8/29/04: Recap by Dan K.

Greatest finales ever:

1. Newhart's last episode
2. The last two minutes of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture
3. The Music City Miracle
4. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
5. Clarkson Street softball, summer 2004

Two games. Two nail-biters. Both came down to the final at-bat of the final inning. Game One was won with a clutch hit. And Game Two? With a hotbox, of course.

It's hard to imagine a better way to end a summer's worth of softball than that.

Now, I still don't know a lot of you guys very well. In fact, I had to carry around my little reporter's notebook Sunday night, taking down names, in order to even write this recap. But you guys have been welcoming and generous in allowing me to play with you all summer. That's why it pains me to have to say this:

You guys are candy-asses.

By my count, ten balls got sent over the fence Sunday night. Ten! Most of them were appropriately called shots, although Chris sent a bomb straight out to center in the first inning of Game One that was uncalled and therefore inning-ending, squelching a bases-loaded, no-out rally. Balls went into the garden, into the street, ricocheted off cars and houses and fences. Those poor bastards playing bocce ball or whatever the hell they're doing out in right-center were kept busy dodging and retrieving all your cannonshot.

And I recognize that I have never sent and will never send a ball over the fence. I've never hit an out-of-the-park home run, not in tee-ball, not in Little League, and not in any of the plentiful recreational softball I've played in my life. The Clarkson Street field, the smallest I've played on in years, is thrilling for me because, if I really cut loose on a pitch, I can actually reach the base of the wall -- something I'd never done anywhere before June. I'm a limp-wristed ninny, no doubt about it. That's why, for the first half of the summer, I appreciated the no-hitting-it-out rule; when homers are prohibited, my singles are just as good as everyone else's singles. Even if Rob gets his singles smashing the ball midway up the dead-center fence and I get mine by poking a grounder through the 5/6 hole, who cares? We both end up on first.

But then, you guys started allowing one called home run per game. And a player could call a home run -- and this is the part that leads me to call you all candy-asses -- without penalty if he blew it. If Steve, for example -- just to pick a name at random -- does his dick-waving home run call, and instead of launching one, sends a liner to left that goes uncaught because the outfielders were backed up against the fence, is Steve's hit honorable? Of course it isn't. But here Steve is, taking his shitbird single anyway and ambling drunkenly to first. Why isn't Steve out? He called his shot. He blew it. Why does he escape punishment for his hubris?

Look, I don't mean to impugn Steve personally; I just grabbed the first name I could think of without consulting my notes. I mean to impugn all you candy-asses. The rule has to be changed. Failure to hit it out after calling your shot = an automatic out. No matter what. No runners advance. No RBIs. Either you hit it out like you said you would or you sit down. Foul a ball or two off if you need to; that's fine. But hit a frigging home run or you're meat.

Feel free to discuss in the comments section.

Sunday's games, despite being homeramas, were showcases for the flashy defense audiences have come to expect from Clarkson Street softball games. Even during warmups people were flashing leather; David made a leaping catch up against the fence worthy of Plays of the Week.

Game One: Green Party (Steve) 5, Libertarians (Danny) 4

A fantastic game. Chris had a rough evening, between his uncalled rally-killer in the first and a later bases-loaded called shot that hit a tree and bounced back into the field of play. Dinny kept the Green Party close with a fantastic diving catch in left and then, as you've seen so many times on the highlight reels, came back in the next half and provided heroics at the plate. In the top of the ninth Dinny, who had been hitting mostly weak pops to short left, called his shot and made his word his bond, cranking a skyball over the left-field fence for a two-run dinger and the winning runs.

We changed team names for Game Two and made of ourselves a metaphor.

Game Two: Blue States (Danny) 9, Red States (Steve) 8

This game was a battle for the soul of America. The liberals won, but this one was hard-fought with plenty of arguing and cheating on both sides. Mark overran third but thought he was safe when he took the actual base with him. Doug stretched a single into a double with a picture-perfect slide, punctuated by a fist-pump and holler of triumph. Steve robbed me of a hit with a sweet backhand down the third-base line.

I managed to nip two rallies in the bud thanks to my play at second base; unfortunately, on only one of those occasions was I playing the field at the time. Me and Chris turned a wicked DP to shut the Red States down, but just an inning later I got caught napping on the basepaths as I got thrown out at second on Josh's solid single to center. Weak.

The game went down to the wire again, as Gordon's 3-run dinger tied it up in the bottom of the third-to-last. (With the soccer players once again encroaching on our field, the inning numbers were fluid as we simply tried to sneak in as many as we could before those Umbro'd meatwads flooded the zone. "I thought they said this was the last inning," one of 'em said loudly as we traded sides with ten minutes to go. Little did he know we'd play two more after that.) Steve was kind enough to send an uncalled jack over the wall in the "8th," bringing the Blue States up to bat, whereupon Paul -- who had been heard earlier complaining that he had yet to win a game all year -- knocked home the go-ahead runs with a clutch two-out rip to right.

And how would it end? With defense, of course. Bad first, then good. Gordon sent a single to center that Danny, in his competitive fervor, decided was worth a throw to first -- just in case, you know. His throw went over my head, over the first backstop, over the fenced-in entryway, clear to the parking lot across the street. Gordon took second. On the next play, Lex fielded Dinny's single cleanly in right, and hearing us call "Home! Home!" unleashed a throw that went far wide of home and only half as far as it would need to go. Gordon, needless to say, took off running. But it turned out there was a method to Lex's madness; he was, weird as it may sound, hitting the cutoff man, which was me. I sent it home, where Tom caught it cleanly with Gordon only about halfway down the line.

Hotbox.

Hotbox!

HOTBOX!!!!!!!!


Every player came charging in, whether Red Stater or Blue Stater. Tom ran Gordon, the winning run, back toward third, then tossed it to Mark. As the masses converged, Mark ran Gordon a few steps toward home, then tossed the ball over Gordon's head, back towards Tom...

...and the ball hung in the air seemingly forever, illuminated by the gleam of sodium lights...

...our calls of "Hotbox!" echoing in the night...

...the memories of a thousand games of pickle and hotbox and rundown played as children filling our minds...

...the soccer players watching in the distance, drool collecting on their chins as they try to understand the Velcro straps on their shin guards...

...the spirit of Doug's injured daughter hovering reproachfully over Steve...

...hundreds of hippie protesters getting head-cracked by cops just a mile away...


...in that moment, it seemed as though the hotbox could go on forever, as though we could keep Gordon trapped between third and home through the soccer game, past the time the lights were turned off, through the autumn and the snow and the return of the birds right up until next May when the season began anew; as though we might never grow old, might never die, but instead would be young forever between the blessed white lines, but then Dinny ran in from first, screaming hysterically, and knocked the ball away, and the game was over.

Game ball: Dinny.
 

8/22/04: Recap by VRF

Muddy waters. That’s what greeted us at good ol’ Jimmy Walker this past Sunday evening. It was a beautiful, perfect night, but home plate was a mess. Deep pools of water in the batter’s box, soaked earth. Kind of like the Somme Valley circa 1916. Well, maybe not, but it was bad.

But the lads went to work. A true team effort it was. Actually, I didn’t help at all, but a lot of the guys pitched in. Channels were dug, earth was shifted, and, in the end, a bridge was placed over the river in front of the plate. Said bridge was actually the portable pitcher’s mound that created a small hill in front of home. It was kind of like that small hill in the outfield in Houston where Steve wants to see a pony. Except this hill was directly in front of the batters box, sans pony.

It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. Good work, lads. Play Ball!

So it had been a while since I played the softball and it was good to see the fellas again. Hey Fellas! Given the mess at the plate, people still were in a pretty good mood. We got started a little late due to the feats of engineering at home plate, but teams were picked: Grounds Crew v. Drainage. I don’t know which one I was on. Do you?

The layoff was terrible for my offensive game. Weak groundouts and even weaker popups. I don’t think I got a hit. I’m getting too old, fat, and slow for this game. AJR has always said it’s a long season, and by golly, he’s right. Could it be my last? Maybe I’ll leave my shoes in the middle of the field this Sunday like that wrestler dude at the Olympics. I did just fine in the field though.

As Steve reminds me in his “TWIB Notes” (what a jackass), the scores of the games were 9-2 and 6-2. My team won each time. There were a couple of called dingers. Hans popped one into the garden in the hopes that there a softball tree will one day grow. I’ve got news for you, Hans, it ain’t gonna happen. I’ve been waiting for a softball tree to grow out there for 7 years now, and it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe the softballs grow like potatoes or root vegetables. Maybe we need to go digging around in that garden to see what cornucopia of farm fresh Clinchers awaits us. I digress.

