Ten Thousand Best Friends

Tom Bissell has a long essay in the most recent issue of Harper's that tries to unpack the discomfiting thing that is Tommy Wiseau and The Room. (It's subscriber-only, but the whole issue is pretty great) Bissell comes surprisingly close to accomplishing that incredibly and obviously futile task -- surprising given that Wiseau is a freaking crazy person and also that The Room's cult following is so manifestly the result of an idiot echo chamber that there is, ultimately, not really a whole lot there to write about besides how strange Wiseau and the film is. It's not that I don't find this stuff funny, and Bissell's descriptions of those two foundational facts are very amusing, but beyond the obvious point of The Room being resistant to analysis or criticism is the fact -- the a-literary and nearly ontological fact -- that the film exists at a level beyond and beneath any sort of analysis. The simple and inexplicably complex fact of its existence is what's most interesting about it, and there's only so much than can be said about that.

All of which is kind of a long way of saying that Gallagher is performing at this year's Gathering of the Juggalos. AND I QUOTE:

Awesome Dre: Gallagher up in this bitch, though? Smashing watermelons with the sludge-o-matic (sic) and shit?

DJ Clay: Is that the real Gallagher?

Awesome Dre: Man, the original Gallagher, man, not that fake-ass Gilligan motherfucker, either.

Good thing it's The Real Original Gallagher, because he has really taken his act to some unique and disturbing new places. Also, Ron Jeremy will be telling dick jokes and Coolio is performing and Tila Tequila will be playing at Ladies Night (sic?). There is nothing to say about any of this. There is nothing to do about it. The 11th Annual Gathering of the Juggalos is like an earthquake.

Buttermilk Softball Season Nine: Shorter Than You Think, Sooner Than You Thought

Okay, as your commissioner/commissar, I feel like I should try to show leadership. So let's all be grownups about this, absorb the information I'm about to impart, and then take it from there. "Setting the tone is a big part of what I do." -- Buttermilk Softball Administrator David ROth

So, let me start by freaking the hell out, running around high-fiving anything that stands still and mimicking a baseball swing and hopping around a lot. That is honestly as cool as I can be about this. Do you know how much I've missed the opportunity to misplay fly balls? To hit sky-high pop-ups just like my New York Mets heroes? To run around in shorts even though I generally disapprove of shorts on male grownups? (Y'all ladies already know my position on this issue) I have missed all of those things VERY MUCH, and I am very excited to announce that we will very soon be doing them again. To wit, homeses:

Buttermilk Softball Season Nine Begins:
July 11, 5pm (Because softball is not the only popular ball-related sport on earth)
Field Five
Prospect Park
Fuck Yes

The excitement level inside of my brain falls somewhere between this:



And this:



It's so intense. See you tomorrow afternoon/eve. Drinks post at Buttermilk Bar, as per usual, if you can't make the game.

100 Percent Chance of Bummer: Week Five Cancelled Due to Rain

So, the weather reports -- and my own eyeballz -- are telling me that there is a 100% chance of rain, with the occasional thunderstorm, in the mix for today. Or rather that it will be the entirety of the mix, given its 100-percent-ness. So Week Five is off, and we'll just do this thing some other time. I wouldn't plan anything for next Sunday, for instance. I was targeting that.

So, sorry. No softball means you'll have to figure out some other thing to do on Sunday. I'm pretty sure Scrubs is on right now, somewhere, and more and more grocery stores offer dry or "in-door" shopping, which is nice. That might be fun, right? Or it could be imagination-time, all day!

The important thing -- and it is important -- is that you keep your spirits up. This dude knows what I'm talking about:




Give me a very long "O"! (See you next week)

Weeks Three and Four: Let the Players Play/Not-Play

What is constant? People barfing on the Real World comes to mind. But let's go bigger.

What is constant in human history, first and foremost, is folly. Hubris. Questionable fashion choices. Some better things. For instance: Softball on Sundays and VIP treatment at Buttermilk (see left for an in-action shot from Week Four) (How my hair look?). What is not constant: the way that softball works or doesn't work.

And so it is that we arrive where we are now, a generally satisfying month into the softball season, but with a strangely spotty record behind us. There was a massive, all-hands-on-deck turnout for Week Three's game -- probably the last game of the season for busy Buttermilk All-Stars Seth and Erika, and the first game of the season for lyme disease-stricken Legend of the Game Scott Snelling -- and yet... something was missing. Was it an even distribution of talent? There were other things missing, but yes that kind of jumps out. This is the hazard of counting off by 1's and 2's -- there are no other downsides and this policy will not change by decree of your Dear Leader. Or rather it's the hazard of doing the 1, 2 thing and then not properly balancing the scales. Things were further unbalanced in Week Three by the (luck-dictated) way that the randoms got distributed. My team wound up with the good-natured and apparently very-good-at-softball Stefan, who authored what will likely go down as the single greatest one-game performance in Buttermilk Softball history -- two homers, five RBIs, somehow no one alienated by said dominance. The other team got a pair of Slacker Softball League players named Kenneth and Gatorade. Meet me in the next paragraph and we'll talk about what that meant.

Playing-wise, not too much. They weren't terrible, weren't great. But their attitude was strictly :('s 4 days -- innings off for reasons both faintly reasonable (have to sit with my (literal actual canine) dogs) and not so much (Gatorade, breaking north for a few innings to go get some Gatorade). Apparently their Friday games turn out dozens upon dozens of people -- everyone fired-up, multiple fields in use, presumably with frequent time off for long energy-drink walks and such. And more power to them in that, but they didn't necessarily rep their set to the fullest that Sunday.

What did they do instead? Did they openly disparage the female players on their own team? Yes, they did. Did they kind of bum out the people on their (already maybe a little outfield-defense-deficient) team? Yes, they did that as well. Were they essentially human warnings against getting successful in probably graphic design or whatever and forgetting that coolness and personal worth is a thing performed and earned and repeated, rather than gifted irrevocably and then used as a dorky bludgeon on random people? I don't know. I don't know them. I just know the ladies on their team fucking hated them.

Those aforementioned ladies (and also dudes) also probably hated not-winning, honestly, and that was something that was also happening to them. Stephen Patnode, I think, homered in this one, for the losing team. Stefan homered twice for the winners, and I'm pretty sure Jordan had a roundtripper of his own. I pitched a complete game, I think, which is much less impressive than it sounds. Everyone was kind of bored and bummed, despite the great turnout, etc. Kate and I spent dinner going over what was wrong with the game (see above) and talking about ways to improve her defense. Suffice to say that fungo bat never got purchased. We do a lot of visualization exercises. I watch a lot of Travel Channel and am apparently trying to get fat (I think you can gain weight watching Man Vs. Food, maybe?). But no fungo. Where do you store a fungo? I don't trust the turtles with it. Would you? Look at these fucking guys.


