8/28/05: Week 23(?) Recap by Hans B.

I'm going to write this recap in 16 minutes.

Go.

Another fine season has come and gone.  Called shots were hit. Brownstone windows were shattered. Babies were born. Men were forced out at second on base hits to left.  Bud Tall Boys went down the old boozehole, as did some Miller High Lifes.

I am jealous of whoever bought that Miller High Life the other day. That was on point. I never think to buy Miller High Life. In the future, I will.

Some nights it rained. Some nights it shined. It never hailed.

I would rank this season a 24.7 on the VRS. There was the triumphant return of PB dot C (pictured), and also the introduction of several exciting new players (too many to name here). But there were also the tearful departures of Rob M. and Inxe and Benge and Matt.

And the curious, season-long absence of Mark.

The real tragedy of this season, though, was the poor-ass job of recap-writing we did here at verbungle.com.

Yes, we had some irresponsible, untrustworthy reporters. The kind of guys who look you in the eye, accept their story assignments (and their salary advances), then disappear to the nearest watering hole, turtle sanctuary or shooting range. And that story never comes in.

But ultimately it is my job as editor to get the information to the people, and I hereby vow that next year there will be a recap of every single softball game, even if I have to do it myself. If someone fails to complete an assignment, they can expect a late night visit from my friend Momentum and me. Count on it.

Still, another really fun year and we look forward to next season. Thanks to all players.

Oh, the game.

Two games this week, and we got a nice promptish start at around 7:12 pm.

First game was the Haves vs. the Have Nots. We were the Haves, and we won 11-0. The reset button was pressed.

Second game featured Katrina (us) vs. New Orleans (them) and it started off tight. Katrina attempted an early assault, but New Orleans stood their (its?) ground and took the best we could give. When the puddles dried up, New Orleans had a 7-3 lead after seven innings (well, really 9 innings, but in a Spinal Tap tribute, we played 11). In the bottom of the 8th, I came up with a man on and desperately wanted to hit one out. I had predicted a game winning HR (#77) and even though this wouldn't be it, it would be sort of satisfying in a stupid way.

I should mention that we had a delightfully mushy ball on this night. Not too soft, not too hard. Between that and the humidity (as Kissel pointed out), it was very difficult to crank one out. Through the first hour and a half, JJ Walker Ballfield had decided that no home run ball, called or otherwise, would leave her confines.  Chris H. hit a monster shot to center that was on its way into the bum-piss bocce court, but one of JJ's many in-play tree branches grabbed it and threw it back in for a long single.

So here I was, 8:52 pm, creating a false sense of drama for myself, really eager to bust out the big stick. After the ceremonial bat-point indicating my intention of knocking it out, to I took Kissel's first pitch deep and over the fence, but about eight feet foul. The ball, that precious ball, rolled away somewhere. So we switched to a Joe Monkeyweb-approved harder ball, and I hit Kissel's next offering right down the line and out.

It was very close to a homer.

But I knew deep in my soul that it was foul. Just foul.

Joe Monkeyweb, who was catching, signaled that it was a HR. Kissel, from the mound, correctly called it foul. Like a scumbag, I pretended to be unsure.  Our team attempted to lobby for the runs to count. I didn't tell them not to. After all, we were down by 4 runs with 7 minutes left. It was cheatin' time.

Kissel called us a bunch of cheaters, and rightly so. I got in his face, wrongly. I thought he was taking the game too seriously. Later that night, I reconsidered. We tend to cheat when we are down big, and we laugh about it.  We make it a big joke, and it rarely if ever makes a difference in who wins or loses. But the truth is that if it's worth coming out on Sunday night to play on the field, if it's worth leaving our families for three precious hours, if it's worth arguing plays at second base, if it's worth lugging the dirty bag of equipment (which just got stolen) around, then we owe it to each other to take the game a little bit seriously.

I don't mean so seriously that we can't drink the Buds and the MHL's. But seriously enough to only cheat when a game is completely out of hand, like if we were down 19-4 with 5 minutes left.  In those cases, cheating can be seen as a white flag, a sign of respect, like "Ya got me!" Otherwise, no more cheating.

I guess.

We eventually called the ball foul, and I was unable to hit the next pitch out. Our rally stalled and that was it. Final score, New Orleans 7, Katrina 3.