Justin also called a shot. And this thing was a moonshot. A blast. I mean, I think it actually went to the moon. No one saw it land. It just took off to the deepest part of center field and kept going. It wasn’t even a line drive. It seemed like it just kept rising, freeing itself of earth’s silly little gravity, floating off into the night. I’ll bet Justin felt good about that.

There was a spectacular hotbox near third base. Someone estimated that there was about 90% participation in this one. That’s good hotbox.

Then there was the play that Hans has been whining about incessantly. I was playing a stellar left field when someone on the Bad Guys hit a line drive at a (very drunk) Hans who was playing SS. It was a sinking liner, and looked like Hans would get it on a short hop. Sure enough, he stuck his glove down, and the ball made the trappy sound. And you know the gotdam fucking sound I mean. Now, I’ll admit that I couldn’t see the play in question, but that won’t stop me from voicing my opinion: it sounded like he trapped it. Now, the eyewitness accounts of those in closest proximity confirm that Hans actually caught the ball. But who you gonna believe, them or me? Thought so.

Soccer players. Oh, boy. They are the devil’s business. Up to their usual bullshit down the right field line. Stretching and doing jumping jacks and twirly-whirlies and all kinds of shit. None of us like that. Not one little bit. Hans decided to do something about it. So, hitting lefty, he raked one down the line and hit a player mid-stretch. Well done, Hans. You almost got the game ball for that one. Almost. Hans lost any hope of winning the game ball when he decided that in addition to soccer players, he ain’t too fond of little girls. Again with the soccer jackasses “warming up” down the line, encroaching on our field of play, Hans uncorked one. It was a sizzling line drive down the right field line. It bounced once, luckily decreasing its speed to 94 MPH, at which point it hit either Doug or Gary’s daughter in either the head or torso (not sure which, sorry fellas). Nothing quite like the sound of softball hitting little girl, not even the trappy sound.

So the girl started crying. Hell, I would, too. But there was no blood and she toughed it out and was a real little trooper in the end. My guess is that Hans won’t be invited for Christmas, though. And, just as an FYI, when the little girl gets smoked, the game ends. We learned that this weekend.

Game ball to Justin for all-around superior play. Honorable mention to Little Girl for taking one for the team and striking fear into the hearts of those shitbird soccer players.

Soccer players. Gas face. Again.
 

7/25, 8/1, and 8/8: Three in one Recap by Me, with a little help from D. Lee

I just re-read Dan's recap.  That was a good one.  Maybe we should just let "Dan" write the rest of the recaps, eh?  He's so great and all. Dan, Dan, Dan.  Enough.  We have to find a way to escape Dan's shadow and continue to write some got-damn recaps of our own, or all is lost.  Where will Dan be when we need him most? I'll tell you where, because I've known guys like Dan: he'll be accepting a huge monetary sum to write recaps for somebody else's weekly softball game.  And he'll be grinning so wide as to nearly split that stupid Ohio State hat that he's constantly wearing.  Who is he, LL Cool J?  Enough with the Ohio St. hat, Dan.  We get it.  You're from Wisconsin.  You abandoned your family and moved to the big city, but you still want to show that you're down with the Midwest.  Well, one thing to consider: Ohio isn't really the Midwest. And it's not the East.  It's just Ohio. You're not making a statement.  You want to make a statement? Try adopting a child from an impoverished nation, "Dan." Step up to the plate and do something, instead of running around in that stupid hat acting like King Shit of Fuck Mountain.

The reason I'm sore at Dan is that he did such a dandy-ass job on the recap that the rest of us have come down with a collective case of shriveled sacoballus. Nobody's written a fucking recap in almost a month.  Come on people, do I have to do everything around here?  OK, fine. I'm going to do a giant recap, a recap that covers THREE epic doubleheaders (or something like that), and I don't plan on doing a good job.  But I'm gonna get something done here, and then we can all move on, with Dan's recap but a distant memory. At least until Pulitzer time.

Game 1: 7/25/04: The Redemption of Deion

Wanna know what a sport I am?  I'm going to do this recap, even though I wasn't at the game. Do you see Ohio Dan doing that?  No, friends, you do not. He's too busy working on his novel and bragging to women in bars about the one (1) recap he's done in his entire life.  What a chump. 

Actually, we asked both D. Lee and Deion himself to complete this recap, but they both fessed.  Choked on the proverbial apple. Wow.  They may have offered some half-assed excuses, I can't recall. I would have handled it myself right off the bat, but as I mentioned I missed the game.  I missed it because I was just returning from a three-day bender in Chicago, Illinois, where I closed down the bars every night.  Now that's an excuse.  Better than anything I heard from Lee or Sandals.

At least D. Lee sent me some bullet points. Of course, he then had the audacity to ask me to expand them into an actual recap.  Remember, I WAS NOT AT THE GAME.  So what you'll get is D. Lee's list, without apology or further explanation.

1) *Item removed at D. Lee's request

2) Dinny and Ambrose refuse to show likely because Steve couldn't show.

3) Numbers were low and we still played an awesome game without rightfield.

4) Scoring was done on a pizza box (Five Deadly Venoms vs Six Fingers of Death)

5) Paul hit a called Grand Slam.

6) Gordon hit a NON-called Grand Slam = three outs + goat effect

7) Game is close to late innings.

8) Gordon redeems himself with raucous Grand Slam off scoreboard = hero + no goat horns

9) Paul makes huge base-running gaffe and fielding error to allow winning run to score = former hero/current goat-man.

10) final result: awesome game from the depths of nothingness.

You got that?  Good, because I was at 41,000 feet and have no idea what any of this means.  Other than the fact that Gordon came up big and won the game.

Game 2: 8/1/04: Let's Play 3

OK, I am going to make this quick because I'm getting tired and so are you.  When we showed up this week, the deck was stacked pretty well against us.  D. Lee had temporarily misplaced the key (reminder: let's make a copy of that damn thing), so we all had to crawl through the famous peeled-back section of the gate in centerfield.  Or what normally serves as centerfield.

Yeah, things were just a little bit fuct. The home plate area looked like the Everglades. Just a mess of mud and filthy West Nile water that made it unusable.  After trying a number of options like moving the plate forward or standing on the tarp to bat, we somehow all managed to agree that we would need to play in a different direction. We had twelve guys, which meant there were at least 13 opinions of how best to re-align the field. Finally, and I have to say I'm proud of this, we came to a unified decision.  Leftfield, home to countless undiscovered species of rodentia as well as The Smell, would serve as home plate. Nobody really had a big problem with this.  In fact, when a couple of people started grousing (you know who you are), newly-minted egomaniac Dan the Recap Man started yelling at everyone to shut up and play.  I sort of liked that.  We need more guys who are willing to yell at other guys.  I can't do it alone.

We also had only a little midgi-bat, which we were gamely prepared to use, until Justin showed up with a real honest-to-goodness aluminum softball bat.  These are the comforts that we used to take for granted, but no longer. 

It was the Rats vs. the Roaches, and I honestly couldn't tell you who was what.  Let's say D. Lee's team was the Roaches.  The Roaches won Game 1 pretty easily, call it 9-4.  We were making up rules left and right.  Balls whacked into dugouts were in play.  Balls whacked into the Everglades were ground rule doubles.  We changed these rules at least twice during the game. It didn't help us. The Roaches were crawling all over the basepaths.  It got so bad I considered running to the Dirty Deli for some Combat, but there was no way I was shimmying my fat ass under the fence again.  So we took it on the chin, hit reset and regrouped for Game 2. 

As is the norm, the team that got waxed in Game 1 came out roaring in Game 2, making us all wonder if it's necessary to play 2 games (answer: yes, it is).  We went up something like 13-4, and so we decided each team would get a win and we would play for total run differential in both games as the ultimate argument settler.  It made some sense at the time (almost as much sense as just playing one game). We won this total combo score dealie, too, confirming that it was indeed the Night of the Rat. 

I don't remember much from this one.  My stomach hurt and so I only had one beer.  There was a play where Mark (who was on my team) tried to go home on a wild throw and I felt that it was pouring it on and somehow inappropriate.  I hollered out for him to stop, and as he slowed down, somehow the Roaches corralled the ball and threw a strike home in time to tag him out.  He certainly would have been safe had I not yelled at him to go back, but since I was his teammate, and we were up like 15-4, I didn't feel it would be right to do anything but let the out stand.  Mark wasn't too happy about this.  My bad, Mark.