Scheming.

Anyway, so that was Week Three. Decent softball, but no one really all that happy. So is that why Week Four only had 12 people at it? No, probably not. Probably a weather report that predicted -- with erroneous 70% certainty -- a biblical-grade hailstorm had something to do with that. But probably Week Three's lopsided, bad-vibe outcome didn't help. Which kind of makes it odd that Week Four was definitely a better time.

Not to say it wasn't odd -- it was. The entire modern dance bloc was MIA, which meant that it was Jeff, Colleen, Alex, Kenny, SJ Patnode, Forrest, Jordan, Scott, Scott's Friend Eric, Myself and No One Else when I got there (late). And yet, during an hour-plus of Extended Spring Training -- batting practice, fielding practice, video art, the usual -- and a brief, modified 6-on-6 game once we picked up randoms Luis/"Matsui" and Matt, things went pretty fine. The quality of softball was generally pretty good. I hit terribly, but played better in the field than at any time since I completed puberty (that's 2002). Jeff Ciprioni killed the ball. Eric, Forrest (especially Forrest), Scott Snelling all hit the ball hard. Kenny and Alex had banner days in the field, occasionally at my expense. And despite the inevitable drag of the fact that we basically didn't have an official game -- which means Jeff Ciprioni's four triples will not count towards his season OPS+, sadly -- it was enough to at least get me fired up for this week.

This week, Week Five. Week Five when we'll turn out a full complement, with some new players and returning legends of the game and maybe a new softball or two and hopefully an on-time arrival from your humpy commish and the whole freaking works. Another constant for us, for everyone -- for the wraithlike Luis Matsui's, for the grumpy shit-attitude n00bs and all of the saints and all the rest of us -- is the belief that things will be better next time. When this is applied to colonialism, to crude political positivisms or backdated self-justifications or whatever your poison is, it is one thing, and not necessarily a good thing. When it is applied to softball, it is something else. When it applies to softball, it is very often true. That is: it will be better, this week and next week and after. We wouldn't play otherwise. We wouldn't keep playing otherwise, but we keep playing because it is always -- in some way, always -- very good.

The system still works. I'll say 1, you can say 2, and we'll all say Sunday, maybe 4 o'clockish? Trust me: it works. It still works.

See Week Four Through Stephen Patnode's Eyes

Or, rather, through the eyes of his digital recording device. This is the upside of a week that was spent primarily in a sort of extended-Spring-Training batting practice mode. Nice editing work by SJP, as well, although maybe a little unfair to Jordan Watkowski, who actually successfully fields many more balls than you'd think from watching this. (Forrest, for his part, actually did hit that well yesterday) Also, the fact that I say "I got it" during my brief appearance and then actually GET the ball I was trying to get is probably the highlight of my season so far. Baby steps.



More on Week Three and Weak Four coming later this week.

The Old Mushball: Weeks 1 and 2 Power Recap

Activate the powertron! I am going to attempt to push my old, soft brain -- depicted at left, actual size -- to remember something from our three weeks of softball-related activities. Things have definitely happened, I'm sure of that. There are pictures, and there's no way the softballs in the equipment bag could've gotten quite so oblong (again, consult the pic -- that is what happens when Scott Snelling gets aholt of one) if they hadn't been struck by bats. But it's hazy.

But this is what happens when you wait like 20 days to write what should -- and would be, in more competent and less helplessly prolix hands -- be something along the lines of "everyone had a good time at softball and then got beers, so that was cool." But I had to get all SABR on everything, try to calculate my own VORP and break down Jeff Ciprioni's OPS+ (to be fair, he asked me to do this, because he thinks it'll help him in arbitration). And I didn't even learn anything from all this -- I learned that I procrastinate a lot, and that apparently per Baseball Reference's formulae, the most similar player to me through age 31 are Wally Whitehurst and Pat Meares, which was disappointing. And now it's kind of near the end of July, and we started playing on July 5 and okay, fine. Fine. Because you know what? I'm not going to let the fact that I only vaguely remember things that happened earlier this week stop me from attempting to discuss what went down several weeks ago.

Week One:

It was sunny, that's for sure! Or I think it was sunny! Anyway!

It really was sunny, and beautiful in Week One, which was July 5. I remember this one pretty well -- I expected something like an extended spring training/simulated game, being as it was the day after a fairly major holiday (Purim). I'd like to tell you that was why I showed up as hungover as I did, but that had more to do with the fact that I'd worked all day on July 4 and then went to dinner with some people at a sake bar right next to Buttermilk Softball official sponsor the Hawaiian Tropic Zone. As the fireworks boomed behind me and sarong-clad Hawaiian Tropic Cleavage Technicians rushed out to watch, I descended into a basement for fried weird seafood and drink. I knew that I'd have a hard time reaching my Whitehurstian/Mearesian norm by the time I scaled those stairs again.



But the whole experience was a surprise, as it turned out. Thanks to a few good-natured pickups -- Artie, Jason and...Heriberto? I don't remember, it was in like May that all this happened -- and a surprisingly strong turnout, we actually got an excellent game in on Week One. Good enough, in fact, that I didn't even feel badly about rousting the full game of very good-natured lesbians who were playing on the field when we arrived.

The game itself... rust was in evidence. Linda Moucha not expecting to play in her nice pants and Fashion Keds was in evidence. What are certain to be season-long issues with muscle soreness and uncooperative ligaments made themselves known. The long-awaited return of Buttermilk legend Alex -- you may remember him from his avant-garde bloody mary work during his long-ago stint as a Buttermilk bartender -- was marred by injury, although (spoiler alert) he made a triumphant, be-braced return in Week Three. This week also marked the Buttermilk debuts of newbies-turned-regulars Kenny and Colleen, and what may be the final league appearances for awhile for Benny Maniere and Dave Batt. Those two players, who rode to renown as B-Milk rookies in 2008 thanks to their unique combination of competence and good-natured patience with others' non-competence, have signed on with another Sunday softball league, and will only be making it to games when their schedule permits. Which is to say when they don't have a 2pm game on 145th Street in Manhattan. It apparently happens sometimes.

Also, I yelled a profanity at Benny while he was trying -- unsuccessfully! -- to stretch a double into a homer. I don't know if that Hasidic toddler had never heard someone loudly be called a "fucking idiot" before, but he certainly acted as if he hadn't. Which I guess is his prerogative, but I'm just trying to play softball, you know?

