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.