Game ball goes to Chris H. who was dynamic in the field and lethal at the plate. Best part of the night was when I yelled at Joe and Jimmy when a popup dropped between them (a popup which, incidentally, I might have been able to catch as well). As we walked off the field, Joe told the other guys on the team, some of whom I don't know that well, that I was "hot" and they should leave me alone for awhile until I calmed down. Several of them asked me about this, and I assumed they were joking and played along. I was like, "I need some alone time." They probably think I'm nuts.

35 minutes. That'll have to do.

Thanks again for a great year. Here is an awesome picture that you can click to enlarge:

7/31/05: Week 17 Recap by Dan K.

So it turns out it was a real mistake to brag ahead of time about how I planned to recap this past weekend's softball. I had a whole thing planned out, where I would go home Sunday night after the game and immediately write the whole thing up, so all the deluxe details of our exploits would be fresh in my mind. My dreams about writing the recap even included the plentiful positive feedback my recap would engender, ranging from Hans introducing the recap with glum approbation on the front page (likely declaring me some kind of "real writer," even though Hans has churned out literally twenty times the entertaining prose that I have in the past six months, and has proven again and again he's a very good and dedicated craftsman at the keyboard) to positive comments in the HaloScan box to someone -- I don't know, maybe John -- slapping my ass next Sunday and giving me a gruff, no-nonsense "Nice one, buddy."

Instead it's Thursday night at 11 and I'm giving myself half an hour to write this recap, no more. Man, I need to level with y'all vis-a-vis having a fucking kid: while babies are totally rewarding from an emotional standpoint, while they broaden your horizons immeasurably, giving you a new understanding of what love and being loved can be, while they give a rare sense of purpose and direction to one's life and make you want to be -- need to be -- a better person, they also really drain your fuck-around time. You know how life is now, those of you without kids? How sometimes you get home from work and just fuck around for a few hours, surfing the web, or watching "Pardon the Interruption," or shooting a few free throws, or reading a book on the couch with your honey, or taking a nap, or writing something funny for your friends? That's what having a kid robs you of. Not family time, or friend time (once you get the hang of hauling the baby around with you), or even going out on dates with your wife or, you know, whoever, I'm not here to judge -- that's what babysitters are for. But you can't hire a babysitter to look after the kid when all you want to do is fuck around. Babysitters are expensive, and anyways, you'd look like a jerk, sitting on the couch popping your back zits with a mirror and a special pair of extendable tweezers you bought at the Sharper Image while in the next room the babysitter teaches your kid her ABCs.

(By the way, what the fuck is Hans' problem not giving us a single goddamn baby picture? Look, no one wants Hans to turn verbungle.com into Baby Bungle's Cooing and Gurgling Compendium Dot Com, we all know that would suck, but throw us a frigging bone, huh? Especially if you're not gonna post anything for a week. No one wants to see twenty baby pictures, but everyone wants to see one baby picture. Here, I'm gonna insert a picture of my baby into this recap, simply to point out that as of right now, there are more pictures of my baby on verbungle.com than of Hans' baby. Surely this cannot stand, and Hans will suck it up, show some balls, and throw one picture of his (I'm sure) lovely infant onto the site.

Here's my daughter at the July 4th Yo La Tengo show in Battery Park. She is goddamn cute, okay?

 

Hans? The gauntlet has been thrown. Pick it up, or whatever you're supposed to do with gauntlets.)

(OK, one quick one -Ed.)

So, softball. The game was lively this past Sunday. Most of the usual suspects were there. Pot vs. Kettle. Not the greatest team names, and I can say that, because I thought them up. Upon further reflection I realize now that Pot and Kettle are not actually in competition, not like Red States and Blue States or Joe and The Volcano. Nevertheless, that's what we were. I was on Kettle, and we were already down 3-0 in the bottom of the first when Pot loaded the bases. Up stepped to the plate none other than Justin, the legendary home-run hitter of Leroy Street, the man whose half-swings in warmups routinely impact two-thirds of the way up the center-field fence. He called his shot, of course, and sent the first pitch deep, deep, deep to left, far over the fence -- a tape-measure shot to be sure -- we on Kettle hung our heads, for our deficit was -- SMASH!

Holy shit, did Justin just break a window?

Why yes, he did. Justin finally made accomplished the feat that, admit it or not, all you home run hitters have been aiming for since games at this teakettle field began. Justin hit the ball across Leroy Street, through a ground-floor window of one of the schmancy West Village apartments across the street. Immediately, every single player on the field ducked and covered and headed for the dugout, as if we were all eleven and mean Mr. McCracken was going to come chasing after us, waving a rolled-up newspaper. When we collected our wits a chastened Justin (chastened! I can't imagine I would be chastened were I to accomplish such a thing; I would be joyously prancing about, proclaiming my greatness. But that's the response of a guy who has never had the big stick, I guess. Guys like Justin who have always been power hitters know how to act like they've gone deep before) walked over to the apartment to check things out. No one was there, so we got back to playing, Justin intending to leave a note later. Danny offered that we would all chip in for the damage, though he also reasonably noted that if our team helped pay for the damage surely we were entitled to half the runs?