Anyway, I don't remember who won. I remember a good-natured pop-up-hitting contest between Joel, Jeff and myself (although I did record a season-high three (actual) hits, despite trailing a clammy, headachey rice-winey wake). I remember solid showings from Stephen J. Patnode, Jordan Watkowski and reliably be-cigged slugger Forrest. But this was a long time ago. I only remember that it was on July 5 because I kept telling everyone about the Hawaiian Tropic ladies running out of their sad boob-staurant to see the fireworks and describing them as "hoes." No one acted offended, which I really appreciated. After the game, Forrest -- a towheaded terror who has been one of the breakout offensive stars of the young season -- told us about his early career as a child star in cartoons. Here's a taste:



Feel the synthesized sax!

Week Two:

Something of a step back, in part due to what might've been a faulty commissioner executive decision on my part. I decreed that everyone who played must pass a basic written exam on the history of softball history, which I thought would be fun but wound up excluding a bunch of people who didn't even know who Francisco Dinosaurio is/was. They seemed more confused than embarrassed, but I'm sure that has changed.

In actuality, we just didn't get that many people this week. My idea of breaking into three teams of five so that there would always be enough people in the field sounded good at the time (to me, and apparently only to me), but everyone was all pissy about how they had to keep leaving the field and changing positions and oh what the fuck ever, you know? You appoint a commissioner and you do what the commissioner wants to do. Even when it's stupid and doesn't help that much.

I paid the price for my decision by committing errors at seemingly every position. But Carlton and Jodi and Jeremy and Abby made their season debuts, and I think more people had fun than not, so that was at least pretty good. The final score was like 8-5-2. It basically looks like a denotation of an impossible baseball double play that gets started by an outfielder, involves an infielder, and then gets the catcher into the mix. Doesn't happen in the real world, but that's how softball works. We've already had two of those this season.


Okay, this is already 2,500 words long or thereabouts, so I'm going to stop here. Week Three recap to come. I actually remember what happened in that one. There are even villains in that recap.

Bush League! Bush League!

No, there's no recap here. But while I realize I am currently slipping -- my status has officially been downgraded from "game tight" to "get it on time, son" -- I promise that I will soon no longer be slipping. I just finished a writing project I spent longer working on than I'd thought I would, and thus totally whiffed on the recap of our very excellent Week 1 game and am currently behind shed-yool on Week 2's unconventional but enjoyable contest.

But I promise you that there will be a recap. Sometime this week, and hopefully on Wednesday. It will involve polite lesbians, me badly misplaying a ball at almost every position on the field, a three-part final score, and a picture of one of our weirdly mushed-up softballs. People, we need to stop hitting these things so hard. We are playing, and it is fresh. Players old and new, plays good and bad. Me occasionally not embarrassing myself but more often embarrassing myself. I should be writing about all this, and I will. Dat's my word, America.

Season Eight Is Go

July 5
4pm
Field Five, Prospect Park
Apply Ibuprofen as Needed.


Greg Luzinski thinks you already look like you're in baseball shape, by the way.

Stay Sipping

There's snow on the ground and it's like 35 degrees, but Buttermilk don't stop just because the weather's fucking terrible and it's January. There's always news you can use, even when it's on the softball hot stove front.

Although...not really that much news at the moment. The field registration process is beginning in earnest (via a weird email from Lynda Hernandez containing a document I can't read), and most players are taking the offseason off. There are a few exceptions, though: I'll be playing in the World Softball Classic in March as a member of Team Venezuela (my dual citizenship finally pays off!); Steve Patnode recently had his 50-game Buttermilk suspension dropped when it was determined that pilsner was not technically a performance-enhancing substance; the relocated Daniel May was mistakenly signed to an incentive-laden one-year deal by the Red Sox during their frenzied acquisition of every second-tier free agent over the last week, then released to make room on the 40-man roster for Takashi Saito.

Also, over the New Year, I went on a scouting mission to India with Buttermilk originoo gangstas Ben Tausig and Serena Roth, as well as my beyonce Kate Garroway. Not a lot of good softball talent over there, sadly -- the softball scene is very cricket-oriented, although Jeremy Holmes explained last year how that can work in a softball context if enough beer is involved -- and some tremendously carcinogenic air. But it was also amazing, filled with monkeys and beautiful buildings and weird old bazaars and, AND there was buttermilk. Actual buttermilk they gave you at lunch, to drink. We drank (some of) it and it tasted like weird yogurt. Weird yogurt but also green grass and dirt and softball, although we were probably imagining the last three attributes. Check the picture for proof, and stay tipping. More softball updates are coming when there's something to update you on.

The Real Rap Comes At Halftime/Overtime

Our science is so tight, our drama so ill, the softball season sticks around like an unpaid bill. As you might have heard, true (softball) players stay playing. Which is to say that, in this instance, I CAN call it: barring calamities of world-historical proportions (or, you know, rain) we'll be playing this Sunday. People other than me want to do it. I want to do it. So, you know, let's do it.

I'm also working up a post on superlatives for the season. No one really kept stats, which is probably good for my career numbers, and I missed half the games, so if anyone's got any thoughts on MVP or Rookie of the Year or The Francisco Dinosaurio Award (for community service), put them in the comments or send along direct to me via email.

People, I know it's going to get cold. I know that at some point it will be very dark at 6pm. Before that happens, though, I'd like to play just one more time. I hope you do, too. Remember to use with joystick controller.

Season Seven, Week Nine: Jeremiah Holmes Not-Quite-Softball Adventure

You may know Jeremiah Holmes as Jeremy. That's because he usually goes by Jeremy. But he stood alone as Buttermilk Softball's Labor Day reps last Sunday; here's what happened to him, in his own words. Take it away, Jeremy:

--

Do you remember the fifth season of “The Dukes of Hazzard”, when, as a result of contract issues, Bo and Luke Duke were replaced by their look alike cousins Coy and Vance? No? Not as familiar with the Dukes of Hazzard as I am? You didn’t force your entire family to enter and exit their cars through the window for nearly a year of your childhood? Just me huh? I admit, if I was putting out the Spielberg/Lucas style revisionist history dvd of my life, I would use cgi technology to erase that objectionable “rebel yell” flag from the competition orange dodge charger of my memories. But I digress.

I bring up the “good ol’ boys, never meanin’ no harm” because like that season of the Dukes, last weekend’s softball game was an enjoyable facsimile of the original product. The game of course had its differences. These included lots of babies on the sidelines and some serious on-field tailgating, which I’ll come back to. But the Buttermilk spirit rang true.