Other notes:
-Jonathan R., who I am always calling "Jon" much to his presumed dismay (sorry!), made a great, stumbling, over the shoulder catch in front of the dugout in what was now right field.  This guy has burst onto the scene in a big way.  He's a player, and he enjoys a few laughs on the field.  Right attitude.
-Slugging Rob turned into Struggling Rob for the first game before rediscovering his swing and spraying line drives all over the place in Game 2.  Another candidate for Rookie of the Year.
-Still no signs of Dinny and Ambrose, once the stalwart heroes of Sunday night.  Perhaps some torches are being passed.  Or perhaps it was just the 20% chance of showers that scared 'em off.  We miss you guys.  I especially miss you because you've left me with nobody to yell at.
-Mark and Paul got in one of those "I'm going to nudge you off the base and then tag you" push-fests that evolved into a full-scale wrestling match at first base.  I know you guys love each other, but...Whatever, you love each other.  It was beautiful to watch.
-Justin is catlike in center/left/right.  And he's also got a good attitude.  In general, considering the lousy conditions this week, everybody made the best of it and made me proud to be a human being.  I mean a rat.
-There was one play where I was on third and somebody hit a deep drive to Justin in Center.  I forgot to tag up and instead started jogging towards home.  When I realized my mistake, I started heading back to third, but there was no way I could make it back and still tag up, so I just ran home without tagging up.  Nobody noticed.  I cheated.  Sorry.

Game 3: 8/8/04: Come Out and Play-ay!

This weekend was a welcome return to sunny skies and dry dirt.  Danny even found the key to the lock.  7 on 7. Two very solid games.  Lots of fun.  I didn't drink any Buds, though.  That's not so fun.

We decided to mine the vast landscape of gang movies from 1979 when coming up with our team names.  We ended up with the Ducky Boys (us, from "The Wanderers") vs. The Baseball Furies (them, from "The Warriors").  Good names, good games.

The Baseball Furies were stacked, and they showed their might by successfully completing at least three "called shot" homers, including a Grand Slam by Dipak that nearly broke our Ducky backs in Game 1.  D. Lee and Chris H. also went deep when they meant to, although Chris H. also hit FOUR accidental homers.  Enough with the andro, dude. 

At one point we may have been down like 7-2 (who really remembers this stuff?), and I was looking for a Tall Boy under the bench. But we kept chipping away with solid defense and timely base hits, and finally won it in the bottom of the 9th when Chris H. tried to complete a double play with nobody covering first.  Rough night for a good guy.  I owe you a warm sip of Gatorade.

In Game 2 we just solidly outplayed the Furies and won something like 9-6.  Good hitting by all our dudes except me.

Other notes:

-Dinnambrose still absent
-Benjy won both games, but he was grouchy as hell.  He kept getting frustrated with everything.  At one point, we pulled a "dropped pop-up double play" when Mark failed to run out his pop-up.  This was the culmination of a long evening spent arguing about the Infield Fly Rule, and whether it applies only with first and second/bases loaded, or if it also is in effect with just a man on first.  Since we had not established the rule, our DP was overturned.  This saddened Benge, who was right and knew it.  For the record, kids:

An INFIELD FLY is a fair fly ball (not including a line drive nor an attempted bunt) which can be caught by an infielder with ordinary effort, when first and second, or first, second and third bases are occupied, before two are out. The pitcher, catcher and any outfielder who stations himself in the infield on the play shall be considered infielders for the purpose of this rule. When it seems apparent that a batted ball will be an Infield Fly, the umpire shall immediately declare "Infield Fly" for the benefit of the runners. If the ball is near the baselines, the umpire shall declare "Infield Fly, if Fair." The ball is alive and runners may advance at the risk of the ball being caught, or retouch and advance after the ball is touched, the same as on any fly ball. If the hit becomes a foul ball, it is treated the same as any foul. If a declared Infield Fly is allowed to fall untouched to the ground, and bounces foul before passing first or third base, it is a foul ball. If a declared Infield Fly falls untouched to the ground outside the baseline, and bounces fair before passing first or third base, it is an Infield Fly. On the infield fly rule the umpire is to rule whether the ball could ordinarily have been handled by an infielder not by some arbitrary limitation such as the grass, or the base lines. The umpire must rule also that a ball is an infield fly, even if handled by an outfielder, if, in the umpire's judgment, the ball could have been as easily handled by an infielder. The infield fly is in no sense to be considered an appeal play. The umpire's judgment must govern, and the decision should be made immediately. When an infield fly rule is called, runners may advance at their own risk. If on an infield fly rule, the infielder intentionally drops a fair ball, the ball remains in play despite the provisions of Rule 6.05 (L). The infield fly rule takes precedence.

Now we have to figure out a way to implement that rule into our games.  I say it's up to the batter to yell out "infield fly" if he hits an easily caught pop-up. Might make for some very enjoyable arguments.
-I got caught in a hotbox.  We missed Dinny in this one, although there was sufficient chaos.  I actually feared for my life for a moment.  There was a real sense of relief when I was tagged out but permitted to live.
-Recap Dan made an amazing backhanded stop at 3rd and nailed the lead runner at 2nd.  Well done, especially for a guy wearing a first baseman's mitt and a ratty O.S.U. hat.
-Paul made two great catches in right center. Well, the first one was truly great, a running backhanded stab on a ball he had no business getting to. The second one was pretty good, but he definitely did a little Jim Edmonds lunge after he caught it to sell it a little bit.  Nothing wrong with that.
-Rob and Jonathan continued to dominate.
-some other shit happened, but I forgot what.

Game Ball goes to Professor Dave, who made his first appearance in about four years and smacked a whole mess o' base hits (he could give you an exact total).  He also got into the proper spirit of taunting.  We need more of that.

The season is winding down, and I think that I want to have year-end awards.  Something for us non-athletes to be able to brag to our kids about if we manage to survive the Republican convention.  I am going to list a few awards that I've come up with, and I encourage you to suggest more of your own in the comments section below.  DO NOT VOTE AT THIS TIME. After the final game of the season, I will put up a form for us all to vote on each category.  Fun, right?  Right.  Here's what I have so far:

-MVP
-Rookie of the Year
-Gold Glove Award (Best overall fielder)
-Dan Russell Award (Fastest Player)
-Best Fence-climber
-Sportsmanship Award
-Poor Sportsmanship Award
-Drunkest Player Award
-Manager of the Year
-Joe Charboneau Award (Guy who showed up, dominated, and left without a trace)
-Attendance Award
-Best New Rule
-Best/Worst Dressed
-Hustle Award
-Least Sweaty Player

Also, if you have not yet made it onto a baseball card, let me know this week so I can snap your picture and immortalize you.
 

7/11/04: Recap by Dan K.

Verbungle dot whatever apparently prides itself on heavy editorial oversight of all its content. You no doubt have noticed the plentiful editorial comments that pepper guest-written recaps on this site. Sometimes the comments add little to the story; sometimes they add nothing at all. Nevertheless, there they are, Steve's comments, overshadowing the fine work done by Eugene and AJR and VRF, whoever the hell they are.

So anyways, last night after softball Steve -- that's your name, right, guy who runs this site? Steve? (And don't you butt in with an editor's note in italics here to confirm. I demand you call me on the telephone to let me know what your name is) -- asked me to write up the recap this week. I reminded the guy (Steve?) that I don't know anyone's names except Galkin and Danny. He said "No, we want to get the new guys writing!" Drunkenly, I might add, though that will come as no surprise to anyone who was at the game or who has ever read these recaps or in fact has ever met Steve (?) before.

So I get home and eat some dinner and check my email and there, sitting in my inbox, is a fat missive from Steve, an editorial comment before I even wrote this goddamn recap. Apparently Steve realized how foolish it was to assign the recap to someone who a) didn't know anyone's name and b) hadn't particularly been paying attention throughout the evening, not knowing he would be tested on the material. So Steve sent me this email:

Hey Dan,

Thanks for doing the recap.  We look forward to the special flavor you’ll bring. I don’t want to influence your writing too much in any one direction, because I know how touchy you artist types can be.  But I thought I’d list a few things you might want to mention (totally up to you) in your recap.

"Totally up to me," my ass. I know some unconstitutional prior restraint when I see it. So let it be known that I will go point-by-point through Steve's emailed notes, but rest assured that were I writing this recap without network interference, not a single one of these details would make the cut.

What would I include? The smell of fresh-cut turf. The back-slapping homoeroticism of men at play. The lost and heady days of our youth. And Proust.

