimpy leg. Hans threw his arm out of its socket, thereby breaking the adhesions.

TWIS Notes:

- The Bad Smell in Left Field ("TBSLF") is starting. Sandals has already started pissing there. I think this may partially answer why softball trees never grow in the garden; the ground is covered in man's piss.
- The Kissel brothers running the basepaths is fun to watch.
- The ball really wasn't carrying.
- Jon noted that the lights are brighter this year and that we need some plywood behind the catcher.
- I think the scoreboard looks more beautiful this year.
- The Fat Man forgot to keep score one inning. Gas Face.
- No baseball pants this week.
- The Tall Boys went down nice.

Player of the Game, game 1: Pete B.

Player of the Game, game 2: Julian.