But let me start from the start. It was 3:45pm and the day did not look promising. I arrived at Field Five to find about 30 teenagers playing on the diamond with such zeal that it any observer would assume they were watching the Prospect Park under 18 softball championship game. Not discouraged, I chose the better part of valor, and set up shop by myself on the empty adjacent diamond. I put out bases and stood on the mound, calling up friends to see if they were coming, in hopes that this would display my rightful ownership of the diamond. At about the same time, a stranger appeared out of the sunny haze of the day, and he could only be described as my doppelganger. Each of us was sporting sweaty, dirty clothes and a hat in the same color palette. His were gray/blue, mine blue/gray. Each of us was displaying a four-day scruff that if we were being honest with ourselves was never going to be a beard. Each was toting an equipment bag with some, but not all of the necessary tools with which to play a game. He had bats, I had bases. Was this a mirage? After several seconds of playing the mirror game, we finally cottoned to the fact that the other was more than a heat hallucination. Reeling from this idea, Chris introduced himself, and the story got even spookier.

Like me, Chris was expecting 18 people to play a friendly softball game, but realistically expected 6 to show. Unlike me, Chris’ cadre of softballers hailed primarily from the United Kingdom and South Africa. We decided to pool our collective resources. Soon a coalition of the willing was formed, and momentum was gaining.

Next on the agenda was for Chris and I to explain the intricacies of softball to our former colonial masters. In an attempt to bridge Oscar Wilde’s “common language” barrier with the foreigners, we made the requisite feeble comparisons to cricket, and went about the arduous task of providing a cogent description of the force play and tagging up. Results were as humbling as you might expect, but enthusiasm was high.

Soon after, teams were formed. This process unfolded in the awkward gym class kickball style of our youth, as opposed to Buttermilk’s egalitarian 1, 2 protocol. Rather than argue, I reminded myself that one must respect the cultural imperatives of others. Team Mets Fans claimed such heavy hitters as ace pitcher Alonso, Jasper-esque middle infielder Lucas, Cricketeer Darren, Brixton Bomber Sean, Flip flop sporting Tim, and Andy “willing body and open mind” Keshner, who brought along Broadway star Britt Shubow to cheer for him. Team Yankees Fans included such Americans as myself, Chris, his wife and middle-infield/on field smooch partner Heidi, proud papa Adam, Lanky Rick and hurler Michael. Our own South African Jasper clone/short stop, Jake and “British Brooks Robinson” Mark are also among those whose names I can remember. And so, battle lines were drawn, teams took the field, and a Buttermilk-ian game was played with an emphasis on fun and group participation that trumped overzealous competition.



To the naked eye, players seemed to choose their respective positions at random, but as is often the case, sociological patterns soon emerged. For example, it was an imperative that whomever took the mound must at least intermittently smoke and drink in the field, substituting a cold one for a rosin bag. Michael did so with cool calculation and cooler sunglasses. Alonso on the other hand, relished the opportunity to intimidate and cajole opposing hitters with both his words and his presence. For a batter, it is intimidating enough to stand at the plate and stare down someone who calls to mind a Latin Rod Beck, but to have this person deliver pitches with back spin through a beady eyed stare, teeth clenched menacingly around a lit cigarette...that dear readers is a once in a lifetime freak out. Drinking in the field was also compulsory for shortstop and third base, provided that they were of drinking age. Third baseman Mark displayed great confidence in his glove, as he rested his clear plastic cup of oat soda (why hide public alcohol consumption?) between his legs during live play. More than once, the collective over-confidence in the glove led to a spilled beer. Behind home plate, on the mound, on the bench, the suds did flow.

The game itself provided everyone with ample hitting and fielding opportunities, and it must be said that all parties involved flashed some great leather and swung a mighty bat. The middle infields of both squads made a strong argument for the return of Olympic softball, with their insistence that age, stature, sex, and nationality were not a hindrance to making the tough force plays. All suspicions that Brits could not get the hang of it were gone after each team had batted through the order once. Darren and Sean in particular made me run much harder out in left than my quads would have liked.

It could also be said that I lost at least three “can o corn” fly balls in left field to the blinding floodlight of the sun, but hey, who’s counting?

By the sixth inning, right field was devoid of defensive representation. I don’t exactly remember if players had dropped out, were taking a smoke break, or were nursing babies (all of which happened in the middle of live play, consequently). In any case, an opportunity presented itself for both sides. Soon everyone was aiming the ball to right field, and as often as not, popping up to the first baseman. A stroke of luck hit me, the likes of which I do not recently recall, in which I drove not one, but two consecutive balls deep down the right field line for the first homeruns I remember hitting since I was 18. I didn’t feel great about the first one, it just seemed a little cheap to slap the ball at a vulnerable area. I felt a little bit better about the second one since clearly no one felt obliged to engage in a Jim Thome shift. I’d brag more about hitting for the cycle, but I think I was one of three or four people to do so.

I must also apologize for the competitive monster coming out in me a couple of times late in the game. I believe my third base coaching to Michael included such rants as “RUN, stop looking at the ball and RUN. RUN like you intend on winning. Stop admiring the hit and RUN.” Finally Adam reminded me that he and wife Janna had brought a delicious watermelon to share. This was of course a subtle way of reminding me to check my blood sugar and cool it with the agro-Bobby Knight routine. The watermelon was delicious by the way.



It took nine innings of solid softballin’ before we called it a day. I say called it, because we as a group chose to leave the game a 16-16 tie, rather than push forward into extras. Die hards among us (see also the Americans), wanted to play until a winner was established, but restless babies, sore bodies and sound logic ruled the day.

Looking forward to next week, perhaps enough original cast members will return to Hazzard (start fighting now about who gets to be Cooter), or perhaps the sun of summer has truly set. If this must be how the season ends, so be it. I’ll deal with my withdrawl by awkwardly trying on catcher’s equipment at Modell’s until they ask me to leave, again. But that’s my problem, not yours. Take care.

Season Seven, Week Eight, On Our Six: That Which is Behind Us Matters Kind of a Lot

We all know. I don't put myself on much of a deadline for the recaps. This is not because I'm busy -- no one whose self-imposed rules are so lax (no scotch after 1am on weeknights except if it's like a special one-time thing; try to change out of sleeping clothes before the 4pm Access Hollywood; remember to floss like, sometimes) could really be considered busy -- but rather because I consider these posts a treat. Like a post-1am scotch or a day spent entirely padding around my apartment, worrying about deadlines, wearing the misshapen clothes I slept in. That's some real Treat Williams ish right there. Y'all can't live my life baby bay-beh.

