Week Six: It Never Really Happened

So, you don't fuck with the weather. I mean, mostly the weather just fucks with us -- and let me say up front, this profanity is all pretty egregious so far -- and we sort of deal with it, in terms of wearing galoshes or carrying an umbrella or snowshoes or a staying inside and watching HBOWest (I guarantee you it's showing Mr. Woodcock right now; they've been showing it, without exception, for the past eight days) (and people, it is a-larious!). Such is the human condition. We crawl around, at the mercy of a great many things, hoping -- against hope, against all reason -- for the opportunity to bat with runners on base, in the sunshine. I think I'm quoting Beckett right now. Josh Beckett.

That useless paragraph was my way of beginning to communicate that we were rained out with authority on Sunday. I don't know about youse, but I really only get so many opportunities to high-five people and run bases every year, so I was inclined to overlook a no-doubter of a weather report -- 80% chance of rain at game time, which I prefer to think of as a 20% chance of, you know, oppressive cloudiness and uncertainty -- and roll the dice on leaving the game on. As our F/G train (nice one to the MTA for making a shitty commute that much shittier all season long, by the way) surfaced between Carroll Street and Smith-9th, the air was heavy and menacing but fairly dry. Between Smith-9th and 4th Avenue, it started to rain. By the time Kate and I climbed out of the 15th St./Prospect Park stop, everything officially sucked and it was raining fairly hard. And...that's your ballgame.

Respect, obviously, to Dave the Tattooed (who also bought new bases: seriously, this guy is a frontrunner for early MVP honors based on said purchase how often he's had to hump the equipment bag alone), Chee, Carlton, Jodi Bender and Joel and Linda for actually going so far as to come to the field. There were few positives at Prospect Park -- although I did find a really nice softball glove someone had abandoned in the rain, which was both nice and kind of a mild moral dilemma for me.

Things improved markedly once we reached Commonwealth -- the bar of choice for day-drinkers throughout greater South Slope -- and joined Abby and Jeremy, Scott and Catherine, and a late-arriving Stephen X. Patnode. A few beers, some tacos, and a heaping helping of context from Joel Meyer regarding this hilarious bus-accident of an interview with the Deal Sisters made the day a success, even if I didn't get to play softball. I won't get to do so this week, either, as I'm off to Minnesota for a Buttermilk Alumni reunion and to enjoy some jumping-in-a-lake action. But I hope you all get out there, and play beautifully under sunny skies. Frankly, we're due. You're all due. There should also be angels, and your favorite band playing at the Prospect Park Bandshell.

I'll see you all in two weeks, probably with a new/old glove and a couple of new ideas on how I can hit the ball harder. The ideas will be dumb, but I'll keep them to myself.