So, 7-0 right off the bat. Kettle chipped away at the lead -- a run here, a run there. This despite a truly bush-league call by Pot on a play at first; the throw to me beat the runner by a solid couple of steps, and I threw across the diamond to third, where a runner was attempting to advance. Everyone on Pot immediately called out that I had taken my foot off the bag and therefore the runner was safe. "And it's not the first time you've done that, either," Doug called out, which made me wonder -- is this true? Do I have a problem with my first-base steadfastness? Weirder still, have Doug and his teammates been watching me like a hawk all this time, seething that slow-pitch softball is not the kind of environment that encourages tetchy, splitting-hairs first-base calls? I don't know. I just know that whether my foot was off the bag or not*, that was a gutsy call to make, and our team sure responded badly to it. The runner didn't score, so in the end it didn't matter, but the call was revisited over and over during the night as Kettle got more and more bitter.

At about the time Kettle pulled within 7-5, the police showed up across the street. Justin jogged over to talk to them; we kept playing. Dave came up with a runner on and called his shot; Danny, his own captain, revoked the call. "Bad timing right now," Danny said, "with the cops right out there. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves." Dave couldn't believe his captain could revoke his called shot, but he shrugged -- and immediately launched a beautiful lefty home run over the right-field fence, a hundred yards away from the cop in question. Inning over.

Next inning. We've managed to pull within one. Bases loaded, no outs, and Danny comes to the plate. "Call it!" we shout from the bases, but Danny shakes his head. The police are still out there, talking to Justin. So what does Danny do? Bam, first pitch, deep to left, over the garden, into the street maybe fifteen feet from the cop, who was just about to drive away. The cop himself tossed the ball back over the fence. Danny fell to his knees as the game -- and the moral high ground -- slipped away.

Justin returned with an update. He'd had the following conversation with the cop:

COP: Did you really hit that?
JUSTIN: Yeah, I did.
COP: That's a hell of a hit.
JUSTIN: Nah, it was --
COP: Guy who owns the house says he's lost a window like four times since this park's been built.
JUSTIN: Yeah?
COP: Hell of a hit.
JUSTIN: Well, I didn't --
COP: I mean, you really hit that ball hard.
JUSTIN: Yeah... I've gotten balls up to the third floor before --
COP: [makes slash-across-throat gesture, meaning "I don't wanna hear about it"]
JUSTIN: Yeah.

Crap, I'm past my half-hour limit. Kettle came back over and over, tied it twice, but Pot kept on taking the lead. Kettle could never break through and the game ended -- with no soccer jerks in sight -- after ten innings, final score 14-11, Pot. Lots of big hitting. Not a lot of flashy glovework, though someone made a fantastic catch in center robbing Rob of a sure double. Who was that? There was some truly terrible baserunning by Kettle -- we probably ran ourselves out of the game, or would have if Danny's double called-shot gaffes hadn't already doomed us. I got thrown out on the basepaths twice and caused a third out when I held up at third while the runner behind me chugged 80% of the way up my butt only to be caught in a hotbox. I also slid into a base for the second game in a row, and for the second game in a row ended up with a bleeding shin and gashed knee that for days afterwards oozed blood and gunk all over multiple bandages and pairs of dress pants. It's still painful and disgusting, five days later. When I told my wife I had slid into a base again, yielding the same repulsive wound, but on my left knee this time, she told me she sometimes wished she hadn't married a twelve-year-old.

There were some new faces to me, including Pete, who introduced himself as "P. B. Dot C." I like a guy who isn't afraid to introduce himself by his online name. I introduced myself as Fifth-Level Mage.

Game ball: Justin, of course. That was a hell of a hit.

*It was.
 

6/19/05: Week 11 Recap by D. Lee

FATHER'S DAY SURPRISE!

It was father's day.
It was cloudy out.
The numbers looked bleak.
No Hans.
Could a joyful eve actually be in the cards??

Answer = yes.

Sure, things started off a bit dark side. Only nine guys, last second cancellations, frantic "please play"-calls to a female underhand thrower named Chauncey ...fact was, we needed at least 10 to play a sad but warrantable game. Suddenly, I spot a guy at the gate looking in on our plight. I made my move..

