by pbdotc
It was mildly drizzling on Sunday evening and James J Walker ballfield stood moist. Not good moist, like a Dove Beauty Bar ad, but bad moist, like a tent you forgot to air out before putting it away for the winter. But it wasn't a soaking rain and seven of us showed up at the outset for softball. Most of you louts decided it would be better to sit home and think about how the hours of your life were ticking away instead of getting a little wet and having a little fun.
We took an extended batting practice as we gave people as much time as humanly possible to show up. When it was clear there would only be seven we got together and discussed what to do ... leave? more BP? We determined we should play an every-man-for-himself type of game and rotate through the field on defense. This in and of itself wasn't striking in its originality except we came up with two critical updates to this timeworn solution:
-- first, we would close off first base and nobody would run the bases
-- second, we devised a point system in lieu of counting ghost runners and runs
James, probably because of his extensive cricketing background, must get credit for the points system, which was accepted by the rabble after a few blinking moments of incomprehension.
Closing off right field is standard operating procedure. But closing off first base is more radical. In this case it worked with flying colors because nobody had to run on the slick field (think sliding and ensuing raspberries) and nobody had to throw. Nobody likes those things anyway.
The rules system was as follows:
-- the batter had three outs to tally up as many points as possible
-- any ball that made it past the infield (marked by tires behind third and second) counted one (1) point
-- any ball that made it to the wall on the bounce counted two (2) points
--- and ball that hit the wall on the fly counted three (3) points
--- errors in the field cost the fielder previously accumulated points depending on nature of error (see point system above)
-- after a poor play, it was up to a fellow player to nominate an error and for the others put it to a vote
-- three swings cumulatively cost the batter one additional out
--- scoreboard shots counted ten (10) points [none occurred]
--- Inning-Ending Home Runs counted minus three (-3) points
--- any beer in the field of play hit by a batter tallied five (5) points for the batter and minus five (-5) points for the fielder [none occurred]
At the end of play the loser, he with the fewest points, was to shotgun a budweiser.
As the game got underway, with the mist falling, we realized quickly there was not enough beer. Only James had brought some. So Hans and later D. Lee jogged up the puddly boulevard and hauled back additional cans. A good deal of beer was imbibed by everyone.
In many ways, Handsome Andrew, whose normally stylish play is to be admired in an of itself, became the quiet hero of the night with his technology-rich phone thing. Andrew kept a running tally of the batting order and accumulated points on his phone thing, which became important because the scoring started to get complicated with the error subtractions and the onset of drunkenness. After every batter finished up and we rotated, H.A. could be seen hunching over his phone thing, trying to protect it from the raindrops, marking up the totals with a stylus, which apparently accompanies the device. Then he could be seen stuffing this bit of quicksilver back into his rainy shorts and resuming his intimidating defensive posture.
Of the seven of us, two had remarkable nights, four had average nights, and one -- yours truly -- had a hideous night with the bat. Hans Bungle and James had the best nights. They were locked in, dinking the softball off the fence on the fly repeatedly and adding up the threes like they were going out of style.
Danny Lee started out strong but he seemed to be doubling as beer anchorman. After a few rotations, his reaction time and batting prowess were dulled. By the end of the night he was staggering around the outfield like Hack Wilson after a bender, waking up occasionally to remind us all of his dazzling potential as a defender, but mostly stumbling around, muttering, and pissing on rats, legions of whom had taken up residence in the planters behind the outfield fence.
Alex and Marky (spelling? maybe it's Marquis) were game to stay and they had average nights at the plate and good nights in the field. Marky certainly must have felt this league was a strange one since the Rainball game was his maiden voyage at James J Walker field. What a good way to indoctrinate yourself. Marky also showed some real potential with the mitt, making a lot of key outs along the way. I think Alex and Marky, overall, remained more sober than the rest of us. Not positive.
At some point, as we had established the rhythm of the game and we were all happy as pigs in shit, Douglas showed up. He was greeted as a hero and seemed to take it all in stride as we excitedly blurted out "the rules" all at once, hands waving, and basically slotted him in. His arrival posed two problems:
-- first it mucked with the batting and rotation order, which wouldn't have been a problem for sober, intelligent men. Luckily, H.Andrew again took the reins and simply made a few calculations on his mission control phone thing and pointed out everyone's next spots
-- second, doug was the only lefty and when we shifted across the diamond we all became confused about the batting order again. But ultimately we figured all this stuff out as well.
Doug was given extra outs in the interests of equity and he made decent use of them, tallying a fair amount of points before burning through his outs.
Not long after Doug's arrival, Handsome Andrew and his supercomputer had to leave and we were forced to remember our totals. I was in negative territory and remain so to this moment at negative one.
Hans and James each were in the low 20s. The rest of the players were somewhere in that range.
James's last licks were a phenomenon to behold. He was locked in with his graceful, powerful swing, and chopping the rain-soaked ball all over the place. When he finally made his third out it was almost a mercy out. And he stood at thirty (30) points. During James's onslaught, I got to talking with Hans out in the outfield. We noted, looking at the empty Sunday night streets, that 10 million New Yorkers were sitting in their dank apartments, watching it rain and basically having a poor time, while eight New Yorkers, namely us, were having a fabulous time and enjoying life. We nodded in agreement and quickly woke up as one of James's frozen ropes came screaming toward the fence and we did our best to drunkenly prevent it.
Hans's last licks amounted to an epic comeback. He was at 22 and quickly tore a few off the wall and pounded a few for single-point hits. James, in center, was desperately trying to put a cap on the onslaught, and finally did with one of the finest, sliding catches one will ever see. James sprawled out, armed fully extended, on a line drive to short center field, and the ball lit in his mitt in the most graceful fashion. That left Hans with thirty points as well.
It seemed only fitting that the night should end with a sudden death playoff. Hans and James were each given one additional out per frame to do as much damage as they could. At the outset, it felt like two prize fighters looking for an opening, as nobody tallied any points. It took about three extra frames for James to break through, and he did for five points, But Hans came up in the bottom of the last and rediscovered his form, and his final, soggy base hit made him the winner of the first-ever August Rainball Classic.
We all congratulated ourselves and -- since there were two beers remaining in the dugout -- Hans (the winner) and I (the loser) each shotgunned one. It was the first beer I've shotgunned since the early 1990s. And it was delicious.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
A Friendly Game of Softball
I don't know if there was something in the air this Sunday night, but this might have been the sloppiest, most error-filled game I've participated in since Little League. The final score, Bonds defeating Aaron* 14-13, does reflect the exciting, action-packed game it was, but few of those 27 runs were earned. There were some monstrous homers, most of them uncalled, natch, including a huge shot by Ambrose that cleared the fence, rattled around in a tree, and dropped gracefully and perfectly onto the noggin of a bald guy sitting on the bench in right. We all believed that was the first time that ever happened. In retrospect, we should have awarded Ambrose the run.
