Who Wants A Body Massage? Softball Week 3 Recap

Better late than never, right? Softball Week Three: Let's Launch Over It.

So, again, yeah, busy week. Because I'm so talented at writing, see, and know so much about so many things, people are clamoring all over themselves to give me work. They're all "please, please, write 1,800 words for $400" and I'm like, "I don't usually work for less than 25 cents a word, but sure, let's do it, I don't want to get my cable shut off." And it's basically that awesome every week! I'm sorry: I'm bragging. Ugly trait.

Anyway, I'm late with the recap, but Joel came through with the ill memoir and bailed me out, and I appreciate that. But I know you all care about seeing your performance praised to the skies and misremembered five or so days after it happens, so here goes, as I remember it. Again, corrections are welcome. Apparently Ted Pitts got neither the win nor the save in week one, for instance, but both the blown save and the loss. That somehow seems more like something an Indians fan would have happen to him, but there are probably mistakes like that all over the first mega-recap post. Scour it! Correct me! Be mocked in turn. It's not really worth it.

So, this last week: again, it was hot. Sooner or later I'm going to stop mentioning that, and we'll all just assume that it's hot as fuck on Sunday afternoons in July and August. But it's still kind of novel to me, because I am still used to getting big money on some Tom Vu shit, in a climate controlled environment or on a boat with fly honeys. To wit:


Anyway, hot. Crowded. With familiar faces that were not, as it turned out, those of my friends. Again, we were a little late in arriving, for the most part. This time, though, we -- meaning I -- had to play the permit card and boot a bunch of dudes (the baseball pants'ed hotshots mentioned in this post from last year) off the scene so we could do our softball thing. This is the sort of Brooklyn social clash that absolutely perplexes me, if I can be real for a moment: these guys are not our friends. They're younger dudes who play a different brand of softball, drop n-bombs with the quickness, and generally act a lot more rowdy and NSFW. Originally, there were like five dudes there and I thought they could work in with the still thin Buttermilk Squad. Then more showed up. Then those guys' cousins. And our people were there, too, all of a sudden and then basically there were going to be two 40-man rosters, September MLB-ball style, and there was dissension in both clubhouses and some of the guys were wearing baseball pants and...I wound up booting them. They were cool about it, and retired to the nearby field at which we played a memorable away game last year. By that time, Buttermilk had assembled a full team again -- it only takes like 30 minutes -- and we were good to go. Softball was on.

And, almost immediately, softball players were on the disabled list. Before nine outs were recorded, Darren Guyer had pulled a quad (peace, Moises Alou) and Beth Ann Coulton, fresh off her best week as a Buttermilkmaid, did the same. With only one ice pack to go around, things could've gotten ugly -- although Linda's first-aid kit with hair bands in it came in handy (in the abstract) -- but didn't. For this, we have to thank our two valiant pack-sharing warriors and official Buttermilk Superfan -- and Jeremy Holmes special lady -- Abby. Not only has this unsung hero been coming through with cut-up fruit and fresh berries the last three weeks, but she also supplied the ice pack (I think). If she didn't...anyway, thanks for the fruit and good vibes, Abby. It's cool if you read during the game, I don't mind.

Injuries continued to pile up throughout the game, although Jorge was able to play through his dings, as Amber did the week before after taking a hot Dan May shot off the hand. The presence of two doctors -- my sister and her colleague/homegirl Jasmine -- also helped, in a way, although their discussion of whether or not BA should go to the emergency room quickly devolved into a public health debate in which the only winners were interested spectators who care to know how f'ed up our emergency rooms are. Also, Darren and BA were winners, because they got ace medical care and -- not to give away the ending -- still made it to the bar.

The game was, once again, well-played, with my Blue Jeans being held scoreless by pitchers Amber and Dan (maybe) for the first three innings and posting only one run through the first few turns through the order -- scored by Jeremy, powered by...probably not me, and possibly Jasmine. Definitely someone in the lower half of our order. I need to write these earlier in the week. The Bodegas, on the other hand, put together a couple of big innings -- a series of doubles seemingly without end, with some big blasts off the bat of newcomer Dan Duggan and '06 stalwart Ben Tausig. There were some defensive miscues on the Blue Jean side, and they were matched with stellar defense from Kelsey, Dan May (who turned a nice double play) and Colleen Hooper (who robbed me of what would've been my biggest hit of the year in left field) on the Bodega end. A furious Blue Jeans comeback in the final inning wound up falling short, although (as I remember it) Jorge, Jeremy, Jasper, Jasmine, Jeff Ciprioni and possibly several people whose names did not begin with "J" -- well, at least my sister and possibly newcomer Greg Ferguson and maybe some others -- delivered hits as well. Ultimately, pitching and defense beat...faintly hungover weird-feeling people (good idea on brunch, Reen!).


Also, for the second week in a row, we were blessed with the sweet sounds of the Celebrate Brooklyn Unbearable Music Festival, as a series of children's musicians (example not at left) came through and did their thing-things to the delectation of Park Slope parents/expensive stroller-consumers and their tow-headed, exotically named kids. Were there songs about pizza and fun and being youself and how sometimes when you have bad feelings you should talk to somebody? Definitely in the running banter between Joel at first base and me at second (I talk when I'm not catching pop-ups), and definitely onstage. And anti-war songs for the 3-7 year-old "Out of Iraq/Into Darfur" contingent, too. I fall in that contingent myself, of course, but I'm older and, like the kids, was too busy grooving on the songs about pizza -- it's so gooey! -- to think much about war. And then all of a sudden we were at the bar and my back hurt and I had beers and there was a bulldog in an AC/DC t-shirt walking around. Seriously, it's weird how those things happen.

Next week: perhaps more music for kids, or Jews, or Jewish kids, or maybe Modest Mouse again. But probably not. That was years ago. You can hear their songs in outlet malls now, I know because I heard one when I was at one in Hilton Head with my family. It wasn't "Shit Luck." Anyway, and if I may be frank with you: Frankly, I'd settle for a hungover and not-into-it Reverend Horton Heat playing childrens songs in Yiddish or whatever. Just...no more songs about pizza. They make me so hungry.

In a few days, we'll play again. A few days after that, I'll try to remember it. I'll see you all then. Not shown: Jasper's pleasant parents, watching their son and making sure we weren't, you know, creeps; injured-quad buckhunter action; Ryan Adams comparisons confirmed; long-ass bus rides. Until Sunday, then.