"Wanna play?"

"Sure, live down the block. I'll go get my glove."

His name was Ray (*as in ray of sunshine) ..we now had TEN.

Next, Tony was on the phone ...he might have a guy on the way and ~holy shit! The guy showed (*some local kid named Adam H.). Yes, we have 11!! Time to play..

I decided Rob would be a good choice to replace Hans as GM so I pulled him into the secret chamber to help decide the fate of our baseball universe. Apparently Hans had warned him of my sneaky GM-ing skills of late and his fears were immediately confirmed when I somehow finagled the rookie GM to allow Justin (*once again) onto my team.

"Trust me, Rob ..it'll be fine."

The first game match-up was McDonalds vs Burger King. This clear culinary mismatch should have been a warning of things to come. Before the 4th inning had even ended the score was 7 - 0.

Watching Rob angrily throw his glove (Luis Tiant-style) into the soccer net in frustration of this massacre I knew it was time to hit the infamous reset button. I even offered to switch up the teams but Rob's crew wanted another crack at redemption. Indeed, the names for the second game reflected a more even match-up ...DC vs Marvel. Could Batman, Superman, and the Justice League beat out Spiderman, Daredevil, and the X-men? Tough call.

The game was very close with DC taking an early lead. Yet midway through a late addition arrived --Adam's brother Matthew (*or as he should rightly be heroically dubbed later: Captain America ..but more on that later).

We only had one good ball so we had dispersed the "called-shot rule" leaving open the possibility that we MIGHT use it for JUST the last inning (*Justin had been pleading for innings to reinstate the rule -- likely for the opportunity to see if he could finally hit a ball the roof.) Ergo..

Before long, soccer players everywhere circling like vultures. The score was tight at 4-4. Last inning. Despite some protest ~"CALLED SHOT IS NOW IN EFFECT!"

Lex at bat for DC ---POW! Two-run homer!!! ....into the motherfucking garden.

Kissel immediately moans the stupidity of the called shot. The other balls are too hard to use without risking death upon bystanders. Soccer players swarm the field thinking our game is over...

"Please, Doug! I know you're on DC but use your Spiderman like powers to climb the fence and get the ball??"

He did it.

Now get the fuck off our field you soccer assholes so we can finish our epic game.

Marvel at bat down 6-4 to DC ..our last chance.

Drooling at opportunity, Justin steps to the plate.
Yikes.
Need we even tell you??

~BLAMMO!!!

Mammoth homer (*still, no clearing of roof.)

score: 6-5

Next, a man gets on first.
DLee can hit a walk off homer..

~POW!/FUCK!

Line-drive off fence for a hit (*not bad, but I wanted the homer).

Next, rookie Matthew H. steps to the plate.
The pressure is on.
Can he hit the walk-off homer???

answer = yes

Walk-off homer.
All greet him at the plate with numerous high fives.
He tips his hat TWICE to the (imaginarily) cheering crowd.

Good game DC.

Sincerely,

Stan..er...Dan Lee

6/12/05: Week 10 Recap by Hans

Have you ever sat in the middle of Sheep Meadow on a warm sunny afternoon in early June? If so, have you ever marveled at the sheer quantity of recreational objects flying through the skies? Frisbees, footballs, kites, baseballs, hammers.  Are you consistently amazed by how rarely one of these objects strikes a sunbather across the bridge of the nose?  There is some physical/supernatural force at work there, protecting those there to chill from those there to throw.

Well, there is a similar miracle in effect on Leroy Street every Summer Sunday night.  And in this Sunday night's generally well-played contest between Pacino (D. Lee) and De Niro (Hans B.), numerous softballs left the confines of the softball world and entered the vast expanse of the real world, each one with the potential to do grievous harm to person, car, dog, or window. And yet somehow no damage was done.  If you're keeping a tally, it probably looks something like this: five years, 300 balls hit over the fence, one baby hit, one automobile window broken, one apartment building stairwell window broken, maybe 25 small dents to automobiles.  So before we get started on a recap, I want to say a brief thanks to the Softball Gods for keeping us safe from litigation and for making our softball trees grow tall and fruitful.

On to the game. I was much happier this week with the pre-game choose 'em up session than I was last week. I think the teams were fair, and I accept that we lost to a team that simply played a little better than we did. Once again, Jon R. showed up late, once again he joined D. Lee's team, and once again he made a huge impact on the game. We need him there on time so he can be picked in the proper spot in the choosing order and we can prevent him from adding a wild card element to one team at 7:22 pm.