-Danny’s called Grand Slam (obviously the moment of the night)

Okay, I will agree that this was quite a moment. Game One, Score tied in the third, Jets 1, Sharks 1. The bases are loaded for Danny, captain of the Sharks. (The team names were under dispute pre-game by the way. Someone suggested variants on Sharks and Jets that were deemed offensive. I didn't hear it because I didn't know I should have been taking notes on every single thing anyone said all night. My guess is Crips and Bloods. Steve, is this right? IM me to confirm. DO NOT ADD AN EDITORIAL COMMENT!) Danny calls his shot, and unlike Galkin earlier in the game (the first inning!), does not hit a weak ground ball to short. Instead, Danny sends the first pitch he sees roughly 1.4 miles onto Leroy Street. The Shot That Hit The Reset Button Around the World. By the time the rally was over, we were up 7-1 and even I had hit a hard liner for a single instead of my usual shit ground ball to the left. At that moment the Sharks could do no wrong. Every ball we hit was a frozen rope to the wall or (in Danny's case) over it. Final score of game one: 9-5, and this only because of a contentious bottom of the sixth in which lackadaisical this-game's-gonna-get-reset defense, two errors by whatsisface, Chris, in left field, and prolific cheating by the Jets garnered them enough runs to make it respectable.

-Shannon’s appearance and sudden disappearance (if you can, make it seem like he left to do something incredibly insignificant)

Yeah, who was this guy Shannon? Tall, rangy, with shaved head and Billyburg glasses, Shannon prowled the right side of the field (1B, RF, 2B) with leonine grace. No ball got past him. He was an obvious catalyst for the offense, hitting .750, I imagine, in game one. Then he left. And no, Steve, not to do anything insignificant. He went because the clinical trials of his cure for cancer were finally getting underway.

-the new guy who struggled mightily and his large impact on Game 2

This is a delicate subject, because I don't know who the new guy was and whose friend he was and who I will be offending by bringing him up. I know that he joined the Sharks at the tail end of game one as our pitcher, and while his pitches were basically fine, his motion was such that I felt the urge upon watching him to throw up my hands and call a balk. He reminded me of myself as a child -- in nearly every athletic endeavor during childhood I was an enthusiastic participant but was also less skilled than most everyone else. So I played a lot of right field, as did the new guy in game two -- in fact, while the rest of us switched positions around every two innings, the new guy stayed in right field the whole game. And unlike my days in right field, the new guy was playing in a game featuring both lefties and righties with opposite-field power, so he was tested.

That said, the new guy basically did fine in right field. One ball got over his head for a double, which was trouble, but aside from that he fielded everyone's hard-hit singles cleanly the same as the rest of us. He had no significant impact in Game 2, really, because only one person had an impact on game 2 -- more on that later.

-Rob failing to successfully call a shot for the first time in his career

I don't even know who Rob is. Is he the blond guy, or the guy with the goatee? Or someone else? I have no idea. Steve, write a letter to me and send it by messenger service to let me know and I'll be happy to address this issue. Don't you fucking add an editorial comment here, buddy, or I'm throwing at your head next Sunday. I won't even wait for the games to start. The instant I see you, at 6:51 or whenever, boom! ball to the head.

-Josh’s incredible one hitter in game 2

This was astonishing. I have never seen anything like this in a slow-pitch softball game. And I would like to give credit to Josh for his excellent pitching, but I find myself unable to. Not because I'm churlish, I don't think, but really because it is ridiculous that the Sharks could not hit the ball anywhere other than weakly to short or weakly to left or weakly back to the pitcher. It is mortifying, horrifying, embarrassing, astonishing, terrible, fucking shitburger to get one-hit in slow-pitch softball. There is no excuse. Josh is a very nice guy, and a good softball player, and he looks so much like Spike Jonze that the first time I saw him I sincerely believed that Galkin was far more connected in showbiz than I ever imagined, but he should never, ever, ever have one-hit us. We should all resign. Thank God for Dipak, who saved us all from the first-ever no-hitter in slow-pitch history.

-the fact that dinny bailed, and then ambrose claimed to have “fallen asleep” and missed tonight’s game.  I want you to strongly imply that ambrose has a huge crush on dinny, and that when he heard dinny wasn’t showing, he decided to bail, too.  Email me if you need clarification on this.

I don't even know whose these guys are. I imagine one of them is the curly-haired guy who drinks as much as Steve. Is that Ambrose? Who is Dinny? Steve, send me a telegram explaining, please.

-the gloveless last out; your thoughts on glovelessness in general

I'll admit this was really funny. Game 2, the tail end of the one-hitter, Jets up 4-0, about to avenge their Game 1 blowout loss. Two down in the bottom of the last, and Dipak sends a fly ball to left, caught by whatsisface, the guy in the picture below swinging wildly at a ten-year-old-girl's head, not wearing a glove. A quick survey of the field reveals that the entire Jets team has removed their mitts, such is their faith both in Spike Jonze's pitching ability and the Sharks' anemic hitting. I like glovelessness; it hearkens back to the early days of baseball. We had some friends over for dinner the other night and one of them found a photograph of my grandfather, Gilbert Stewart, in his high school football uniform. "Is that a leather helmet?" she asked. Oh yes, it was. I once looked in his high school yearbook and discovered that in the same year, my grandfather was on the team that won the state football championship and was the state singles tennis champion. In later years that sports know-how exhibited itself mostly in a) telling me I had a linebacker's neck, then being disappointed when I said I didn't play football; b) beating me in cribbage; and c) noting that many major-league baseball players were really smart, considering they were black.

-how quickly the time went by tonight; how few innings we were able to get in

This is true; it didn't help that the field was surrounded by scowling soccer players by 8:15. I thought we had won a major victory in that regard? Steve, what's the deal with that? Please walk to my apartment, knock on my door, and tell me in person.

-how powerfully drunk I was

Yes.

-my lefty homer that was uncalled

See above re: drunk.

-chris h.’s great defense at 3^rd base

I don't know who that is. And I don't recall any particularly great defense at third base. I do remember that blond guy in centerfield totally throwing Dipak out at first on our only hit of game two, and everyone instantly choosing to pretend not to notice because it would just be too horrible.

-the bases/lack of bases

Yeah, the bases were not located until after the game. They're now in my trunk. Add a single editorial comment to this recap and you never see them again.

-benjy’s disputed called HR (I say it was fair and mark was cheating)

Already up 4-0 in a game in which his opponents were clearly never going to score a run, Benjy called his shot with two men on. Or maybe the bases were even loaded. (Note: until now I thought of Benjy as the guy who always wore that cool Jurassic 5 shirt. It's fitting that I finally learn his name at the first softball game he didn't wear it.) He launched a ball deep down the left-field line. I was playing left at the time and was sprinting toward the line; I have no idea whether it was fair or foul. While the argument raged, I was busy directing some guy and his dog, who'd been walking down Leroy Street and sportingly searched for the ball. (They found it, incidentally, about twenty feet fair, but ricochets are tricky.) I don't know why I tried so hard to recover that ball. I hate that doughy, assy ball. If you don't hit it right on the nose, it goes a maximum of six feet. And any ball that is popped up comes at you with such ridiculous spin it is nearly impossible to catch:

-my macho gesture by placing the bat between my legs and pointing to the fence

I hope this will be immortalized on your baseball card. Several of us stayed after to take baseball card photos; I had to stay in an extremely uncomfortable and goofy position for five consecutive unsuccessful photo attempts, as Steve was too drunk to work his camera properly. Meanwhile, the soccer players scowled from the sidelines and my grandfather looked down disapprovingly from Heaven.

GAME BALL goes to Spike Jonze, because even if the Sharks should be ashamed of ourselves for not hitting the damn ball in slow-pitch softball, and even if the last third of "Adaptation" was annoyingly simplistic (and please, don't argue that its annoying simplicity was the point -- I know it was a deft satire of the Hollywood screenwriting process, and it was still annoying), throwing a one-hit shutout deserves some damn kudos.

6/27/04: Gay Pride Day 2004, Recap by Eugene P.

First game one team got a shellacking, Second game was a game for 2 innings.  The winning team (the D. Lee's, who won both games, are on a nice streak right now - Ed.) had a 7 run inning, Chris Lee was pounding the ball, especially when he heard or saw pretty girls by the fence, though they may not have been girls. Everyone on the clean and sober killed the ball, their defense was tough too. many errors made by the other team.  a few controversial calls too, I think. one false 'hot box'? There was a drunk heckler in center field and a very loud mélange of bad music, but the evening air was warm and fruity.