So, uh, yeah. I know it took kind of a long time for this. I actually got started on it early before work intruded. My original thought process: considering that this was probably my last game of the season -- if hopefully not the league's; keep reading! or skip to the end! -- I figured I may as well be about this here preview. It's a big one, and while I'm not going to forget just how brutal my own showing was in this game (ever, I will never ever forget it), I know there's a chance I might mis-remember a triple here or there. I don't want that. My new thought process: what the eff.

Also, and this is actually for real, this was actually a busy week for me: I churned out just-warmer-than-boilerplate copy about pro sports and professional athletes with a density of intensity that was really quite difficult for someone who doesn't care about it very much. And I don't, really, relative to this. I do care about baseball, but this -- our softball, our little weird humbling thing that we do -- is the sport I care about. You are the athletes I care about. Not Alex Rodriguez. Especially not him. I mean, I was into Madonna, too, circa Body of Evidence, but I was like 14. The Kabballah bracelet is not a good look, A-Rod. "Be adequite," playboy. Also: if there's any possible photo more heterosexual than the pic above of A-Rod with his wifey, it...I don't know, it would probably have to have Rip Taylor in it.


Ah, Rip. Anyway, while Labor Day Softball is apparently on for a second straight year, I will be missing it for the second straight year. Which means that this is not only my final in-season recap, but was my last official game of the softball season. My Ones wound up winning, 13-10, on a last second field goal by Dave the Tattooed. Or...no, because we had a 6-run inning powered by Dave, Jeremy, Benny and Seth. More or less our entire output was powered by them, actually -- although Abby and I both had RBIs in that big inning, if I remember right -- and helped greatly by a late-arriving Steve Patnode, who powered through an aching groin (and how!) and memories of his traumatic, Bloomberg-related dream from the previous evening. With the exception of one brutal inning in the outfield -- in which I followed a just-miss of running catch of a Scott Snelling blast that would've been a career highlight for me with an instant career lowlight about which I'll moan more later -- I was on the mound. And I was as sharp as a mound of butterscotch pudding, in keeping with what was one of the worst single-game performances of my career. Yes, it was slow-pitch softball. But even by slow-pitch softball, I gave up a metric poopload of triples -- at least one apiece to Dan May, Kelsey and Scott, and possibly to Jordan, and possibly more than one and possibly to other people -- and just generally felt kind of out of it out there. Yes, I got the win, and that's what matters. It's the only thing that matters to me, that has ever mattered. But in strict quality terms, I was right there with the numbers Hideo Nomo put up over his last three seasons. Click here and look. Look at it! I was once like you! Now I am Hideo-us.

Of course, there are other things I care about than winning and playing poorly. And I suppose theoretically it is in the realm of possibility that you could care about those things as well. One thing that I've cared about all season long was whether Kate Garroway, my girlfriend and an x-treem n00b to the world of actually playing softball, was enjoying herself. She always claims to -- and that's the kind of nice lady she is; she also claims to enjoy our nightly push-up contests (I'm like 75-2!) and to be psyched for our two-week ice fishing trip to Beloi, WI this winter -- but it's fair to say that she'd struggled some at the plate during the earlygoing and, uh, middle-going of this too-short season. But a bit of pre-game coaching from Benny -- who was also looking natty in a homemade Buttermilk Softball t-shirt and whom I respect enough not to let the latent Jersey Possessive Guido Guy out when he marched up to Kate before the game and announced, "I've been thinking about your swing" -- seemed to straighten Kate right out. She launched four line drives in four at-bats. Three were caught, but the one that wasn't drove in a run, and Kate later came around to score. I know that Kelsey does this like twice an inning, but I thought The Bird deserved a special in-blog mention.

And there's something else I should probably mention: I fell down really hard chasing a fly ball. I assume that it was funny for those who saw it -- and in the abstract, me breaking in really hard on a ball hit well over my head and then wiping out in an attempt to correct that error, is pretty funny -- but I want to get serious for a moment here. Some people were concerned that, during that play, I had been shot by a sniper located somewhere in the park. I understand that I went down pretty quickly and pretty hard, but I want to let you know, I'm okay. There's no such thing as snipers. There was a movie about them starring Tom Berenger, I know, but he's just make-believe, too. I'm fine. Just don't ever ask me about the play again.

And then we got beers and burritos and Nik Johnson -- not this one; the one who's still popular in New York -- showed up and Ramin made a brief cameo, and then we were done. Or not really. I mean, we did really get beers and such, and Bug brought this delicious salsa and it was all really good. I meant that we're not really done. We have the field for this week, and a hardy band of patriots -- Chee, Kelsey, Jeremy and Abby, Dave, maybe Ben -- are showing up to play ball. And there's still the possibility of overtime: everyone's pretty hyped to do it, the weather should be nice for another month...anyway, something we'll talk about later. I'm already at like 3500 words, and may arms hurt. A good long weekend and godspeed to you all.

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.

Neither Rain, Nor...Anything Else: Season Six, Week Five

I'm often amazed at how many names I know. I forget the names of friends' significant others all the time, of course -- you should forget this the next time I ask how "your special lady/dude-friend" is doing -- and yet, whenever my girlfriend tells me about an article she read in a recent New Yorker (or Cat Fancy), I ask the author's name and then respond to it as if I know who the person is. "Oh," I say, "David Grann. He used to write for The New Republic." Like he's fucking Alfredo Griffin (um, left) and he was the good field-no hit shortstop for the A's in the pre-Walt Weiss era and I know everything about his career. Sadly, though, I know a lot about both David Grann and Alfredo Griffin. More, at least, than I need to know about either. What I'm saying is...what am I saying?

Oh, I'm saying that I -- and maybe you -- compile all this useless information, and yet have no need for it. What I need is to remember the things I want to remember -- that is, the details of softball games in which I enjoyed participating, as opposed to the life stories of guys who wrote lengthy, impressive, remunerative features for The New Yorker (or Cat Fancy) while I was writing, say, this (or who retired with on-base percentages of .285 after 18 seasons (!), for that matter). I want to remember every hit, every defensive gem, every bit of salty clubhouse wisdom (note: we have no clubhouses and are not an especially salty group). But what I have for you, people, is this: the best I can do, a few days after the fact. Oh, and I'm padding the job with an LOLAnimal image somewhere down there. It makes it easier.

And there it is. So, uh, hai. An unexpected glut of work -- unexpected considering that my working life is, in general and to the extent that it can be referred to as containing either "working" or "life," defined by the absence of work -- delayed this recap by a few days, but the more memorable softball games tend, luckily, to be more memorable than your less-memorable ones. Which is to say that I can tell you this: the Ones won, 8-7, with Serena Roth (she's my sister! and a doctor!) (my parents ask that I mention that, parenthetically, every time her name appears here) earning the win and Jeff "Rhymes with Aase" Ciprioni coming on to earn a harrowingly John Franconian save.