I myself -- the epitome of the good-field, no-hit infielder, though I did hit my one wall shot of the year -- made two throwing errors and an error of judgment in the infield that led directly to six of Bonds' runs. That sucked, but not as bad as it sucked to be that dude on Bonds. Those who were there know who I'm talking about -- I don't know his name, but he's a nice guy who had an absolutely brutal night in the field. He booted ground ball after ground ball in the infield, including two consecutive shin shots at third. He got eaten up in the outfield, dropping a couple balls and letting a few others fall after losing track of them near the wall. At one crucial point in the game, when he was in center, one member of Aaron hit it directly to him with two runners on base; the dude botched it, both runners scored, and when the Aaron player scored, he shame-facedly admitted, "That's the third time I've hit it to him."
On such a night of bone-headed defensive errors, let's mention the two guys who actually flashed some leather. Warren, on Aaron, made an outstanding catch leaping into the left-field fence. Tony, on Bonds, made two great plays -- one a fantastic double-play starting snag at short, and one a stumbling, sliding catch of my line drive with two outs in the ninth and his team up 14-11.
With no soccer jerks visible -- "It must be a holiday in France or some bullshit," said Pete -- we decided to play another, a decision I loudly endorsed with the argument that we're about to have another baby and therefore I'll never get to have fun again. We held Bonds scoreless in the top of the tenth, then mounted a rally in the bottom, for once solely based on our own hitting as opposed to any errors by the opponents. With Aaron having pulled within one run with none out, that guy Rob -- is it Rob, who wears baseball pants sometimes and always hustles more than anyone else, to the point of sliding frequently? -- hit a solid single, and on the next batter's hit rounded second and tore off toward third, everyone on the bench (and Danny in the coaching box) yelling "Stay 2! Stay 2!". Ambrose's throw was dead on target and beat Rob by five or six steps but the usually solid James dropped it at third, perhaps thrown off by his lack of the traditional fuelding cigarette. Rob's slide came in hard and knocked James over; Rob seemed to catch him again as he leaped up to head for home. With James holding the ball but rolling around on his back, Danny -- Aaron's captain -- called Rob back to third just as he touched home.
"What?" he demanded loudly. "Why do I have to go back?"
"Because James got hurt," Danny said.
"Because he got hurt?" Rob said in disbelief. "What does that have to do with anything? Why doesn't the run count?"
"Because we're playing a friendly game of softball," I shouted from the bench.
Needless to say, in the farcical spirit of the evening, the next batter (Andrew?) walloped an uncalled shot over the left-field fence to end the game. Rob walked straight over to me, stood closer than is usual, and loudly asked, "So what does that mean, 'We're playing a friendly game of softball?'"
"Uh," I said.
"And I'm NOT playing a friendly game of softball?"
"I'm saying," I said, as he stared fiercely at me, "that you acted like you were angry with James that he got hurt when you slide into him, and that didn't seem like it was in the spirit of this game."
"I wan't angry with James," he said. "But I AM angry with you."
He stormed off as Danny bemoaned the fact that had he just allowed Rob's run to score we would have tied the game. He learned a valuable lesson: chivalry never got anyone anywhere. I learned a valuable lesson as well: some people take things seriously.
After we tarped it up, Rob walked over to me and said, "No hard feelings." When I told this story to my wife later, she shook her head and said, "Boys."
Game ball: will be passed among all the players on both teams, who will each drop it or throw it over each other's heads.
*I just made those team names up.
I myself -- the epitome of the good-field, no-hit infielder, though I did hit my one wall shot of the year -- made two throwing errors and an error of judgment in the infield that led directly to six of Bonds' runs. That sucked, but not as bad as it sucked to be that dude on Bonds. Those who were there know who I'm talking about -- I don't know his name, but he's a nice guy who had an absolutely brutal night in the field. He booted ground ball after ground ball in the infield, including two consecutive shin shots at third. He got eaten up in the outfield, dropping a couple balls and letting a few others fall after losing track of them near the wall. At one crucial point in the game, when he was in center, one member of Aaron hit it directly to him with two runners on base; the dude botched it, both runners scored, and when the Aaron player scored, he shame-facedly admitted, "That's the third time I've hit it to him."
On such a night of bone-headed defensive errors, let's mention the two guys who actually flashed some leather. Warren, on Aaron, made an outstanding catch leaping into the left-field fence. Tony, on Bonds, made two great plays -- one a fantastic double-play starting snag at short, and one a stumbling, sliding catch of my line drive with two outs in the ninth and his team up 14-11.
With no soccer jerks visible -- "It must be a holiday in France or some bullshit," said Pete -- we decided to play another, a decision I loudly endorsed with the argument that we're about to have another baby and therefore I'll never get to have fun again. We held Bonds scoreless in the top of the tenth, then mounted a rally in the bottom, for once solely based on our own hitting as opposed to any errors by the opponents. With Aaron having pulled within one run with none out, that guy Rob -- is it Rob, who wears baseball pants sometimes and always hustles more than anyone else, to the point of sliding frequently? -- hit a solid single, and on the next batter's hit rounded second and tore off toward third, everyone on the bench (and Danny in the coaching box) yelling "Stay 2! Stay 2!". Ambrose's throw was dead on target and beat Rob by five or six steps but the usually solid James dropped it at third, perhaps thrown off by his lack of the traditional fuelding cigarette. Rob's slide came in hard and knocked James over; Rob seemed to catch him again as he leaped up to head for home. With James holding the ball but rolling around on his back, Danny -- Aaron's captain -- called Rob back to third just as he touched home.
"What?" he demanded loudly. "Why do I have to go back?"
"Because James got hurt," Danny said.
"Because he got hurt?" Rob said in disbelief. "What does that have to do with anything? Why doesn't the run count?"
"Because we're playing a friendly game of softball," I shouted from the bench.
Needless to say, in the farcical spirit of the evening, the next batter (Andrew?) walloped an uncalled shot over the left-field fence to end the game. Rob walked straight over to me, stood closer than is usual, and loudly asked, "So what does that mean, 'We're playing a friendly game of softball?'"
"Uh," I said.
"And I'm NOT playing a friendly game of softball?"
"I'm saying," I said, as he stared fiercely at me, "that you acted like you were angry with James that he got hurt when you slide into him, and that didn't seem like it was in the spirit of this game."
"I wan't angry with James," he said. "But I AM angry with you."
He stormed off as Danny bemoaned the fact that had he just allowed Rob's run to score we would have tied the game. He learned a valuable lesson: chivalry never got anyone anywhere. I learned a valuable lesson as well: some people take things seriously.
After we tarped it up, Rob walked over to me and said, "No hard feelings." When I told this story to my wife later, she shook her head and said, "Boys."