Danny 's fire power at third base is always very impressive, as is the brother from another mother's arm. The losing team (The Steves, aka Bronski Beat - Ed.) also had at least 4 semi-drunk people on the field. Not an excuse -because they still lost the first game while sober.

The reason I quit playing baseball as a dainty child in little league:  a pitch hit me on the hands and introduced me to massive pain that lingers for more than a moment. My dad was at the game and I remember striking out on purpose so I could go sit down and figure out if my fingers were broken. I remember my dad was disappointed, in the pissed off way, asking me why i didn't try harder-or something along those lines. I sensed embarrassment and shame. But I also understand now  - how watching your kid fail at something you wished you could have done as a child- could be unintentionally frustrating.  Drinking definitely makes it easier on the field. failure no longer has the ability to make you self conscious or feel the shame of your team comparing you to some guy who blew it for his team in some part of the last century - giving you the emotional code red. (to editor: code red is the beat down with soap inside the  socks, right?)

Editor's Notes: As captain of Bronski Beat, I feel that something needs to be done before this season slips away. The D. Lee's have been slapping us all over the field without mercy. Eugene brings up a very good point about the in-game drinking.  The core of our team, the guys who seem to be together every week, are really nothing but a bunch of drunks.  And this definitely takes its toll on our performance.  Meanwhile, the D. Lee's are stacked with ringers like Justin and Chris Lee, guys who aren't just sober, but are actually good at softball.  This is a problem.  They're a better team, and a more clear-headed one as well.  Since I don't imagine we are going to take it easy on the sauce, we have two choices: continue to get whacked around by the D. Lee's, and drown our sorrows in paper-bagged cans of Dud, or suck it up and play better.  We need to stop worrying about where our next piss is coming from, and start figuring out which base to throw to.  I look to drunken icons like Billy Martin and former local news anchor Jim Jensen to show us the path to victory.  Imagine showing up on TV and reading the news while you're lit, every day for 30 years?  He never made excuses, and neither shall we -- we will rally and save this season.  That means everybody needs to pick up their game 25%.  Or changes will be made.

6/20/04: My Dad in the Striped Shirt by AJR

It was in March 1980 that my mom first signed me up in the Mosholu Little League. I was all of 8 years old at the time and until that point, my sporting life, such as it was, had consisted entirely of Tag, Skully, BigWheels, and Manhunt. I was okay at Manhunt but I still couldn't ride a bike and I'd never worn a mitt.

In fact, I hardly knew what baseball was. It was the thing other kids, the American kids, did on spring weekends. I'd never watched or even gone to a game of any kind. This was in the bone - the ignorance had been well near bred into me: my dear old dad, John R. and god bless him, had been born and raised in Ireland, during the Depression and World War II, and in the real misery thereafter. As of 1980, he knew how to drink, sing, and gamble, and he knew about horseracing, and he knew hurling and Gaelic Football. The latter he called "footy" and I have heard he was very good at it. But he did not know baseball, nor did he pretend to. In turn, neither did I.

On the 20th of June, 2004, Deion "Andrew Gordon" Sandals wasn't at Jimmy Walker Park for the usual end-of-weekend homoeroticism that our gang calls a softball game. Now, Deion had a terrific excuse: it was Father's Day, and a gorgeous day, and he was out being feted and fed as the proud young papa that he is. He has a lovely daughter and (I think) another one in the oven. I must say, it truly feels like it was only yesterday that I was at his bachelor party, which started with a boozy summer game, bats and balls out, at Yankee Stadium. His dad, the legendary RoGo, was there, and the whole exercise, 'going to a game with your son,' did not appear excruciatingly odd or, really, out of the ordinary at all. It was not at all what I have known about fathers and sons and days and games.

I suppose I missed something in that way. Anyway, I've always been told that I did. I don't know if I've ever admitted this, but I quite literally did not get a hit in organized baseball until I was 14 years old. Talk about an o-fer: mine lasted a solid 6 years. I enjoyed the sport, but had no idea, no clue, about how to play it. I swang once the catcher caught the ball. In those dark days, I aspired to be as good as the goddam Mantis. I even quit for a year when I was in the 6th grade. My dad's union was on a long strike, and we were eating welfare cheese, which is good (there's a lot of it) and getting free lunches (there is such a thing), and there was no money for kids to go oh for 3 and play RF in another Saturday doubleheader.

The mind is a powerful thing. It can make you a lawyer.
It can make you a documentary filmmaker.
It can make you Chris Weber's brother.
It can make you buy "The Art of Hitting .300".

We flash forward a few years, to 1987. I am getting ready for a Mosholu Little League Senior Division game. Stirrups yanked way high, like Rickey or Vince Coleman, the haute couture of the time. Well-used Robin Yount glove. Eye black on an overcast day. Parents fighting. Parental failings highlighted. Mother asks Why don't you ever go to any of his games? Father (remember, god bless him) answers, Why should I - he's no star! And the hurt, of course, is blinding (and one of the few feelings that will not age - you feel it the same now as you did in the moment). You are somehow able to say, and say with some pride, I played in the All-Star game 2 weeks ago, and You were there and you were drunk and you were asked to leave. Shame all around, lots of it.

Yet in the game that evening, I hit a long fly, a big fly to deep right where there is no fence. Over everyone's head. It rolled quite a bit, and I made my way all around the bases. My first career Home Run? No. There is a question in the outfield. The other team's CF, RF, and coach all say the ball had been interfered with by a spectator. He kicked it away, they say, or kicked it somehow. It's not clear, and no one is certain, but they insist it should be a ground-rule double.

The one-man umpiring crew actually confers with said spectator (talk about old school) and from 300-plus feet away I make eye contact with him. My dad. I see him mouth the words, "I didn't touch it" and then the umpire twirled his finger. The old footy skills and then the Home-f-ing-run. What the hell was he doing out there? Yet to this day, we have never once spoken of the incident.

Of course, on June 20th 2004 another player had another Father's Day strategy: bring the kids to the game. Doug, who is half of the exceptional lefthanded-hitting machine that we have (which could either mean he's 50% of the other player, or that he's simply 1 of the 2 naturally left-handed hitters we have: you, the viewer, decides!), brought his brood. I will here briefly recount what these children, this next generation, bore witness to:

- a radical new defensive rule change employed by the Danny Lee's: it seems to involve a force play at every base at all times. There do not need to be any runners on base for this. All one needs to do is have the ball roughly before a runner approaches, and sort-of make an effort to tag, and sort-of block the base, lo, and the runner is out. Major League Baseball is contemplating this new rule.

- my own attempt at innovation was struck down: on first base with one out, I went into second trying to break up the double play. Mark threw the ball directly at my right hand, and then called the second runner out. Ridiculous. (Speedster Eugene would definitely have been safe - Ed.)

- Eugene, poor Eugene pulling a Bonehead Merkle and not throwing the ball in from CF - as I recall it, 11 runs scored on the play. Steve was clearly delighted to have a chance to say "You pulled a Merkle on that one." (Of course, in retrospect I was thinking of the play where Enos Slaughter scored from first on a "single" as Johnny Pesky hesitated before throwing the ball -- or did he?  Tall Buds muddle the memory. - Ed.)

- the stupendous new HR rule experiment goes on. Like dunks in the NBA, players have taken to signature styles of calling their shot. However, there was only one successfully called-for and struck. It was by (new guy) Rob, who's quickly becoming a $50 player in many online Jimmy Walker Park Rotisserie leagues (for all his intangibles, Steve is still actually available on the waiver wire in my hardcore league)..

- the Bud continues to be well-pounded during games. Steve drinks one so big that he actually chooses it before games. Some nights it's not the last "player" picked, but I won't say who goes later. Let's just say his name begins with a "D," then has a synonym for 'hotel,' and ends with a "Y."

- we began with 6 on 6. Normally, this would require the hitting team to provide a pitcher, a catcher, and a RF. We decided to eschew the RF. That meant each team had but 2 outfielders. Usually this is a liability. But the Danny Lees had Justin (who, I might add, has gotten swept up into the BALCO investigation and is also being watched by the New York Racing Association). He caught balls ranging from the LF foul territory to right-center. It was unreal, and a pleasure just to watch.

- Steve remembered where the reset button was. The problem is, he didn't remember how to use it. Charlie Murphy was down 5-0 to Rick James (and let this be the last referencing of Chappelle that any of us do for a long, long time -Ed.), and Cap (Steve) told everyone to call their shot. The inning ended 5-3, and Cap kept saying, maybe we should reset now. Danny patiently explained to him that 5-3 is a close game, and not one in any need of resetting or restarting. Steve looked at Danny the way a drunk sailor with a hard-on might, and lied and told him he understood. The game went on.