The losing pitcher, if you need to know, is so awesome that it doesn't even matter that he lost. A lot of losing pitchers couldn't write 1500 words on a softball game played between goofy folks in their late-20s to early-30s several days after said game happened. How could a loser do that? The guy who didn't win -- because he gave up 8 runs and nearly botched an easy pop-up catch and still feels kind of embarrassed about it -- could write something like that. A loser simply couldn't. There's a difference.

Anyway, yeah: the Ones were stacked. The Twos, to be honest, were probably a little less stacked. But the game itself was pretty well-played -- despite the mysterious lack of official bases, which I'm pretty sure is my fault -- and remarkably close throughout. While the whole thing hinged on what nearly wound up being what Kelsey termed "The SCIAC Inning" -- a term from the collegiate athletic conference that includes both our alma maters, referring to an inning in which one team scores more runs than the other team scores in the entire game -- the Twos hung around thanks to solid defense, timely hitting and...hold up, let me be real with you for a minute.

Ramin was with the Twos and hit two home runs. They were both bombs. They were both to right field and were hit deep enough that there was a better chance of them injuring one of the random Hasidic dudes lounging with their gigantic families out in right field than of Ramin getting thrown out at home plate. He could've taken a 25-second Mel Hall home run trot on the second one -- and dropped the one flap like Jeff Leonard -- and still arrived at the plate long before the rightfielder tracked down the ball. The reason the Twos stayed in the game was that ol' boy hit two homers. He had fan-dudes printing up t-shirts in his honor after the second blast (see left). So, you know, hats off to the guy who's almost certainly the best softball player ever to own the last name "Hedayati." It may not sound like much, but there's this doof standing between me and being the best Roth ever to play the game. Well, Braggo and my sister.

The Ones were keyed by a powerful lineup that included Kelsey, My Sister The Doctor (there you go, Mom and Dad), Jeff Ciprioni (who, like your author, seems to have belatedly found his stroke), returning B-Milk supa-legend Joel Meyer, '07 alum Jay, promising newcomer Carlton C. Ward (who also has a Pomeranian that can do tricks, which is more than your author or His Sister The Doctor or Jeff or Joel or anyone else in the game can say, frankly) and a pair of powerful Bens, one of whom I know has the last name Tausig. The other boldly paired a Thundercats t-shirt with New Jersey State Trooper mesh shorts and made several excellent plays in the outfield; that he also authored one of the best outfield throws in Buttermilk history, and that said throw nearly murdered my (admittedly not-totally-paying-attention) girlfriend is worth mentioning only after a semicolon. At any rate, I know he felt terrible about it, and I wish I knew his last name, but I know I'd shake his hand for those sartorial decisions. I'll hopefully do it in a few days.

Theirs was a good team, and after a few innings it seemed as if the scrappy Twos might be well and truly pants-ed by the Ones. Still, we hung around thanks to the fact that many of the remarkably sharply hit line drives I yielded found the gloves of ace centerfielder Dave The Tattooed, the aforementioned Greatest Sports Hedayati Ever at shortstop, and exceptionally game third base-people Erika Friday (who stood up well to an unseemly onslaught of potentially weekend-ruining shots) and a late-arriving Dan May. All of the aforementioned owe debts to sweet-picking first basemen Jordan and Greg, who performed ably at the less-hot corner. On offense, the twos got timely hits from...pretty much everybody, as I remember it. Linda Moucha and Colleen Hooper both drove in runs (I think), and I also managed to score and drive in a run despite being robbed not once but twice by a strangely vengeful Jay at third base. I'd like to talk to Jay for a minute.

I guess it's not cool when a bloggy-recapper guy hits a ball hard, apparently. Let alone does so once, but apparently twice is beyond the pale. You could've just told me, man. I'm really sorry I pissed you off so much by daring to, like, try to be good at softball. I didn't know it was so wrong. Underneath the good looks and easy charm and nerve-jangling sensuality, I'm just an ordinary dude (who happens to be the prose voice of his generation) who's trying to keep my front shoulder closed and swing through the ball. I'm sorry I made you so mad that you thought I needed to be punished for that. Twice. Anyway, if you were wondering: you have to keep your front shoulder closed, so you're hitting with something other than your arms. Do that, and you might be able to, like me, reach base twice on errors and get one hit in four trips to the plate. I know it sounds like bragging, but I totally did that. (Also, my glove died: by pour some out, please)

While the Twos had a chance at a dramatic comeback in the bottom of the whateverth (this was a fast-moving game; it could easily have been the 9th, or 10th, or 15th), the Ones overcame an intimidating "Ral-LY CAP" chant and locked down a win when Jeff C coaxed Ramin into a game-ending groundout. Ciprioni was immediately designated for assignment (the Ones needed to make room for Ruddy Lugo), but the end result stands: Ones win, 8-7, and...everyone goes to the bar and kind of immediately forgets some stuff.

Post-game highlights include Jeff Ciprioni earning both he and I free beers through a feat of keg-related strength, Jordan's introduction of the pepperoni roll into the softball culinary lexicon, and a declined invitation to play softball from our new bartender (who has, in her tattooed and exuberant kindness, rendered Zombie Jeff Tweedy little more than a brain-noshing memory) that was briefly controversial because some peoples (what up, Linda) misheard some things.

A good time was had by all, as far as I could tell. Although possibly Joel (because he didn't have to give time, traffic and weather info every 30 minutes), Jordan (c.f., pepperoni roll), and me, Joel and Jeff (because we got to talk about the old, soon-to-be-revived, "Around the Horn" feature) (see here for my and Jeff's contribution to it) had a better time than anyone else. But, really, probably not.

After all, everyone's beers cost the same amount at the bar. And in that way -- and in terms of impending soreness and possibly in terms of hung-overness -- we were all equal. We were all, in our way, wrapped in the same embrace: the warm, slightly clammy, slightly whiskey-smelling enclaspment of half-serious athletic endeavor, done among friends and with the best of intentions. I am a perpetual risk to wax too emo about this stuff -- and also to make up words (does it surprise you that "enclaspment" isn't a word? Because it ought not) -- but I'll just say that this was another good one. Last year's One-Eyed/Old Cat-necessitating personnel issues aside, we're back (baby), and shit is more or less the same as it ever was. We play softball on Sundays and enjoy it. Then, later, we drink the beers up. It's simple, but it works; at least, it sure works for me. I'll see you all this Sunday, I hope. I'm going to start stretching in an hour or so, just to be sure I don't hurt myself too badly.