Game ball: will be passed among all the players on both teams, who will each drop it or throw it over each other's heads.
*I just made those team names up.
Monday, July 16, 2007
7.15.07: by a hair
It is a generally accepted fact that sportswriters are the luckiest of God's creatures. While a few stand out as competent, most are stupid, lazy, and terrified of real knowledge. Yet they continue to draw healthy salaries, they continue to fatten themselves on free buffets, and they continue to spend their evenings in breezy ballparks, watching more talented men play children's games. Not a bad life. It is perhaps because of this, because of their own guilty realization that they getting away with something, that they litter their stories with fancy, literary-sounding bullshit phrases that add nothing to the stories but probably help the sportswriters sleep better at night.
Intestinal fortitude. That's a big one. It basically means "guts," or "courage" or "nerve" or even a "strong stomach." But they like to say "intestinal fortitude." It fills up more column space and to the average moron, it lends the story an air of intelligence.
If I were a hack sportswriter instead of a hack blogger, I would tell you that Sunday night's softball game came down to one thing and one thing only: mandibular fuzzitude.
That's right. My newly hair-lined jaw was on display, and it may have made the difference in the game. This is what D. Lee and his team had to deal with:
Shades of Dick Pole, right?
No longer would I be pushed around like a little bitchy-pants. I had hair on my lip goddamit, perhaps no more than my friend Alexi had when he returned from summer vacation in 8th grade, but hair nonetheless!
The moustache first proved its value in the pre-game rock-paper-scissors showdown with D. Lee. If you have been following this subplot, D. Lee has freaking owned me in the RPS department. He's like 11-1 on the year and he's got me talking to myself. Not this night. Before we even threw our fingers down, D. Lee sensed something was different.
"It's the moustache," he said. "I can't read you."
Sure enough, I threw down paper and covered his rock, thoroughly freaking him out.
D. Lee is master of facial hair himself -- he's rocked 137 different moustache/beard/sideburn combos over the years. So it must have been upsetting to see his protege getting the upper hand, er, lip, on him -- it's as if Luke Skywalker suddenly pulled out a light saber and stabbed Yoda in the balls.
We used the pick on Jungle Cat James. He was the cornerstone of what proved to be one of the better squads of the season (Ambrose, Handsome Andrew, Cey, Hit machine Dan K., JCJ, Jimmy, John Red Sox, Warren, Deion and me).
As we were finishing up our choose 'em up session, Dan K. came over and said he really wanted us to come up with some team names. I struggled, with my best attempt being Brew Crew (us) vs. Cutting Crew (them). Not so good, but let's use those names from here on out for purposes of clarity and simplicity.
At around 7:20 Deion showed up, and once again D. Lee and I RPS'd, with his services going to the winner. Once again I took him down, this time with a crushing pair of scissors splitting his paper in half.
The magic moustache. Again.
Even without Deion, Cutting Crew had a tough team, filled with badasses like Pete B., Jon R., Leigh, Carlos, and Javy, not to mention D. Lee himself and rookie phenom JD. The game was a good one, with very few colossal fuckups by either team. The lead changed hands several times, and Cutting Crew went ahead 6-5 on a controversial CSHR by Carlos at around 8:18, past the announced CSHR cutoff for the first half of the night. Like any good manager would, D. Lee lobbied on his behalf, claiming that Carlos didn't get up again after the "call 'em if you got 'em" announcement was sounded for the first half. Ultimately we honored the appeal, although I do believe it sets a dangerous precedent.
Controversy or not, it looked like Carlos's dinger might stand up, as the game remained 6-5 until around 8:42. Then, with a light rain falling intermittently between at-bats, the Brew Crew began to put something together. A hit here, a runner taking an extra base there, and some loud screaming by yours truly, and it seemed certain: a rally was...brewing.
We tied the score at 6 on somebody's hit, god bless them, and then with two outs Red Sox John stepped up to the plate with the go-ahead run on third. After going through his usual Garciaparra-like business with the batting gloves, he calmly laced a single to center to give us the lead. Most of our team was giddy with delight, but I knew there was unfinished business to take care of.
I stroked my moustache. And the two of us shared a private moment.
"Moustache, I need you," I said. "We've been through a lot together over the last two weeks, and now I'm relying on you to bring me strength. I've come to love you like a brother -- an older, far more macho and successful brother who sticks up for me at school when other kids make fun of me for my poor hygiene. And now it's time for us to put this game away, together. As brothers."
"Let's do this," my moustache said.
With that, we walked to the plate together. The pitch came in, and we unleashed our mightiest and machoest swing, sending the mushy ball over the fence by a good three feet and giving us a commanding 10-6 lead.
As one of my moustachioed forefathers, Mr. Reginald Fucking Martinez Jackson, said of a similarly dramatic home run back in October of '78, "It was an insurance run, so I hit it to the Prudential building." Of course, my ball landed humbly in the piss-garden beyond left field, but still.
I spent the rest of the game crouched amid oil spills and dead birds on Leroy street, looking for the ball. I was glad I missed what was happening inside. In what turned out to be the bottom of the "ninth," Cutting Crew rallied for three runs, cutting the lead to 10-9 when JD boldy cruised home. It was a redemptive moment for JD, who had already been cut down looking to take the extra base three times in the game. On one of his misguided excursions he went into second with a slide that was later described as 'half feet-first, half head-first' and left him looking like this:
Later he said of his decision to slide, "That ain't soft Carolina dirt out there."
The "ninth" inning ended at 8:55. With douchey soccer players all around us, we decided to call it a night.
TWIS notes:
-defensive gems were turned in by JCJ, ranging far to his left at 3rd, and spinning to get the runner by a step; Pete B., with a shoestring catch of a sinking liner in left; and John Red Sox, cutting off a ball that was headed to the right field corner and holding the runner to a single.
-there was a close play at second with JCJ oversliding the base and reaching back to touch it just as he was tagged. I didn't see it but we gave them the call, with the possession arrow going our way if another close play came up.
-I drank 3 beers during the game. That is the exact right number, kids. 3. I was still somewhat coherent at the end, although I was also loose enough to start hollering like a madman for about ten minutes straight at one point.
-game ball goes to Deion, who came straight out of the station wagon to bang one off the fence and knock in our first two runs, and who generally had a strong night with the stick.
-It was good to see Jon R., who was a little rusty but still a serious force. Having been absent for much of the season, he observed that the field now has less of the green fake 'turf' pieces and more of the black fake 'soil' pieces than before. I find that kind of creepy.
-Javy and I had an ugly collision at first base, with my knee hitting him in the head. He was dazed for a minute but came back and toughed it out. At my age, any collision could mean the end, so I am thankful to my God and my moustache that I didn't get hurt.