The first few innings were to both teams what the early 70's were to Pacino and De Niro.  Hit after hit, Oscar-worthy offensive performances, and some gritty, Mean Streets-quality defense. Tony C. and Rob M. provided some amazing early fireworks, with Rob hitting a called grand slam into the black seats in center, and Tony hitting a called three-run shot an inning later that ka-donked delightfully off the scoreboard. We should have an official term for a scoreboard homer. A Natural Born Tater? A Donker? I'm open to suggestions.

Pacino, never one to allow others to share the spotlight, provided some scenery-chewing offense of their (his?) own, with called shots by, I believe, D. Lee, C. Lee, Chris H., and a couple of other blokes. Boom! Dog Day Afternoon. Whap! Godfather Part I. Smack! Serpico. After four innings or so, the score was something like 7-5, De Niro.  Then in the fifth, with two outs and men on first and third, Chris L. hit a two hop chopper to me at third base. I fielded it cleanly, but my throw to Adam R. covering second was wild and sailed down the right field line. And it rolled and rolled and rolled. And runners ran and ran and ran. Hell had broken loose. The wheels were off.  "You're out of order! You're out of order! The whole inning is out of order!"  I thought. Pacino picked up a couple more runs in that inning, and then we made a couple more costly miscues in the following frame, and after maybe 7 innings it was something like 14-9, Pacino.

After that, both teams went through an offensive drought that closely mirrored De Niro and Pacino's own dry spells. De Niro seized up almost completely after the defensive lapses, first swinging at bad pitches (We're No Angels), and later taking big empty home run cuts in much the same manner that De Niro has whored himself out to pointless commercial projects for the last fifteen years. Pacino settled down, demonstrating a rare, understated discipline last seen in Sea of Love. And when they needed the big, screaming Any Given Sunday locker room speech-type moment, they got it. 

Final score: 17-10, Pacino. I am not certain you can use the result of this game as a scientific evaluation of who is the better actor, but maybe you can.

After the game, Big Jim Lang and I sat in the dugout, collecting our belongings and wondering what exactly cost us the game. I offered up an apology for my big fuckup. It went something like this:

Me: Shit, that was a tough one tonight. I really messed it up with that bad throw to second.
BJL: Oh, yeah. That was the game right there.
Me: Thanks.

He insulted me, he insulted me a little bit.

In truth, my error played a big, bad role in the loss, something along the lines of De Niro's work in Analyze That.  But tonight Pacino was the better man. His Scarface trumped our Brazil. On this day, his Donnie Brasco, as much as I hate to admit it, was better than our Goodfellas.

But it was fun for me again, and that's a start.

5/8/05: Week 5 Recap by Pete B.

4/17/05: Week 2 Recap by Hans

This is one of those days when I wish I had pulled a Kois and taken some notes. But I didn't, so my memory is going to have to serve, and I'm afraid it won't serve all that well. 

This sentence right here is my open invitation to anybody who's interested in writing next week's recap to go ahead and sign up to do so in the comments section below. I need a little help. I think the following recap will prove you don't need to have much skill or wit to get the job done.

This Sunday we had two really terrific games.  Well, maybe 1.6 terrific games. 9 on 9. Unfortunately, I am having some trouble processing and typing up everything that happened, because I spent a lot of the night thinking about too many stupid things.  Did we have enough balls? (Yes.) Who had the bases? (Doug.) How was it going to shake down with the Soccer Dicks? (In our favor.) How much time do we have left? (37 minutes.) Should we play one game or two? (Two, I guess.) I don't know why I feel obligated to worry about all this crap, I really don't.  It's just my nature, I guess (and my generally correct intuition that if I don't, nobody will).

So I'm sorry if we can't have a nice intro for this recap, and we don't have a clever theme to tie it all together. Instead, we have a bunch of bullet points.

-Team names: "Joe" and "Volcano" courtesy of Matt G. I am jealous of the people who think of witty team names every week. D. Lee is tremendous at this.  I think I have maybe come up with one set of names in the last three years.  Maybe I need to dedicate a full day during the week to thinking of a really excellent pair of names, and then pretend to come up with it spontaneously on Sunday night. Whatever.  It'll be tough to beat "Joe" and "Volcano."