Week Three Recap: Better Late Than Never

[Editor's Note: Due to contractual issues, Kelsey's recap of our June 20 game was previously only available in e-mail format. However, these issues have been resolved thanks to intervention by the Commissioner's Office, the Environmental Protection Agency, and well-known actor Danny DeVito. Please enjoy this outstanding summary of Game 3.]

Heat. Hotness. Warmth. High Temperatures.

All these words could describe Sunday's climate at Prospect Park for the weekly rivalry that has become Ones versus Twos. But instead, these terrifying adjectives could just have easily applied to the goodness that was exhibited on the ballfields yesterday.

The Ones just wanted it more. Anyone could tell. By the way they counted off in an organized One-two-One-two fashion at the beginning of the contest- effectively filtering their team of any potential Twoness.

Because of some discrepancies with the official Buttermilk roster, some of the names might be a little off but this is basically how it went down on Field 5, Stadium 2:

Atlee Hammaker started the game for Ones.

Hammaker faced Brett Butler to start the game. Butler, brandishing a bat, sunglasses and lit Winston cigarette lived up to his name by promptly laying down a swinging-drag-bunt down the third baseline.

Butler, exhibiting the athletic ability and coordination of a Tanzanian gazelle reached first safely and with the smooth, sweet flavor and aroma you can expect from Winston. That's Winston cigarettes. The official smoke of the Twos leadoff speedster.

Then some other stuff happened. Danny Tartabull got out, followed by Von Hayes and Alan Wiggins.

This brought the Ones up to bat. The Twos started Bobby Ojeda on the hill.

Ojeda made short work of Rob Deer, Danny Heep and Dickie Thon.

Ojeda and Hammaker proceeded to make it a pitching duel for the next few innings and, after 3 and a half innings, the score remained 0-0.

But Steve Lombardozzi would have none of that.

Following a pitching change for the Twos, Oil-Can Boyd took over for a slightly dehydrated Ojeda.

Boyd promptly gave a up a two run jack to Lombardozzi over the right field plastic baggy in Prospect Parkdome right field, sending the Ones to a 2-0 lead.

Hammaker continued to hold the Twos scoreless into the fifth, when discussion in the press box led to rampant speculation that this could very well become the first documented Buttermilk shutout in recorded history of ever.

But Tom Brunansky would have none of that. As if on cue, Brunansky hit a solo shot to right center giving the Twos their first run.

As the pitching duel wore on, the players remarked they enjoyed hearing the nearby park concert's energetic soundtrack, featuring such hits like Informer by Snow.

Described by The Internet as possibly the Best recorded song of all-time, Informer no doubt gave the Ones the needed motivation to blow the game open by taking advantage of several defensive miscues by the Twos.

Twos pitcher Dave Dravecky couldn't handle a two-out comebacker from Chet Lemon and the next batter, Lombardozzi took advantage of the miscue by parking the next pitch way over the centerfielder's head.

That smash landed in the middle of the nearby Cambodia-Versus-Laos Softball extravaganza and without missing a beat, the third baseman for the Laosian team spun around, bare-handed the drive and fired it all the way back into the Buttermilk field of play- thus limiting Lombardozzi to a triple.

Holding a firm 7-2 lead, the Ones led the way clear through the sanctioned 8 innings of Buttermilk action. But with the game moving along at such as swimming pace, play continued into an extra(?) ninth inning.

This allowed the Twos Steve Balboni to nail a homer off of Ones closer, Rob Dibble.

The homer wasn't without it's own hijinx, as rightfielder Tim Teufel fielded the ball and threw it to a Random Passing By School Kid Who Volunteered To Play Second Base For The Ones Despite Being Lefthanded And Not Realizing It Until He Had The Ball And Tried To Throw it With His Glove. It was random, it was eccentric, it was Buttermilky.

The 9th ended with the Rance Mulliniks grounding out and the final score settled at either 7-4ish.

2Pacalypse Now

Parental advisory: weather is wack. Also: the album to the left is also wack.

On the off-chance that this is where you're getting all your softball news -- as opposed to from your email or facebook or the oral tradition or what have you -- I thought I should mention that we're not playing this Sunday. According to highly placed sources within the weather establishment, it "looks like the end of the world" out there. Also, I got sent a link to the radar scene over Brooklyn at the moment -- no, really, I did, and it's right here -- and it looks like a Rothko painting in pinks and reds. Those indicate "heavy rain." So, yeah, I bow to the weather. Reluctantly. With misgivings. But I do so nonetheless, because I'm not trying to get nickel-sized hail all up in my face. My face is my meal ticket. If I lose my looks, I have nothing. I'd be left with just a tendency to write overlong blog posts and abs that resemble poppin-fresh dough...that's been covered in tempered steel!

What a waste of dough. What a waste in general. See you guys in a week.

Week Two Mini-Recap: I'm Throwed

The coaching staff has shut your correspondent down for a week due to overwork on my pitching arm and blogging fingaz -- my unorthodox form, depicted at left, probably doesn't help; ditto for all those diamonds on my teeth (diama-diamonds on my grill) -- but before I head off to Maine on vacation, I wanted to thank all involved for another week of big-balling goodness.

There were debuts -- Paul Kahn, Erika's friend ZZ, Scott Snelling's friend Katherine (or possibly Catherine). There were returning heroes from seasons past: Jeff Ciprioni; Chris Martin, forever fresh mode in his official Buttermilk Softball color-scheme socks; the aforementioned Mr. Snelling, the old Ghost of Leo Durocher guy (who was only discussed at the bar, but still). There were great plays and moments of good cheer; there were errors (by me, presumably some by others). There was effective station to station softball. There was me trying to score from second on a single, missing third base, and then being tagged out at home because I almost stopped out of remorse. Don't worry, I've already forgotten it and am certainly, certainly, not blushing and tearing up while thinking about it now. Wait, you can't see me through your screen, right? Ah, shit.

And once again the game was close: 7-5, I think, was the final, with me picking up my second win of the season as pitcher and Gregg Ciprioni -- by his reckoning -- picking up the first losing experience of his entire buttermilk softball career. That can't possibly be true, but I have the Elias Sosa Sports Bureau working up the numbers.

Okay: the equipment bag is safe with Dave the Tattooed (as opposed to me, Dave the Awkward), and will return to the field -- hopefully with your delicious selves -- come next Sunday. I'll be in Maine with my girlfriend at that time, eating lobster rolls. I'd like to think I won't be thinking of my nightmarish drop-the-ball/hurl-the-ball combination in the sixth inning yesterday, but...I don't know. I just can't know. Enjoy the next game, and the rest of your week. I apologize for the shorter than average recap. But I'm on a strict word count per the training staff. And I also have to drive like six fucking hours right now. Anyway: cheers again. Remember to stretch.