-it was a 9 on 10 game, and credit goes all around for how seemlessly and efficiently fielders were shuffled around.
-JCJ hit a liner that was definitely traveling over 100 mph and may have achieved escape velocity if it hadn't collided with the fence.
-more pics:
Intestinal fortitude. That's a big one. It basically means "guts," or "courage" or "nerve" or even a "strong stomach." But they like to say "intestinal fortitude." It fills up more column space and to the average moron, it lends the story an air of intelligence.
If I were a hack sportswriter instead of a hack blogger, I would tell you that Sunday night's softball game came down to one thing and one thing only: mandibular fuzzitude.
That's right. My newly hair-lined jaw was on display, and it may have made the difference in the game. This is what D. Lee and his team had to deal with:
Shades of Dick Pole, right?No longer would I be pushed around like a little bitchy-pants. I had hair on my lip goddamit, perhaps no more than my friend Alexi had when he returned from summer vacation in 8th grade, but hair nonetheless!The moustache first proved its value in the pre-game rock-paper-scissors showdown with D. Lee. If you have been following this subplot, D. Lee has freaking owned me in the RPS department. He's like 11-1 on the year and he's got me talking to myself. Not this night. Before we even threw our fingers down, D. Lee sensed something was different.
"It's the moustache," he said. "I can't read you."
Sure enough, I threw down paper and covered his rock, thoroughly freaking him out.
D. Lee is master of facial hair himself -- he's rocked 137 different moustache/beard/sideburn combos over the years. So it must have been upsetting to see his protege getting the upper hand, er, lip, on him -- it's as if Luke Skywalker suddenly pulled out a light saber and stabbed Yoda in the balls.
We used the pick on Jungle Cat James. He was the cornerstone of what proved to be one of the better squads of the season (Ambrose, Handsome Andrew, Cey, Hit machine Dan K., JCJ, Jimmy, John Red Sox, Warren, Deion and me).
As we were finishing up our choose 'em up session, Dan K. came over and said he really wanted us to come up with some team names. I struggled, with my best attempt being Brew Crew (us) vs. Cutting Crew (them). Not so good, but let's use those names from here on out for purposes of clarity and simplicity.At around 7:20 Deion showed up, and once again D. Lee and I RPS'd, with his services going to the winner. Once again I took him down, this time with a crushing pair of scissors splitting his paper in half.
The magic moustache. Again.
Even without Deion, Cutting Crew had a tough team, filled with badasses like Pete B., Jon R., Leigh, Carlos, and Javy, not to mention D. Lee himself and rookie phenom JD. The game was a good one, with very few colossal fuckups by either team. The lead changed hands several times, and Cutting Crew went ahead 6-5 on a controversial CSHR by Carlos at around 8:18, past the announced CSHR cutoff for the first half of the night. Like any good manager would, D. Lee lobbied on his behalf, claiming that Carlos didn't get up again after the "call 'em if you got 'em" announcement was sounded for the first half. Ultimately we honored the appeal, although I do believe it sets a dangerous precedent.
Controversy or not, it looked like Carlos's dinger might stand up, as the game remained 6-5 until around 8:42. Then, with a light rain falling intermittently between at-bats, the Brew Crew began to put something together. A hit here, a runner taking an extra base there, and some loud screaming by yours truly, and it seemed certain: a rally was...brewing.
We tied the score at 6 on somebody's hit, god bless them, and then with two outs Red Sox John stepped up to the plate with the go-ahead run on third. After going through his usual Garciaparra-like business with the batting gloves, he calmly laced a single to center to give us the lead. Most of our team was giddy with delight, but I knew there was unfinished business to take care of.
I stroked my moustache. And the two of us shared a private moment.
"Moustache, I need you," I said. "We've been through a lot together over the last two weeks, and now I'm relying on you to bring me strength. I've come to love you like a brother -- an older, far more macho and successful brother who sticks up for me at school when other kids make fun of me for my poor hygiene. And now it's time for us to put this game away, together. As brothers."
"Let's do this," my moustache said.
With that, we walked to the plate together. The pitch came in, and we unleashed our mightiest and machoest swing, sending the mushy ball over the fence by a good three feet and giving us a commanding 10-6 lead.
As one of my moustachioed forefathers, Mr. Reginald Fucking Martinez Jackson, said of a similarly dramatic home run back in October of '78, "It was an insurance run, so I hit it to the Prudential building." Of course, my ball landed humbly in the piss-garden beyond left field, but still.
I spent the rest of the game crouched amid oil spills and dead birds on Leroy street, looking for the ball. I was glad I missed what was happening inside. In what turned out to be the bottom of the "ninth," Cutting Crew rallied for three runs, cutting the lead to 10-9 when JD boldy cruised home. It was a redemptive moment for JD, who had already been cut down looking to take the extra base three times in the game. On one of his misguided excursions he went into second with a slide that was later described as 'half feet-first, half head-first' and left him looking like this:
Later he said of his decision to slide, "That ain't soft Carolina dirt out there."The "ninth" inning ended at 8:55. With douchey soccer players all around us, we decided to call it a night.
TWIS notes:
-defensive gems were turned in by JCJ, ranging far to his left at 3rd, and spinning to get the runner by a step; Pete B., with a shoestring catch of a sinking liner in left; and John Red Sox, cutting off a ball that was headed to the right field corner and holding the runner to a single.
-there was a close play at second with JCJ oversliding the base and reaching back to touch it just as he was tagged. I didn't see it but we gave them the call, with the possession arrow going our way if another close play came up.
-I drank 3 beers during the game. That is the exact right number, kids. 3. I was still somewhat coherent at the end, although I was also loose enough to start hollering like a madman for about ten minutes straight at one point.
-game ball goes to Deion, who came straight out of the station wagon to bang one off the fence and knock in our first two runs, and who generally had a strong night with the stick.
-It was good to see Jon R., who was a little rusty but still a serious force. Having been absent for much of the season, he observed that the field now has less of the green fake 'turf' pieces and more of the black fake 'soil' pieces than before. I find that kind of creepy.
-Javy and I had an ugly collision at first base, with my knee hitting him in the head. He was dazed for a minute but came back and toughed it out. At my age, any collision could mean the end, so I am thankful to my God and my moustache that I didn't get hurt.
-it was a 9 on 10 game, and credit goes all around for how seemlessly and efficiently fielders were shuffled around.
-JCJ hit a liner that was definitely traveling over 100 mph and may have achieved escape velocity if it hadn't collided with the fence.
-more pics:
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
T & A
There are some things, I have come to realize, that one should not do while drunk. Flying a chopper. Free-climbing a sheer mountain face. Committing a complicated bank heist that took four years to plan.
And, it turns out, playing softball.