-We had some fine new blood, and like a dick, I can't remember anybody's names, except Isaac, who is a friend of Jon R's and signed up on the site like a good citizen. Isaac played for "Joe", D. Lee's team, and he kicked more ass even than his namesake Isaac Washington, immortalized by Ted Lange in the historic "Love Boat" program. He made a couple of great plays on line drives and he hit a called shot in the second game. There was another new guy on our team who also played exceedingly well and hit a called shot.  Please remind us your name if you are reading this. Chris H's brother-in-law also showed up and played well. My apologies to all the new guys: you are good players and fine men and you are more than welcome to play whenever you want.

-Called shots (please add those I've missed and take away any that are wrong): D. Lee, Isaac, other new guy friend of Jon (grand slam), Rob, Matt G. (?), Dipak (?).  Anybody else?

-Uncalled shots: there was at least one, but I don't recall who hit it.  Anyone wanna fess up?

-Final scores: Volcano 15, Joe 14, Volcano 10, Joe 6 (?).  The first game was incredible.  Volcano held a 13-6 lead going into the top of the "ninth," and we brought in ace reliever Deion Sandals to close the deal.  But Joe showed the kind of moxie that you'd expect from a man, or team, willing to battle a volcano, and they rallied for 8 runs to take the lead. We had to pull Sandals and I came in to put out the fire, getting somebody to whack one over the fence to end the inning. Then in the bottom of the inning, we came back with two runs to win it, the final run scoring when Dan K. came chugging around from second base on a base hit by Deion, redeeming himself for his mound meltdown.  Matt G. made an incredible throw to the plate from deep in left field, but Dan came in high and hard like Pete Rose and jarred the ball loose. Pretty much kinda like that. I was quite worried he wouldn't make it, especially when he smashed into the wire fence "dugout" after rounding third. It was a little reminiscent of Sid Bream scoring on Francisco Cabrera's single to put the Braves in the 1992 World Series. Less than beautiful, but immensely satisfying.  The second game was also fairly well played, but it had to be played quickly because of the looming specter of the Soccer Dicks. We won, but I don't remember exactly how. 

-Ah, the Soccer Dicks.  We finally had it out with them. They began gathering around 8 o'clock, like the always do, only tonight they showed a little more respect and stayed up in the bleachers behind the dugout. Still, there were a bunch of them, and you could tell they were getting antsy. Antsy and annoying. Volcano was batting at around 8:25, and I was on deck, when I heard Deion talking to their presumed spokesman, a little referee dude in precious soccer attire.

"Our game is at 8:45," ref said.

"No it's not, buddy, because we have the field 'til 9," Deion said dismissively.

"8:45," ref said.

"Whatever Buddy, you can say that all you want, our permit says we have the field until 9pm," Deion reminded him.

At this point I turned around and stepped in. I didn't want to see one of my players get into a Sheffield situation out there.

"Yeah, what time does it say on your permit?" I asked. I was totally sober for once. "Do you have a permit?" (They had asked to see our permit the week before).

"Yes, we have permit," he said, without offering to produce it.

At this point the inning was over and Joe was coming in to take their turn at bat. So now there were about twelve of us talking to the guy.

"Can we see the permit?" we asked. 

"I have permit," he repeated.  " I am going to call gym (Jim?) and show you we have field at 8:45," he said smugly. He then got on the phone and called his friend (!) to get to the bottom of things.  Volcano went out and took the field, and eventually ref got the news he didn't want to hear: his permit doesn't start until 9pm.  Wa-wa-wa-waaaaaaaa.

Victory, Softball.  At this point ref and Deion began chatting like old pals. It was kind of sweet to see. By 8:55, the soccer guys were actually cheering our game (most likely sarcastically) and asking questions like, "What's the score? Who's winning?" Yelling stuff like "Nice catch!" Even if it was done to mock us, I appreciated it somehow. Hopefully this marks the dawn of a new era of respect between the two groups. And hopefully they will heed ref's word that the field is ours until 9pm sharp.

-I cannot catch the ball anymore. I blame my newish glove. The ball just pops right out of it, every time. I actually make a plan to snatch the ball barehanded when it shoots out of the glove, but that technique failed me this week. I booted almost every ball hit to me.  I also have no idea at the plate. I guess I had a few good rips, and I also got two of the cheapest hits of all time, including one that I popped about twelve feet in the air, and then watched as its backspin failed to carry it all the way foul.  It just sat there in front of the catcher. Embarrassing. I don't know if I should go lefty or righty, I suck both ways.

-Deion hit into a legitimate 5-4-3 or 6-4-3 double play. He was apparently pacing himself for later in the game.

-Doug made several sparkling plays in the field, including getting a force at second when he picked up a deflected line drive in time to nail the runner.