Season Five, Week One: After The Fireworks, The Fireworks

What is a patriot, really? Let me jump in here and say that I'd really prefer if the Democrats among you didn't attempt to answer this question. No offense intended, I just think it's kind of unfair to the troops, you know? Anyway, the fellow to your left has an idea about what patriotism is. That jaunty chap is Pat Patriot, and he's the erstwhile logo of the New England Patriots, the Official Team of Champions Everywhere. Pat Patriot thinks a patriot is a snarling vest aficionado prone to, uh, compromising stances and tricorn hats. He thinks it's him.

And I'm not saying Project Pat's wrong, but I have a different definition. To me, a true patriot -- someone who loves the best of America, and embodies its true spirit -- is someone who can go out and do whatever it was you did on July 4 (if you don't remember, I'm sure not going to tell you) and then was willing to get out there and softball on July 6. And also is in the military. But the softball part is what really matters. I'm not saying that those of you who didn't play aren't patriots. But I am. Apparently that's a privilege True Patriots are allowed. (Peace, John "Change We Can Believe In" McCain)

Anyway, sorry for the impugning. That's...that's not really me. I'm not about that. I'm about 1) freedom and 2) market-based solutions to the problems you deal with every day. And softball recaps, I guess, since that's what this was supposed to be. But I don't know, there's something about the weekend of the 4th that always gets me kind of jazzed on America, and it's tough to shake that off. But I know you're not here for my McCain imitation (it's even more wince-inducing in person). You're here to see how poorly I remember Sunday's game three days after the fact, and in that you will not be disappointed, I assure you. So I'll just let you watch this video -- which pretty much sums up what I was getting at above -- and then get to the softball part.



/wipes single tear.

So: Season Five. That's a long time. But what I find inspiring about the league (and I'm being for real, now) is that even as longtime players and friends have moved away -- and five years is a long time, and New York isn't an easy place to live, and there are hangovers and hamstring pulls and jobs and heavy brunches and a myriad of other reasons not to play, weekly, for all of us -- the league has proven protean enough to change to suit those who remain and welcoming enough to attract cool new people.

This might be a tribute to all of us and how unfathomably awesome and good we all are, or it might just be that playing softball when the weather's nice is a pretty awesome thing to do, and people will kind of always want to do it. But when I came down the hill into the softball basin a few minutes before 4pm, I couldn't have been happier to see the dozen or so people who'd beaten me to the field.

Well, there's one way I could've been happier: if we'd had a ball or a bat. Triumphant returnee Gregg Ciprioni -- who rescued the equipment bag from Jeff and Beth Ann's apartment after they'd left for a work-related sojourn in Spain -- brought the bats, balls, bases, nuanced understanding of the phrase "flavor profile" and knife skills to the party a few minutes later, and we were good to go. More players kept arriving, and even though I'd seen roughly 50% of them at some point during the previous 72 hours, I'll admit to being pretty sentimental by the time we circled up to start choosing teams. I wanted to say all kinds of emotional things, start breaking everybody off with Iron John bro-grabs and professions of gratitude and effusive compliments on how fly everyone looked, but instead I just said "two," when it was my turn to count off, and took to the dugout.

Due to the fact that I was off trying to be commissionerish -- I don't remember just how I was doing that, but if I had to guess I think I was making sure everyone on the other team understood just how much I loved them or whatever -- I found myself batting 10th upon returning to the bench. Ramin, another welcome returnee, claimed to have constructed the batting order at random, but the order seemed pretty savvy almost immediately, as we -- I'll call us the Blue Jeans; the ones will be The Bodegas, at least this week -- jumped out to an early lead. The Bodegas battled back in innings two and three, which set the tone for the game: close throughout, surprisingly well-played on defense, and remarkably, blessedly free of any serious injuries.

The Jeans held on to win 9-8 (I think) in 8 innings (I know), with the win going to your junkballing author and player of the game honors going either to Ramin or Mark, who was one of three skilled and good-natured randoms who joined the game after Kelsey and Amber discovered them -- poignantly, I think, in a sort of Felix Pie showing up for his big league tryout without shoes way -- hitting a ball with a stick on the field when they arrived. The former drove the ball in every plate appearance; the latter played amazing defense at third and hit a game-changing two-run homer in the sixth (or so) inning that wound up being the difference in the game. On the Blue Jeans bench, we discussed whether it was the longest home run in Buttermilk history, finally agreeing that -- regardless of the damaging allegations of physical fitness that have been leveled against these two in the sporting press -- Scott Snelling and Seth Nelson probably have hit balls further. But not by much. Dan May, showing the sort of all-field pop that led the scouts in attendance to term him the next Todd Hollandsworth, also went deep to right center.

(Incidentally, unless you want to be sad, do not scroll down to see how much money Hollandsworth made over his career)

A few stalwart Buttermilkers were MIA -- Joel Meyer was on the air at WNYC, making like Cousin Brucie, except bringing you news and weather instead of, like, "Silhouettes on the Shade"; Jeff and BA were in Spain, eating types of ham for which there are not even words in English; Scott Snelling was either working or climbing a mountain; Jasper (now 12: time flies!) was MIA and may have belatedly realized how old and corny we are; Molly Bielinski, who joined us at the bar, was apparently sidelined by flu-like symptoms after watching the appallingly shitty "Interview with the Vampire."

Their absence was offset -- on the field, if not in our hearts -- by a crew of returning heroes, visitors, newbies and randoms. Among the notable debuts was Kate "Bird" Garroway, a Buttermilk spectator of long standing making a much-awaited debut (both in the league and in...ever, as a player) who took her nickname from former Tigers phenom Mark Fidrych and her advice on how to play softball from my father and me just a few hours earlier; Steve Patnode's buddy Jordan, who's the first West Virginian to grace field five; Dave, who picked the league's info up on a bulletin board at Buttermilk and played brilliantly; Erika Friday, whose 15-year absence from the softball field in favor of getting some reading done was not at all evident; and Seth's sister Jessie, who played with all the excellence we've come to associate with the surname Nelson. To wit:



That's some excellence, right there. Also: strong, shiny hair.

What followed at the bar -- beers, conversation, tacos, a frank discussion between me and Gregg of this guy, a creeping realization that we were making the bar smell kinda funny -- was no less lovely for having been, you know, the same thing we've done most Sundays for five summers. The same can be said of the whole experience, I think. See you in a week. Stay beautiful. You're all so beautiful.