I discovered this last fact on Sunday evening. By my loose and unofficial tally, I cost my team (Tits) a total of 10 runs in a 16-8 (?) loss to Ass that was actually closer than it sounds. I did it in every way you can imagine: through fielding incompetence, batting ineptitude, and baserunning boneheadedness. I even threw in some shaky strategizing. Normally an average player, I was reduced to a whimpering, sweating clown, incapable of anything more than hurling unecessary and belligerent insults at Ass's pitchers. The cause of my embarrasing behavior: Budweiser, King of Beers.
I've played basketball drunk a few times and that is a real fucking adventure. It's a weird sensation when someone passes you the ball alone under the basket and you shoot it like 5 feet over the rim. It's basically impossible, drunken basketball. I have friends who say marijuana basketball is actually pretty fun. I think it was Deion who told me that he played stoned a few times and he was seeing passing angles he'd normally never see, he was trying cool shit that he'd never think to try. My boss told me he played hoops on acid and played better than he had ever had before -- he says he thinks he also dunked in that game for the only time in his life. But he may have been hallucinating. Anyway, basketball is a tough sport to play and it only follows that it would be a tough sport to play drunk. But softball? Softball is an easy fucking game. That is why many of us drink beers on the field each week. That is why guys with huge round bellies and sore backs can be considered the greatest players in the world.
But even in softball, at a certain point you gotta stop drinking, or at least slow down, or you will look like a fool. Softball is capable of humbling a drunkard.
On to the game. The night started out the way it always does: DLee defeating me in a round of rock, paper, scissors for the 1st pick. He moved to 36-2 lifetime with the win, and he's definitely crawled into my brainspace. He's sitting on my brain sofa, watching my brain HDTV, eating my brain Fritos. I can't shake the guy. He chose Jungle Cat James with the pick, and it proved to be a wise move. The Cat prowled the outfield all night like, well, a Jungle Cat. Several times he leaped up against the fence, cigarette in his meat hand, to rob our hitters of hits. Each time it left us shaking our heads in frustration and thinking about how much we wish our parents had done as JCJ's did, injecting their child with Jaguar DNA at birth.
In fact, seeing the Cat in action underscores perhaps the least talked-about and most important factor in winning or losing Sunday Night Softball games: Speed (and its sometime companion, Hustle). Fast guys are a pain in the ass to play against. If they're not tracking down shots to the gap, they're turning off-target throws to first base into standup triples. Oh, to be fast. Skinny, intelligent, handsome, motivated, well-endowed. Oh, to be those things too.
Since it was Memorial Day weekend, I decided to be the Guy Who Overdid It at the Barbecue, minus the barbecue. I started drinking at around 6:52 and kept pouring 'em down all game long. The game went to 9:30 because the soccer players had taken the night off, presumably to honor the memories of all the French and Italian war heroes who fell in battle. This extra half hour of playing/drinking hurt me bad.
The game itself was a back and forth battle, with Ass finally opening it up in like the 38th inning at around 8:55. Some high/lowlights:
-CSHR's from DLee, Richie's Baseball Pants, The New Guy Who Took Things a Little Too Seriously (did he actually call it? none of our players saw him do so), Handsome Andrew, Jungle Cat?, and maybe a couple more. I don't remember; I was quite drunk.
-Handsome Andrew brought our old basketball buddy Bruce, and after a shaky start, Bruce made a very nice positive contribution, including a couple of fine plays out in CF. He also doinked one right off the very top of the fence, which was cool.
-I struck out batting lefty. Last lefty at-bat of the year for me.
-In one of the early innings, our team scored two runs but could have had a few more were it not for some shitty baserunning. And, predictably, it was All My Fault. I hollered at Julian to run on a deep fly ball, insisting at the top of my lungs, "It's Off The Fence!" Of course Jon caught it on the warning track and Julian was doubled off first. Then on a basehit to left, my third base coach told me to keep running as I rounded the base. Seeing James about to gun me out, I slammed on the brakes. When his throw sailed high I decided to make a break for it. Unfortunately, The New Guy Who Took Things a Little Too Seriously quickly picked up the bad throw and tagged me out in between third and home before I could even mount a decent hotbox. That guy was fast.
-I let one groundball go through my legs and I fell down trying to pick up another after I had booted it. I almost cried.
-I also threw the ball away every chance I had. One of my bad throws led to the Official Pep Boys Presents: The Moment The Wheels Came Off for this game. We were down like 10-8 and Handsome Andrew hit a grounder to me at 3rd base. I actually fielded it cleanly, but my throw to first was way off target and Joe M. couldn't grab it. It was at this point that Joe was faced with a decision: do I run after the ball (which at this point was rolling into the corner), or do I just try to tackle Handsome Andrew and turn this game into an official farce? He chose the latter, but H.A. was tough to bring down, so Joe decided he'd go get the ball after all. H.A. was by this time headed to third, and Joe's throw back to me was off target. I probably could have grabbed it, but I forgot that I was allowed to step away from the base in pursuit of the throw. The ball got past me and H.A. scampered home with a big run. Tits had officially gotten sloppy. I was blaming myself, but BJL pointed out that Joe M. needed a good chewing out for his attempted takedown on H.A., so I delivered a "come on, man" type speech that I'm sure Joe appreciated. At this point in the evening, I had officially become a drunken asshole -- nothing more, nothing less. Joe and I were at odds the rest of the night. He threw rocks across the diamond at me, as he is prone to do from time to time.
-I was yelling at everybody. James made me mad when he came home with like their fourteenth run as I drunkenly stumbled after a throw that had gotten away from me. I kept having to remind myself to STFU. I was angry at myself but taking it out on others, and even though I was aware that this was what was happening, I couldn't stop it. I actually promised myself that at the end of the game, I would take five minutes alone to pull myself together. I thought somehow that I could achieve inner tranquility and outward humility in the span of just a couple of long, reflective minutes. Never happened.
-Towards the end, I put myself at catcher to minimize my potential for destruction. But the ball still found me. One two-hop throw hit me right in the tip of my penis, which was pretty symbolic of how my night had fallen apart.
A few of us went out for impromptu food and beers after the game. We went to that place Mr. Dennehy's on Carmine street. I kind of hate it there but I don't know why. Then Pete and I ended up at The Stoned Crow (possible finalist for "Worst Bar in NYC" reader survey) on Washington Place. We got in an argument with some mildly irritating British people about rock and roll. One of them had never even heard of The Kinks. They kept trying to tell us Coldplay was good. Being drunk, obnoxious Yanks, we just couldn't let that stand. It all ended peacefully enough, with Pete and I drunkenly recommending some NYC tourist attractions. At one point, I think I said, "Wow, you're only here a week - what are you doing in this shithole? There are a lot of good places in this city." I think I halfeartedly floated a "Wanna hit 7B?" out there at one point, but Pete was wise enough to shoot it down quickly.