-We still desperately need a battle cry for called shot homers. I tentatively tried "batter's choice" early in the game, and later "Charley Horse" caught on, but we can do better. Dan K. was VERY disappointed in "Charley Horse", and expressed his fear that we nip it lest it take hold.  I agree.  I don't mind "Cerrano" (and then we could call a completed called shot "a Cerrano", which rings nice - "Volcano took the lead on Rob's 3-run Cerrano in the fifth") or "Hammer Time" or "Batter's Choice," but I think we need to keep searching as well.

-Alexi redeemed himself for his four non-Cerrano performance in week 1 with a stellar day at the plate.  He was hitting scorchers all over the field.  The bats in general came alive this week, after a quiet night in week 1.  Lots of well-placed line drives.

-Kissel's big bro showed up and hit well. He and Kissel played on different teams so they could razz each other.

-Good to have Jon back, and his crew brought something to the table as well.

-No real arguments, no real hotboxes.

-The areas around the bases are a little treacherous.  Dipak fell on his arse at one point, prompting our team to show our sympathy and concern by yelling "he dropped the ball!" over and over again.

-Isaac ran the bases like a gazelle.  Several times he took extra bases and slid skillfully into the bag, carrying on Mark's tradition of recklessness.

-I got the bases. Sigh. I won't take them again. When someone even mentions the word "bases", you motherfletchers scatter like cockroaches.  I don't want to hear how you're "not sure if you can make it next week," you all best be taking those bases at some point.  If done right, everyone should only have to take them for one week.  And here's to Doug for agreeing to keep them in his truck whenever possible.

Game ball (tie): Isaac and other new guy friend of Jon R's.

4/10/05: Weak 1 Recap by Hans

Sometimes it's doing something different that makes you feel alive.  Making out with a new girl, trying an exotic and rewarding new dish, experimenting with a brand new dangerous drug, getting a tattoo on your schwanz. All worthwhile endeavors. And in theory, I love that stuff as much as anybody else.

But let's face it: we all spend most of our lives doing the same old shit as we did the day before. Filling out forms, shirking responsibility, crossing the street. Losing and then finding our keys. Making out with the same person as yesterday and tomorrow. Washing our hands. Seeing our favorite teams on TV. Swiping our Metrocards. Falling asleep. 

But that's more than OK with me. In fact, there's nothing more life-affirming than the familiar rituals that make up the vast middle section of our lives, the part that falls between shitting our pants five times a day and shitting our pants three times a day. Just that we have things to do, friends to see, and most importantly, softball to play, is cause for celebration. We're alive. We exist. So the first game of the softball season is about as good as it gets for ol' Hans.

Ain't much changed since last August.  Same excellent bunch of dudes. That was nice to see. Same silly arguments. Same fucking soccer players.  But it's all totally alright with me.

I knew it was going to be a special night during the pre-game choose-up session between me and D. Lee. We had no coin, so we decided to go Rock-Paper-Scissors for first pick. First we both threw down scissors. So we drew again. Both scissors again. At this point, there are a hundred different thoughts that can enter your mind about what to throw down. Is he going to throw rock, anticipating that I will throw scissors again, and if so, should I throw paper to cover his rock? But if I throw paper, and he sticks to his guns and throws scissors again, I will feel like a schmuck. Too much to think about, I decided, so I just threw out rock, which was enough to beat his third consecutive scissors call. That took guts on his part.

I wish I could give you a nice dramatic recap of the games, but I'm tired and so I will just give you some point by point action. I was drinking down the Buds, so I may have missed a few things.

-Our team became Scissors, and D. Lee's team was Rock.  We had 15 guys, a nice first week turnout that can probably be traced to the beautiful weather. The lights were on by 6:45, which was nice, but at least two of them were burned out and never came on at all.  Anybody have a slow week ahead and want to call the Parks Dept.?

-Game 1 was won by Scissors 1-0, their first-ever victory over Rock in over 100 million tries. I don't remember how the run scored, and I may have been the one who scored it.  I know I got to third base at one point. That was pretty exciting.  I think Rob may have knocked me (or somebody) in with a long drive that was kept in the stadium by a tree.  The game ended on a brief and efficiently handled hotbox, when Gary bluffed tagging on a shallow fly ball and got trapped off the base too far.

-Game 2 was also won by Scissors, who like the Boston Red Sox seem like they are sick of being an eternal punching bag and aim to do something about it.  The final score was 2-1, with called-shot homers by Kissel and myself in the late innings providing the winning margin.