- Speaking of hard-ons, I am typing these words with one of my very own. I am thinking of that beautiful, mushy, malleable, pliable gray ball we played with on Sunday. It was like clay, like the ass of a girl I once knew: you could pinch it and your fingers would meet. That ball deserves its own card, its own page on Verbungle.

- we didn't start until about 8:10. No soccer players came. Victory at last?

Now, on a Father's Day nearly a quarter-century after I first picked up a bat, and 17 years after my first home run, I found myself standing at home plate on a baseball diamond. I am batting lefthanded. My right arm, with a bat in it, is comically outstretched. I am gesturing to rightfield, or to the rightfield fence, or maybe Queens. Quite possibly (figuratively or not), I am aiming at Ireland and the very place it all began. The refrain "You're no star" keeps going through my head. The pitcher winds up. I wait, and I wait, and...

Player of the week honors go to my dad, about 888 weeks late. Happy Father's Day, to all you Mother-F***ers.

Editor's Notes, Meaningless Record Keeping Department:  Charlie Murphy triumphed by a final score of something like 8-7 in 11 innings.  Dipak knocked in the tying run in the 11th after failing to plate what would have been the winning run in the 9th.  The the winning run scored on a grounder to the Tin Man.  D. Lee was a little late getting to first, and his cousin was unable to make an accurate throw.  Everybody was ready to go home anyway. 

6/13/04: Recap by VRF

Comin' atcha from the tarmac at LaGuardia on my way to Mexico to hone my softball skills by sitting on the beach and getting sloppy on the tequila with the brand new little wife. Play ball!

So the games were good, real good. Seven on seven then eight on eight. I like those numbers. Steve-o brought the beers and I brought the string cheese and Jolly Ranchers. Alexi doesn't like string cheese, but Eugene loves Jolly Ranchers. Word.

There were a couple of notable additions this week: Mel and The Kid. Both are welcome to return. I think Ambrose sees a little of himself in The Kid and therefore does not like him yet. We'll see what happens. The Kid also likes the jolly ranchers.

The first game was a big ol' blowout. They just kept on scoring. But there was one spectacular hot box. Sandals got hung up real nice between first and second. There was a nice turnout for the hotbox with about 11 guys participating. Sandals did his job well: darting back and forth like a crazed dog. Then I gave him a good shove and he was tagged out. That was fun.

Second game was excellent. Tightly played. Good defense and good timely hitting. They won with a six run explosion in the top of the Ninth. And it wasn't even due to errors. They were just slamming the ball all over the place. The key hit was delivered by Dipak, which may just earn him a game ball. We'll see.

There's a new rule in the hizzouse: batter's choice. As of Sunday, you get one at bat a game to call your shot. If you jack one out when you've called it, that shit counts. Nice. And if you don't jack it out, ball's in play. This is the part that needs fixin'. I like the home run part, but there need to be more serious consequences when you don't hit it out. A sort of "Icarus" rule if you will. A batter's hubris should be punished. But it's fucking hard to come up with the right punishment. My attempt follows, but maybe the bungmeister will create one of them linky things so we can all weigh in on this important topic (please add any and all suggestions on this or any other softball-related topic by clicking on the word "comments" at the end of this recap - Ed.).

At first I thought that the batter should automatically be out if he did not hit a dinger when he called it. Steve and Ambrose reminded me that this would result in the dreaded "dead ball out." They're right but fuck them anyway. So here's what I think: the batter gets to run it out, but the guy after him in the lineup gets skipped. This will create some excellent intrateam resentment and bitterness, both of which emotions are welcome at our little game. Not a great idea, but a good one. You try it, sucka.

Game ball? Indeed. Tough call this week. Alexi continues to roam that outfield like a puma, pouncing on everything that comes his way. But he was on the losing team. Benjy played real well and so did the guy whose name I don't know, but who kept hitting bullets to the opposite field. But in the end, the ball needs to go to the guy who came through in the clutch. Thus, the honor goes to Dipak. Well done, lad.

What did we learn? I'll tell you what the fuck we learned:

Alexi doesn't like string cheese
Eugene has a sweet tooth
My old mitt is better than my new mitt
Doug is going to Europe
Ambrose has a strained back/pussy

Other random notes:

I like drinking ice cold budweiser from a can. It makes me feel good about myself.

I am trying to figure out if fourteen or sixteen guys is the perfect amount of guys.

We still have not commandeered the scoreboard. Don't worry. We will.

And so I'm on my way to mexico where the sun will burn my irish ass to a crisp. But while I'm gone, play hard and play well. More importantly, cheat and argue early and often.

I'm married. That's good.

6/6/04: Recap by SRC

Wanted: Softball Players
-Cannot be afraid of potential rain
-Must enjoy playing softball
-Must not be a ten year-old girl

Shit has gotten bleak.

5/23/04: Recrap by SRC

The ball this Sunday was so bad that I have considered creating a fictional recap so that you might actually be entertained.  But we report the truth here at verbungle.com, even when it pains us to do so.  So to spice things up a bit, I will interweave some selected softball moments with excerpts from an unedited, unfinished true story about teenage lust (IN RED), and entries from a weekly report (IN GREEN) from my first five days on the job back in 1993(!). You will be duly moved.  If you can ever get through the damn thing.

For the fourth consecutive weekend, the Sunday forecast called for scattered thundershowers in the evening.  It's true that we've pretty well lucked out up to this point, as the rain has not been a factor, but we are due for a beautiful Sunday with a full turnout and no headaches about weather or numbers.  I'm guessing it won't be Memorial Day weekend.  Anyway, this weekend we actually got some rain, at right around 7pm when the game is supposed to start.  It was just a sun shower (that's one of those expressions that everybody loves to use when it's appropriate), and for most of us it provided some decent relief from the 80 degree heat.  Ambrose, as usual, was afraid of the rain and crouched under a tree in the visiting team's dugout until the danger had passed.

Maybe the overcast skies are what frightened away the bounty hunters. I imagine they've seen scarier shit than some clouds, but for whatever reason they were absent. This is also a good opportunity to mention, as Matt explained to me,  that they are primarily bail bondsmen. They only become bounty hunters when you skip out on your bail.  At that point, Lord help you.  The bail bondsmen were missed, as we only had 15 guys.

I like playing softball, I think, but I am pretty well done with organizing and managing it.  I hereby offer up my weekly captaincy to anyone who's interested.  I just want to be a player, and not even a good one.

This week we got a late start on the pre-game team-choosing and when we were done, I had 8 guys and Danny and 6.  That's some bad choosing.  Fixing this boo-boo should have been easy, but for some reason it took us another 5 minutes to do it.  Late start, low turnout.  I still felt we had a good team and a chance to win.

*****

“I think I’m gonna meet some girls in Cape Cod.”

“Why do you say that?  What’s so special about Cape Cod?  You aren’t even close to meeting girls here…why is that going to change all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know…it’s summer.  It’s Cape Cod – everybody’s on vacation.  Everybody wants to have fun.  I think I’m ready.  Jimmy knows everybody there.  There are always girls around, people are always getting action and stuff.” 

I’m tempted to use the expression “hooking up,” but it didn’t exist back then, at least not as far as I knew.  Not that I needed a phrase for something that I had never done.  It was August 1985, and I was spending the night at my friend Jason’s house, and we were staying up all night talking like we always did.  We were talking about girls: girls we knew, girls we knew of, girls who didn’t know us, girls in a very theoretical sense.  I was almost 16 years old and I had never really kissed a girl.  I don’t think Jason had done much “hooking up,” either.  But we must’ve known that someday we’d get our chance.  It was a fresh and exciting sensation, like you kind of knew Christmas was coming, but you didn’t know when.  And unlike Christmas, the day we finally made contact with the other side wouldn’t mean an end to the anticipation, it would mean a whole new set of expectations, of acts, of experiences, of stories to tell late at night.

For some reason, I just had a feeling something was gonna happen on my visit to Cape Cod the next week.  I was about as uncool as I could be: skinny, bad clothes, butt cut, long, gangly legs, a weird shape in general.  I had hit puberty later than everybody else, the whole bit.  But I wasn’t ugly, not in the George Kennedy sense anyway, and I had the advantage of being almost immune to rejection.  I had been so paralyzed by fear of talking to girls up to this point that I had just gotten inured to my state of solitude.  All of a sudden I decided, I'm just gonna put myself out there, why the hell not.  These girls aren’t so great.  I don’t need a great one.  I just want to see what it’s like, the making out, the breasts, the whole deal.