After that, I went home. My wife looked at me and said, "You're drunk." I was like, um, lemme take a shower. When I got out of the shower, she had gone to sleep. I crawled quietly into bed next to her. Mercy had found me at last.
And, it turns out, playing softball.
I discovered this last fact on Sunday evening. By my loose and unofficial tally, I cost my team (Tits) a total of 10 runs in a 16-8 (?) loss to Ass that was actually closer than it sounds. I did it in every way you can imagine: through fielding incompetence, batting ineptitude, and baserunning boneheadedness. I even threw in some shaky strategizing. Normally an average player, I was reduced to a whimpering, sweating clown, incapable of anything more than hurling unecessary and belligerent insults at Ass's pitchers. The cause of my embarrasing behavior: Budweiser, King of Beers.
I've played basketball drunk a few times and that is a real fucking adventure. It's a weird sensation when someone passes you the ball alone under the basket and you shoot it like 5 feet over the rim. It's basically impossible, drunken basketball. I have friends who say marijuana basketball is actually pretty fun. I think it was Deion who told me that he played stoned a few times and he was seeing passing angles he'd normally never see, he was trying cool shit that he'd never think to try. My boss told me he played hoops on acid and played better than he had ever had before -- he says he thinks he also dunked in that game for the only time in his life. But he may have been hallucinating. Anyway, basketball is a tough sport to play and it only follows that it would be a tough sport to play drunk. But softball? Softball is an easy fucking game. That is why many of us drink beers on the field each week. That is why guys with huge round bellies and sore backs can be considered the greatest players in the world.
But even in softball, at a certain point you gotta stop drinking, or at least slow down, or you will look like a fool. Softball is capable of humbling a drunkard.
On to the game. The night started out the way it always does: DLee defeating me in a round of rock, paper, scissors for the 1st pick. He moved to 36-2 lifetime with the win, and he's definitely crawled into my brainspace. He's sitting on my brain sofa, watching my brain HDTV, eating my brain Fritos. I can't shake the guy. He chose Jungle Cat James with the pick, and it proved to be a wise move. The Cat prowled the outfield all night like, well, a Jungle Cat. Several times he leaped up against the fence, cigarette in his meat hand, to rob our hitters of hits. Each time it left us shaking our heads in frustration and thinking about how much we wish our parents had done as JCJ's did, injecting their child with Jaguar DNA at birth.
In fact, seeing the Cat in action underscores perhaps the least talked-about and most important factor in winning or losing Sunday Night Softball games: Speed (and its sometime companion, Hustle). Fast guys are a pain in the ass to play against. If they're not tracking down shots to the gap, they're turning off-target throws to first base into standup triples. Oh, to be fast. Skinny, intelligent, handsome, motivated, well-endowed. Oh, to be those things too.
Since it was Memorial Day weekend, I decided to be the Guy Who Overdid It at the Barbecue, minus the barbecue. I started drinking at around 6:52 and kept pouring 'em down all game long. The game went to 9:30 because the soccer players had taken the night off, presumably to honor the memories of all the French and Italian war heroes who fell in battle. This extra half hour of playing/drinking hurt me bad.
The game itself was a back and forth battle, with Ass finally opening it up in like the 38th inning at around 8:55. Some high/lowlights:
-CSHR's from DLee, Richie's Baseball Pants, The New Guy Who Took Things a Little Too Seriously (did he actually call it? none of our players saw him do so), Handsome Andrew, Jungle Cat?, and maybe a couple more. I don't remember; I was quite drunk.
-Handsome Andrew brought our old basketball buddy Bruce, and after a shaky start, Bruce made a very nice positive contribution, including a couple of fine plays out in CF. He also doinked one right off the very top of the fence, which was cool.
-I struck out batting lefty. Last lefty at-bat of the year for me.
-In one of the early innings, our team scored two runs but could have had a few more were it not for some shitty baserunning. And, predictably, it was All My Fault. I hollered at Julian to run on a deep fly ball, insisting at the top of my lungs, "It's Off The Fence!" Of course Jon caught it on the warning track and Julian was doubled off first. Then on a basehit to left, my third base coach told me to keep running as I rounded the base. Seeing James about to gun me out, I slammed on the brakes. When his throw sailed high I decided to make a break for it. Unfortunately, The New Guy Who Took Things a Little Too Seriously quickly picked up the bad throw and tagged me out in between third and home before I could even mount a decent hotbox. That guy was fast.
-I let one groundball go through my legs and I fell down trying to pick up another after I had booted it. I almost cried.
-I also threw the ball away every chance I had. One of my bad throws led to the Official Pep Boys Presents: The Moment The Wheels Came Off for this game. We were down like 10-8 and Handsome Andrew hit a grounder to me at 3rd base. I actually fielded it cleanly, but my throw to first was way off target and Joe M. couldn't grab it. It was at this point that Joe was faced with a decision: do I run after the ball (which at this point was rolling into the corner), or do I just try to tackle Handsome Andrew and turn this game into an official farce? He chose the latter, but H.A. was tough to bring down, so Joe decided he'd go get the ball after all. H.A. was by this time headed to third, and Joe's throw back to me was off target. I probably could have grabbed it, but I forgot that I was allowed to step away from the base in pursuit of the throw. The ball got past me and H.A. scampered home with a big run. Tits had officially gotten sloppy. I was blaming myself, but BJL pointed out that Joe M. needed a good chewing out for his attempted takedown on H.A., so I delivered a "come on, man" type speech that I'm sure Joe appreciated. At this point in the evening, I had officially become a drunken asshole -- nothing more, nothing less. Joe and I were at odds the rest of the night. He threw rocks across the diamond at me, as he is prone to do from time to time.
-I was yelling at everybody. James made me mad when he came home with like their fourteenth run as I drunkenly stumbled after a throw that had gotten away from me. I kept having to remind myself to STFU. I was angry at myself but taking it out on others, and even though I was aware that this was what was happening, I couldn't stop it. I actually promised myself that at the end of the game, I would take five minutes alone to pull myself together. I thought somehow that I could achieve inner tranquility and outward humility in the span of just a couple of long, reflective minutes. Never happened.
-Towards the end, I put myself at catcher to minimize my potential for destruction. But the ball still found me. One two-hop throw hit me right in the tip of my penis, which was pretty symbolic of how my night had fallen apart.
A few of us went out for impromptu food and beers after the game. We went to that place Mr. Dennehy's on Carmine street. I kind of hate it there but I don't know why. Then Pete and I ended up at The Stoned Crow (possible finalist for "Worst Bar in NYC" reader survey) on Washington Place. We got in an argument with some mildly irritating British people about rock and roll. One of them had never even heard of The Kinks. They kept trying to tell us Coldplay was good. Being drunk, obnoxious Yanks, we just couldn't let that stand. It all ended peacefully enough, with Pete and I drunkenly recommending some NYC tourist attractions. At one point, I think I said, "Wow, you're only here a week - what are you doing in this shithole? There are a lot of good places in this city." I think I halfeartedly floated a "Wanna hit 7B?" out there at one point, but Pete was wise enough to shoot it down quickly.