-Shannon played.  He hit an uncalled inning-ender that was still rising when it hit a light pole on its way into space. It was among the five hardest hit balls I've seen at this field.

In no order, they might be:
-Every line drive off Matt's bat
-The window-breaking shot by the Thing with the Teeth
-Ambrose's home run that actually went around the world a few years back
-Alexi hit a beastly one a couple of years ago as well
-Help me out if you remember more

I think Shannon's shot tonight may have topped them all.  Between his shot, and another uncalled shot by Matt that landed deep across the street, and Alexi's four (!) inning-enders*, I have started to wonder about the dimensions of the field.  And I have started to wonder about the called-shot rule.  We are really playing in a bandbox, and when a dude like Shannon comes and shows what somebody who eats his Wheaties is capable of, our called-shot homers seem sort of pathetic.  Pathetic, but fun.

Most importantly, regarding the called-shots homers -- I think the grand gesture of pointing to the fence to indicate you are calling your shot is tremendous and shouldn't be altered a bit.  But there always seems to be a moment after the guy points, where everyone wants to confirm that he was indeed calling his shot.  Everyone yells out "calling it" or "he's calling his shot" or "I think he just called it. Yeah, he called it" or some dumb shit like that. We need a better phrase, something that clearly indicates the batter is using his called-shot attempt, but sounds cooler than "he called it." Again, the batter needn't say anything, just point the bat. But the rest of us must start shouting this new phrase. Help me out here with some suggestions.  Something like "Money Ball!" or "Cover your damn head!"

-Ambrose made a sensational throw to first to nip Doug after Doug had hit what appeared to be a clean single to right. As Ambrose was on Doug's team and was merely the "official" right fielder, provided by us, it was a rather poor example of proper minimum effort.

-Play of the Day is a tie: 1. Hussar for an amazing self-defense stab of a line drive off, I believe, Josh's bat. Maybe Matt's. Extra points for collapsing to the ground and then holding the ball up for the umpires. 2. Josh for ranging deep behind the third base bag to field a hot smash, and then throwing across the diamond to nail the runner and prevent a critical run from scoring.

-We lost two balls tonight, and ended up having to use the mush ball. One ball got lost in batting practice, and the other was tossed into the garden** by an overconfident pedestrian who overruled Hussar's plea to walk it to the corner before letting it rip.

-Ambrose's swing may still be packed away with his summer wardrobe. It'll come, kid.

-Deion abandoned the lumber in exchange for some aluminum. We'll keep tabs on that situation. He also made a nifty catch on a popup, which was made difficult because he had to tap dance around his Sapporo to avoid the dreaded spill.

-I didn't play left field.  Does it still smell out there?

-Soccer players, I have never liked you. I have tried to hit you with line drives when you come onto our field. I have yelled obnoxious remarks in your direction when you desperately deserve it.  I've sarcastically shouted "GOOOOOOOOOOOAL" as I watch your silly little game from the bench and polish off my last tall boy.  We have a bad history, the two of us. But mostly, I have tried to tolerate you.   Tonight, however, you took it too far. Not only did you start your usual bullshit kicking around of your goofy little ball ON OUR FIELD at around 8:15, but then you had the fucking nerve to tell us that you had the field at 8:45.  When we said that was simply not true, you ASKED TO SEE OUR PERMIT***!!!  Now listen up. I know we look like just a bunch of raggedy clowns out there, what with the way we throw the ball around using our hands and everything. But just because we don't have cute little soccer uniforms with the high socks and the short shorts DOES NOT MEAN we have less of a right to the field than you do. The little leaguers have the field until 7.  You have it at 9.  We have EXACTLY TWO HOURS to have our fun. Grant us that.  I know nobody comes on after you're done at 11. Stay for another two hours if you like.  But please stay off our field until our game is over or 9pm, whichever comes first.

I almost want to call the parks department on these jokers, but they see us drinking the beers and so we'd probably end up in trouble if it got ugly.  I may be willing to forego my beers if it helps keep these assholes off our field.  I'm not committing to this, but I will consider it.  Is softball fun without beers?

-Game ball goes to...gosh, I dunno.  Just two solid team wins. I will leave it to the readers to vote for a winner.

* Two of which went over after nicking the top of the fence, and a third of which seemed to go right through the fence.
** Shouldn't we be seeing the promised softball trees by now?  We've planted about ten balls out there.
*** Kudos to D. Lee for having the permit with him, providing a nice in-your-face moment to the soccer dicks. We actually needed it twice tonight.