So I went to Cape Cod the next week.  On maybe the second night there, Jimmy came through.  A friend of his --a girl -- and her friend(!), were coming over that night to hang out with us.  I was excited, but I kept a little bit of my aloof “I’m fine if nothing ever happens” attitude going.  Jimmy was an old pro at this point.  Earlier that summer, he had even played strip poker with an older woman (maybe 18 or 19) who was...shaved...down...there.  That game ended when his friend, the third player in the game, revealed a pair of threes and older, larger, more professional equipment.  Jimmy took a walk that night, but compared to me he was an old hand sexually.

*****

Weekly Report beginning Monday, October 18, 1993

Monday, Oct. 18

Brought setup disks to Gina. Set up her computer with WordPerfect, Lotus 123, and printer driver. Came back and made backup copies of software in case it gets wiped out. Rearranged cassette library upstairs, set up new computers/printers. Went to the bank for petty cash, $800.

*****

As soon as the game started, I realized our team's wheels must have fallen off during BP. And no matter what anybody tells you, you need some wheels or you're just fucked.  In the first inning, they scored like five runs on a series of smashed balls and comedic misplays.  I'm not going to name names, but some of our guys simply could not catch the damn ball.  Ten minutes in, and I was ready to go home right there. On offense, and I will at least name my own name here, we couldn't get a hit.  By the end of three it was 8-0.  Since we were running a little late, we pulled the plug after like 5 innings, with our team trailing 11-0.  I can only remember one real highlight: Chris L.'s scoreboard homer.  It was just a perfect shot, on line all the way, and it made The Sound when it connected with the fancy new scoreboard.  Good goddamn work, Chris. There was also one pitiful, brief botched hotbox.  Shit. Other than that, all I remember is getting drunker and angrier and yelling at everybody about the usual nothing in particular.  Losing blows. 

*****

So here it is, the BIG night, LIVE girls, coming over to talk to us, and, I can only assume, make out with us.  But first we need to prepare, just a couple of young bucks laying down the groundwork for a big night.  Around 5 o’clock, we decide to make ourselves some dinner.  My parents had been making me pretty much whatever I wanted lately, and my little kid’s palate had adopted nachos as my favorite "meal."  We walk the three blocks to the market, buy some tortilla chips, some pepperjack cheese, and we’re set to go.  It’s still sunny out, and it’s that perfect midsummer day that you just don’t see outside of New England…August, about 75 in the sun, nachos, chicks, trees, grass, breezes, patches of shade, grey, weather-stained New England houses that all have names, the faintest bit of moisture in the air, endless possibilities. 

Jimmy’s parents own a little resort there on the Cape, which consists of six cottages (each big enough for about four families) and one main house, known as The Big House, where Jimmy’s family stays, along with the chambermaids, the handymen, and what not.  The handymen all look like handymen should: tan, rugged, cutoff jeans, about 19 years old, on the Cape for the summer, working for room and board.  They’re all the kind of guys who roll around on the ground play-fighting with dogs, slapping the dogs good-naturedly in the face.  And the chambermaids all seem to be gorgeous, wonderful little New England college girls, creamy, stylish, headed for big things, out of my reach, but just right for the handymen.  Bastards. Being in Cape Cod brings all my little boy insecurities to the forefront – I’m too city, too New York, too young, too physically inadequate, too much a product of my father’s half-assed approach to life, too unsure, spinning around wildly and heading nowhere.  My house has no name.

It’s about 5:30 when we get back to the Big House.  Somehow, the whole place has cleared out, as if we have a permit for our little makeout session.  It's time to make some nachos.  We get the toaster oven pre-heating, then lay some tortilla chips haphazardly around the little tray that comes with the oven.  I’ve never seen this pepperjack stuff, but I am feeling like digging into every spice the night has to offer.  A few jalapenos in the middle of the cheese never hurt, although the nachos I was used to were made with plain Monterrey Jack and Doritos Toasted Corn flavor chips (or Taco flavor, the old kind without the sour cream and shit).  But I am ready to accept all challenges tonight, especially when Jimmy points out that the basic nachos I described are kind of gross.  I guess he’s right.  Tonight, I will eat like a man.  Into the oven they go…out in about 5 minutes.  As we chew on these new, spicier nachos, I feel ready to try anything. 

We stand above the kitchen table and enjoy our “dinner.”  Still nobody around.  I’m feeling grown up.  Jimmy’s parents used to be really strict, but lately they’ve backed off.  I guess they can see that he’s grown up alright – he’s at Andover, headed for Ivy League excellence, and a future in something noble and financially rewarding.  Maybe if they knew about the plans for the evening, or the poker game with the wild, shaved lady, they’d object, but nobody’s gonna tell them now.  The fridge is stocked with about 30 beers, mostly Dos Equis.  I’d been taking Spanish, so I knew how to say that.  Dos Equis. Just like that. I had just started drinking in the preceding few weeks, and so far it had been Foster’s Lager and Rolling Rock.  Dos Equis…it just sounds…classy.  The beer is cold, thick, strong.  I’m feeling it almost instantly.  I’m wearing jeans, boat shoes, a flannel shirt that there’s really no reason to ever wear in public, only it’s cool in Cape Cod in the evening, and I like the way it feels on me.  Underneath the flannel I’ve got my yellow Notre Dame Basketball #4 tank top…David Rivers, of course.   I have the entire shirt unbuttoned, so anyone who happens to see me is exposed to my shrewd sense of what’s cool.  David Rivers is cool.  This is before his life-threatening car accident and disappointing stint with the Lakers, and his successful, if less cool, career overseas.   This is Jersey City’s David Rivers, and I bet no one on the whole Cape has ever heard of him. 

We’ve eaten, taken care of some serious breath problems that arrived courtesy of the pepperjack cheese, and now there’s nothing to do but wait for the girls to arrive and rid the fridge of more of the Dos Equis.  I’ve only been truly, mind-meltingly drunk a couple of times, and I figure tonight’s going to be one of those nights.  After about 3 Dos Equis, with the fridge still well-stocked, I am feeling like a man.  I feel like I could do anything, and I am assuming the women will be suitably charmed by my good looks, my silver tongue, and my obvious self-confidence.   And if that doesn’t work, they will surely be powerless before my David Rivers jersey.

*****

Tuesday, Oct. 19

Installed A/B switch in production office, it is now working properly, allowing more than one computer to be hooked up to the same printer. The facts about where each computer is going have changed, so Roger and I have had to switch computers once they have been set up. Today we switched John's computer to a new Dell because his old one had been giving him problems. Set up computers for Stacey P., Fran, Joe, Susan. Built the second wooden bookshelf, but I am not sure who is supposed to get it.

*****

As I stood around on the field, slurping down the rapidly warming Bud, I started to question whether the softball is all that much fun. Ambrose may have planted something in my head about the lameness of the field blah blah blah, and I was beginning to doubt my love for the whole enterprise.  Fuck that, though.   Sometimes you get your ass kicked; you just gotta deal with it and come back the next week, drunk and disinterested as always, strap your jock on over your sweatpants and play ball.

Anyway, we had to reshuffle the teams for Game 2 to make things a little more fair (that's always a blow to team pride), and I thought we'd have a better chance.  Uh-uh.

They came out like a pack of angry lumberjacks for Game 2, smashing the ball everywhere with little regard for the consequences.  The guys I traded for, who had been so deadly in Game 1, turned into soft little baby chickens once they joined our doomed squad.  It was a whole new nightmare, or rather the same nightmare over again.  The only highlights I can remember were:

-Ambrose beating The Shift with a hilarious, victorious, intentional check swing blooper to left field.  Mark seemed upset by this obvious abuse of the rules, or at least the spirit, of the game. He grumbled mildly and and made a whiny face, even though his team was ahead something like 7-0 at the time.  I saw that, Mark.  You just cost yourself a game ball.  Too bad, you had a hell of a week.  Sportsmanship and the ability to let your opponents enjoy themselves when they're getting pummeled are part of the game ball formula.  Plus, as Ambrose points out, The Shift is Un-American. Except when used by my team or against Scary Matt.

-Danny, Chris H., Mark, Juan and Josh getting doubles just about every time up.  It was a true clinic.  Their excellence was matched only by our ineptitude.  That's a compliment.