After that, I went home. My wife looked at me and said, "You're drunk." I was like, um, lemme take a shower. When I got out of the shower, she had gone to sleep. I crawled quietly into bed next to her. Mercy had found me at last.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
5.20.07: cops and cops
by pbdotc aka the wayward O
this was the first game of the 2007 season that felt like summer. the sun stayed out late, there was some passing weather, and the turnout was heavy. since nobody names the teams any more, i've gone ahead and named hans's team "the retired police officers" and d. lee's team "the off-duty police officers."
the game featured a good bit of offense and the regular amount of hideously booted ground balls. one especially poor play was mine at short stop; in the "7th inning," with 1 out and runners on first and second, I went to my right to catch a ground ball and -- amazingly perhaps -- came up with it. however, i failed to make the exchange and get the ball to third and the effort was for naught as everybody was safe. the next batter hit a two-run double and the batter after that -- deion sandals -- cranked a three-run, called-shot donger.
the five-run meltdown was the featured offensive outburst in the game, which ended 15-13.
despite the loss, the retired police officers had their moments. after --- jebus --- i got picked off trying to stretch leigh's base hit from first to third, leigh, who had advanced to second on the play, came home to score on a hard slide. i can't remember who the batter was - john quinn probably - but the play at the plate was cold-blooded and javier who was at catcher pretty much never saw it coming. there was a good deal of dust and a lot of cheers and no injuries. the hard slide picked us up and we felt like we were going to sail after that.
but the off-duty police officers had other ideas. and javier would have his revenge later -- both for the slide and a triple he lost in the lights -- with a late-inning called shot home run off --- ummmm .... uh ..... er ..... welll --- ME. said shot was the difference in the ballgame, giving the off-duty police officers their final margin of victory.
essentially, i guess, since i'm writing this recap, it's a bit me-heavy. however, it appears i cost my team 8 billion runs on offense and defense on three separate bone-headed occasions.
their were two controversial plays. they were as follows:
--- matt was in a close play at the plate and insisted he was safe; quinn, the catcher, insisted matt was out. there was some back-and-forth but apparently matt ultimately was called out. i had mixed feelings about the play. i felt like john may very well have put the tag on, but i was far from sure. also, i feel like if you show up late and displace a fresh-faced newbie, you pretty much forfeit your right to argue your cause, at least on the first close play in which you are involved. i'm not sure how ultimately the out was decided upon; from my vantage point in center field i was under the impression that the run counted and the out did not count. i only learned later the out did in fact count. to this moment, the whole thing resides in some weird, metaphysical grey area.
--- the second controversial play was a force out at second in which some dood not only left first base too early (before the crack of the bat) but also was out anyway on the flip to second and nevertheless vehemently claimed to be safe. it was a hideous reminder of why the base runner never should be permitted to umpire the play. he probably went on to score. to make this point more clear: a base runner is entitled to politely lobby his cause; however he's not entitled to insist he was safe despite clear evidence to the contrary, especially after he left first base too early, violating both the spirit and the letter of the law.
one new player, i think his name was j.d., proved to be a pretty good acquisition. he rapped a few hits, scored a few runs, made a few catches and throws, and also got his inaugural raspberry on a slide. that's a solid, all-around night. he lives right in the area ... as do most walk-ups ... and we may see him again.
there were two stand-out defensive plays. one involved james "jungle cat" morris loping in and snaring a seemingly harmless foul pop up in the obstacle-laden area along the left-field line; the second involved jon on a tough chance in deeeep left-center on a long fly ball. jon and james consistently make tough plays look easy.
there were three other home runs besides those mentioned above: d. lee had one, ambrose had one, and i had a cheap scoreboard job, which ricocheted downward from the top of the wall and bounced off the top of the scoreboard. it counted, bitches.
i leave you with rule change, which will become official immediately unless there are strenuous objections: from here onward, henceforth and forth-with, the batter's "called-shot" shall be voided should his at-bat result in a score-board shot home run . in other words, if you call your shot, then hit the scoreboard, you can call it again.
this was the first game of the 2007 season that felt like summer. the sun stayed out late, there was some passing weather, and the turnout was heavy. since nobody names the teams any more, i've gone ahead and named hans's team "the retired police officers" and d. lee's team "the off-duty police officers."
the game featured a good bit of offense and the regular amount of hideously booted ground balls. one especially poor play was mine at short stop; in the "7th inning," with 1 out and runners on first and second, I went to my right to catch a ground ball and -- amazingly perhaps -- came up with it. however, i failed to make the exchange and get the ball to third and the effort was for naught as everybody was safe. the next batter hit a two-run double and the batter after that -- deion sandals -- cranked a three-run, called-shot donger.
the five-run meltdown was the featured offensive outburst in the game, which ended 15-13.
despite the loss, the retired police officers had their moments. after --- jebus --- i got picked off trying to stretch leigh's base hit from first to third, leigh, who had advanced to second on the play, came home to score on a hard slide. i can't remember who the batter was - john quinn probably - but the play at the plate was cold-blooded and javier who was at catcher pretty much never saw it coming. there was a good deal of dust and a lot of cheers and no injuries. the hard slide picked us up and we felt like we were going to sail after that.
but the off-duty police officers had other ideas. and javier would have his revenge later -- both for the slide and a triple he lost in the lights -- with a late-inning called shot home run off --- ummmm .... uh ..... er ..... welll --- ME. said shot was the difference in the ballgame, giving the off-duty police officers their final margin of victory.
essentially, i guess, since i'm writing this recap, it's a bit me-heavy. however, it appears i cost my team 8 billion runs on offense and defense on three separate bone-headed occasions.
their were two controversial plays. they were as follows:
--- matt was in a close play at the plate and insisted he was safe; quinn, the catcher, insisted matt was out. there was some back-and-forth but apparently matt ultimately was called out. i had mixed feelings about the play. i felt like john may very well have put the tag on, but i was far from sure. also, i feel like if you show up late and displace a fresh-faced newbie, you pretty much forfeit your right to argue your cause, at least on the first close play in which you are involved. i'm not sure how ultimately the out was decided upon; from my vantage point in center field i was under the impression that the run counted and the out did not count. i only learned later the out did in fact count. to this moment, the whole thing resides in some weird, metaphysical grey area.
--- the second controversial play was a force out at second in which some dood not only left first base too early (before the crack of the bat) but also was out anyway on the flip to second and nevertheless vehemently claimed to be safe. it was a hideous reminder of why the base runner never should be permitted to umpire the play. he probably went on to score. to make this point more clear: a base runner is entitled to politely lobby his cause; however he's not entitled to insist he was safe despite clear evidence to the contrary, especially after he left first base too early, violating both the spirit and the letter of the law.
one new player, i think his name was j.d., proved to be a pretty good acquisition. he rapped a few hits, scored a few runs, made a few catches and throws, and also got his inaugural raspberry on a slide. that's a solid, all-around night. he lives right in the area ... as do most walk-ups ... and we may see him again.
there were two stand-out defensive plays. one involved james "jungle cat" morris loping in and snaring a seemingly harmless foul pop up in the obstacle-laden area along the left-field line; the second involved jon on a tough chance in deeeep left-center on a long fly ball. jon and james consistently make tough plays look easy.
there were three other home runs besides those mentioned above: d. lee had one, ambrose had one, and i had a cheap scoreboard job, which ricocheted downward from the top of the wall and bounced off the top of the scoreboard. it counted, bitches.
i leave you with rule change, which will become official immediately unless there are strenuous objections: from here onward, henceforth and forth-with, the batter's "called-shot" shall be voided should his at-bat result in a score-board shot home run . in other words, if you call your shot, then hit the scoreboard, you can call it again.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
5.13.07: mama's boys
by pbdotc aka the Wayward O
After the Mother's Day Massacre I went out looking for some softball. But the turnout stunk. We did have a core of 10 regulars and semi-regulars, including Cey, Kathy & Lex, each of whom showed for I think for the first time this season. I was in a shitty mood because I don't have anything else to do but watch Orioles choke. Well that's not right actually: There is a lot to do in New York. I chose to watch 'em choke. Even worse.
We were still awful damn short on players. So we pulled in two doods from the bocce court, Will and Chris, who were playing catch. They weren't sure they were going to stay the whole while, but they did, and they had fun. We also pulled in a lady named Ruth. She was in dugout area with her pooch, Sadie. She ran home and got her mitt and some shoes. That gave us 13, which meant more or less we pitched & caught for our own team and sported two (2) outfielders per team. We did not close off any fields.
Ruth was nervous at first but it was clear she had played a lot of softball in the past because she immediately contributed on defense, gunning down an advancing runner at second after a bad throw to first. She also had trouble at the plate but worked out some of those issues as the game progressed. Her dog kept chewing her mitt but it would not chew the mitt when I tried to take a video of the dog chewing the mitt.
I have a feeling we'll see the new players again. I think the dog should come back too so I can film it chewing the mitt.
My team played a modified defense which featured the "opposite field middle infielder backing out into short outfield" depending if a lefty or righty was up. That caused us a minor headache at one point. Danny Lee's team appeared to be playing a full-time short fielder, or deep roving infielder. I'm not sure what you'd call it. I think each strategy has its strong points and in the end it appeared to be a wash.
There were A LOT of booted balls and it seemed like the sloppy fielding was contagious. I did fall down again, as I predicted, attempting to field a grounder way to my left at 2nd base. It was a sort-of tough chance but I had no business falling down. I think I was tipsy.
There were one or two controversial calls. The ball beat Kathy to third, but she insisted she was safe despite solid evidence to the contrary. But she has a solid rep so we let her have it.
Handsome Andrew hit a moon shot but it was not called. And Kissel (I think please correct me if I'm wrong) hit what would have been an inning-ending home run except the newly leafy trees out in deep right center knocked the ball back in play. Leigh and Cey, my outfielders at the time, protested the ruling but once I explained the ground rules to them, all was forgiven. There were no called-shot home runs (again please correct me if I'm wrong) although on Andrew's call he came within six inches of his 2nd scoreboard shot on the young season.
The other Dave hit a bases-clearing triple that salvaged the game for my side. And he gave me a cigarette after the game. That was the second (2nd) cigarette I have smoked in 2007 and the 3rd overall since I quite smoking on New Year's eve, 2004/2005.
The game ended in an 11-11 draw. It was a very nice night to be outside, far away from the Blatzmore Schnorioles and their Imbecile Manager.
After the Mother's Day Massacre I went out looking for some softball. But the turnout stunk. We did have a core of 10 regulars and semi-regulars, including Cey, Kathy & Lex, each of whom showed for I think for the first time this season. I was in a shitty mood because I don't have anything else to do but watch Orioles choke. Well that's not right actually: There is a lot to do in New York. I chose to watch 'em choke. Even worse.
We were still awful damn short on players. So we pulled in two doods from the bocce court, Will and Chris, who were playing catch. They weren't sure they were going to stay the whole while, but they did, and they had fun. We also pulled in a lady named Ruth. She was in dugout area with her pooch, Sadie. She ran home and got her mitt and some shoes. That gave us 13, which meant more or less we pitched & caught for our own team and sported two (2) outfielders per team. We did not close off any fields.
Ruth was nervous at first but it was clear she had played a lot of softball in the past because she immediately contributed on defense, gunning down an advancing runner at second after a bad throw to first. She also had trouble at the plate but worked out some of those issues as the game progressed. Her dog kept chewing her mitt but it would not chew the mitt when I tried to take a video of the dog chewing the mitt.
I have a feeling we'll see the new players again. I think the dog should come back too so I can film it chewing the mitt.
My team played a modified defense which featured the "opposite field middle infielder backing out into short outfield" depending if a lefty or righty was up. That caused us a minor headache at one point. Danny Lee's team appeared to be playing a full-time short fielder, or deep roving infielder. I'm not sure what you'd call it. I think each strategy has its strong points and in the end it appeared to be a wash.
There were A LOT of booted balls and it seemed like the sloppy fielding was contagious. I did fall down again, as I predicted, attempting to field a grounder way to my left at 2nd base. It was a sort-of tough chance but I had no business falling down. I think I was tipsy.
There were one or two controversial calls. The ball beat Kathy to third, but she insisted she was safe despite solid evidence to the contrary. But she has a solid rep so we let her have it.
Handsome Andrew hit a moon shot but it was not called. And Kissel (I think please correct me if I'm wrong) hit what would have been an inning-ending home run except the newly leafy trees out in deep right center knocked the ball back in play. Leigh and Cey, my outfielders at the time, protested the ruling but once I explained the ground rules to them, all was forgiven. There were no called-shot home runs (again please correct me if I'm wrong) although on Andrew's call he came within six inches of his 2nd scoreboard shot on the young season.
The other Dave hit a bases-clearing triple that salvaged the game for my side. And he gave me a cigarette after the game. That was the second (2nd) cigarette I have smoked in 2007 and the 3rd overall since I quite smoking on New Year's eve, 2004/2005.
The game ended in an 11-11 draw. It was a very nice night to be outside, far away from the Blatzmore Schnorioles and their Imbecile Manager.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
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