*****

Jimmy and I sit on the couch, awaiting the arrival of the two chicks. We’re both trying to act cool, or maybe he’s actually cool and I’m trying to act cool, but either way, to the naked eye, there’s no discernible difference between us. There’s no one home, and we’ve got the fireplace going in the main room of the Big House. It’s the same room where we watched McEnroe-Borg at the U.S. Open a few years earlier, with my parents, his parents, and a whole bunch of other people. But tonight, it’s just the two of us. We’re getting a little drunk, and somehow the subject of disclaimers on underwear comes up.

“These underwear are not guaranteed to function if excessive masturbation is had through them,” Jimmy offers.*

My turn: “Or if sex orgies are had through them.” I’ve never been to a sex orgy, but I think I’m still qualified to make a joke about them. Jimmy, to my knowledge, has only been to one near-orgy, and he couldn’t hack it, so he left. I feel that I am on safe ground with this joke.

His reply: “Well, if you were at a sex orgy, you probably wouldn’t have underwear on, you know? Kind of hard to have sex through your underwear…”

I am reduced to a little brother by his words. What do I know about sex orgies? I might as well have made a joke about time travel. Of course you can’t have sex through a pair of underwear. Who doesn’t know that? Me, apparently.

“Well, you know, you could kind of squeeze your dick through the little hole,” I say, trailing off. I should stop now. This is only getting worse.

Jimmy, nice guy that he is, lets it drop. He heads to the kitchen for two more Dos Equis. I am starting to think that I could continue drinking beer all night. My mouth feels all smoothy-smooth inside. I am sitting on the couch, feeling like dynamite. My momentary humiliation will be gone by the time Jimmy gets back from the kitchen. There is a knock at the door. As I get my ass off the couch to go answer it, the two girls are already letting themselves in. I quickly take everything in. They are both easily good-looking enough for me to make out with, but one of them is way better than the other. I should start moving in on her, I think. But first things first.

“Hi, I’m Brad.” I hate the name Brad. I am not a Brad. Maybe I am. But somehow I missed out on a lot of the Brad personality traits. The self-assuredness. The ability to wink or snap my fingers. The captain of the swim team-ness.

“I’m Julie, and this is Emily,” says the not-as-attractive one.

This should be the part where I get really self-conscious and start sweating, panting, mumbling things about sex orgies. But Mother Alcohol is looking out for me tonight. I feel fine. Jimmy comes back into the room, with our two Dos Equis. I feel like I am co-hosting the evening.

“Please, come inside. Welcome,” I think. Mr. Rourke would have said it out loud.

We fumble through a few more introductions, and I say a couple confident, Brad-like things that seem to go over OK. Jimmy heads into the kitchen for some more beer, for the chicks. I am relieved to find out that they are planning on drinking.
 

 *****

Wednesday, Oct. 20

Again switching computers to the proper spaces. As of now, all twelve of the new Dells have been set up and are functioning. Cleaned up conference room table and began to make greenroom closet into private space for hosts. Went to Staples for mail bags, and traded in old surge protectors. Went to Herman's for two stopwatches. Have begun taking inventory of computers, serial #'s, have everyone with a new computer. Fax machine in front was malfunctioning, so it was switched with the one in the back until we get it repaired. For the most part, the fax in the reception area is working properly.

For Thursday, plan on bringing up and assembling cabinets from downstairs, one will become second tape library. Also want to circulate list of commonly used fax #'s for speed dial. Shirley S. needs new desk so we can give her a computer. Also plan on getting new count on tape stock upstairs, and calling Staples to repair cabinet lock so we can keep better track of tapes being used.

*****

More high(?)lights:

-There were quite a few close plays and therefore quite a few arguments, almost all of which were inexplicably awarded to the team that was already comfortably ahead (not my team).  We kept mentioning "the possession arrow," meaning we'd get the next close one, but I don't believe we ever got it. I was way too honest. Next week I am fully prepared to cheat. 

-Final score of Game 2: 10-2, I believe, Dr. Doom over another supervillain whose name slips my mind.   This was some sad, sad stuff.  I was very drunk and cranky and everyone wanted to go home right at nine, despite the glorious fact that there were once again no soccer players in sight.  That's what you call a moral victory.

*****

The three of us settle back into the living room. I sit in a large velvet chair, the two of them, looking very neat and sober, sit on one of the 2 large couches. Jimmy is back before anything awkward develops, with 2 more beers. He hands the girls their beers and sits on the couch next to them. What a pro. How did I fall so far behind so quickly? I am alone on the other side of the room. Anything that is going to happen is going to happen over THERE. For a minute, I decide that the night is over, all is lost, and I should just be nice and polite and try not to get too drunk. I’ve waited this long for some interaction with girls; I can wait some more. Who’s to say these girls are even interested in making out, let alone making out with me? But I’m just drunk enough to give it a little more time. We all start talking, and it’s actually going OK…the girls get buzzed quickly, so our drunken observations don’t seem so obvious and/or wrong. I even find the opportunity to explain who David Rivers is. No one stops to wonder if this is all we’re planning on doing tonight. This is just fine.

Now it’s about two hours later, and the world is getting very fuzzy. I am sitting on the couch with Julie, and we are leaning on each other in a very innocent but oh so exciting way. She’s plenty attractive right now. Across from us are Jimmy and Emily. They are sitting upright, almost uncomfortable, and I look at Emily again. She’s pretty, alright, and she’s got what looks like a serious body, all tan and lean. I think that I might be jealous of Jimmy if I wasn’t so tickled to be in scoring position. The conversation has dwindled along with the fire, and somehow I sense that it’s time for making out to occur.

I had spent weeks worrying about what kissing a girl would be like, especially in terms of skill. Would my inexperience shine through immediately? When should I go for the tongue, if at all? I had been watching movies closely, and I figured I could approximate a movie star kiss. But really, I knew I couldn’t. I could watch Han Solo pilot the Millennium Falcon, but inside I knew I couldn’t make the jump to hyperspace myself.

But tonight, I was James Bond. If she didn’t like the way I kissed, it wouldn’t bother me. I was in it for me. Slowly, we leaned closer, until our cheeks were gently rubbing against each other. Everything froze for a minute. I knew this was the time for things to happen, and I knew it was my job to ignite whatever kind of excitement lay ahead. I calmly turned my face toward hers, and, bless her heart, she did the same.

*****

Friday, 10/22
Helped fix printer in production room which was not working in morning. Still trying to reach Staples to get cabinet replaced or repaired, they seem impossible to get through to. Went to Set Shop for stage materials, went to Staples for supplies. Set up temporary recycling bins, in bullpen and production rooms. Circulated memo asking people for their most commonly used speed dial numbers. Began stickering our property around the building, such as cabinets and bookshelves.

*****

This game has made me re-think the whole softball situation. 

1) Limited beer intake for me will make me happier and more pleasant to be around.
2) I know I mentioned it already, but I really need to start cheating.
3) Bail bondsmen make for tight, competitive games.  Scrubby dudes and drunks make for tedious blowouts.
4) Perhaps we need some new rules to enhance the stupidity factor.
5) Game ball goes to Danny. His whole team could probably get it, and maybe somebody else deserved it more (I was drunk by the start of Game 2), but it seemed to me Dan was the straw that stirred the drink. Mark was all over the field, getting several legitimate extra base hits and being on base almost every time, but Dan was the captain and didn't make a stink on Ambrose's bunt.  

*****

I leaned forward, and we were kissing before either of us had a chance to think about it. It was great; I wanted to keep it up all night, and she showed no indication of being immediately repulsed by my skills or style. Somehow, through some kind of biological playbook that I hadn’t even known about, stuff started to happen. Innocent stuff: beer-soaked kissing and yes, goddamit, the eventual exposure and examination of a pair of living boobies. My initial reaction upon seeing and touching the boobies was one of mild disappointment; I guess I had expected Nestle’s Qwik to come pouring delightfully from each nipple.  Still, that disappointment quickly gave way to total pandemonium and the knowledge that the world had changed forever...

*I am using quotes although I really have no way of re-creating entire dialogues from 1985. There were no tape recorders going, and my memory is only adequate. It always bothers me when writers use quotes when describing conversations from 50 years ago—I immediately sense that bullshit is taking place. So I declare that all quotes are really based on something that someone actually said, and that’s just going to have to do.

*****

5/16/04: Recap by VRF

5/9/04: Abridged Recap by SRC

This recap has been lost to the ages, possibly forever.  But like a newly discovered Picasso or a never-published Salinger short story, we can hope that Dr. Ambrose will send it in some day and fill our minds with the wonder that the great artists can inspire.  It will remind us why we fell in love with Softball Recap Writing in the first place. The optimism we once had, the enthusiasm, the innocence. 

Until then, I will provide you with these dry facts.