This Labor Day, you only need to remember one thing (one thing). And one other thing.
First of all: remember the dude to the left and think about where your grapes came from. Dudes are hustling for those little green joints, and that's worth keeping in mind.
Secondly: it looks like softball is going to go off. The eminently trustworthy Kelsey and Amber have been entrusted with the equipment bag for next week, and it looks like we'll have a Labor Day quorum for the first time in our five-year history as a league. If you're going to be around, come on around. I won't be there, but many others will be. We had another well-played and hugely enjoyable game today -- it's too late, and I'm too post-fantasy-draft tipsy to recap it, but it involved asthmatic heroics from Jasper, a commanding complete game win from Alf, a cameo by a North Carolinian named Kwame, and some very-good-at-softball randoms of the female persuasion who will hopefully return. Other highlights: Californian Matt Abrams and hardcore Brooklyn softballer Steve Patnode making Buttermilk debuts in black jeans (always a good call) and sleeveless shirts, respectively; amazing picks from Amber at first base and some fantastic infield defense from Jasper at short; Kelsey hitting a ball harder and further than anyone else this year; a ringing RBI double from your author (everyone has their own highlights); supreme-team oatmeal-theme cookies from Darren Guyer; postgame black-sock purchases at Commonwealth (Shame on a Buttermilk for not being open at 6). It also looks like next week could be just as good. Even without my chatter in the outfield. Look, I don't believe it, either, but people are going to show up. For real, though.
Also, on t-shirts: orders are coming in, and should continue to do so. I'd like to do a postseason get-together so we can distribute shirts and share sweet sweet softball memories with one another. I'll be away for much of the next week, but email your size and number preferences on the t-shirts and I'll place the orders just as soon as I get back. You can CC Jeff (Ciprionj@gmail.com) and Joel (joel@joelmeyer.com), as at least one of those will probably be around next week and can provide the leadership you...probably don't really need. But you might as well CC them anyway.
It has been, and remains, a pleasure. I'm glad today worked out, and hope next week goes well for you, too. I'll think of you while I'm driving back from Maine. Probably with great envy in my heart.
Time is of the essence, so there will be no voting on t-shirts this year, sadly. Luckily, though, our own Jeff Ciprioni has done so well by our design that there is no need to vote. We've got a winner, here, below. Jeff explains in text lifted from an email he sent me (sorry, JC Softballpants) below the image, but this one is the truth. We can quibble about whether we want to do red or blue ringers, and we will need to sort out numbers. But there can be no argument on this: the t-shirt is dope. Tomorrow, we'll talk about numbers and work out sizes and such. It looks like we're going to have a decent-ish squad out there, but if we don't get 18 we can 1) start drinking early or 2) get to work on round two of One-Eyed Cat. So, the t-shirt:
Jeff wrote: Develop a little perspective, you're not Charlie fuckin' Samuels. This is how I talk to myself. Okay, here's a mockup. Basically, we're looking at an American Apparel ringer t-shirt with a two-color design. The design should be as big as they should make it so that it goes all the way across the chest. And numbers should be on the back. What do you think?
You know what I think. You can say what you think in the comments -- if they're actually enabled -- or tomorrow at Prospect Park/the bar. I'll start: way to be, JC.
I was thinking of a variation on the middle one, with the word "Milk," or possibly "BMilk" replacing the "Sox." The one on the left is pretty fly, too. Other designs are in the works, but these two -- both based on never-worn Chicago White Sox demo uniforms from the 1970s -- are probably my favorites. If anyone else has any ideas on uniforms we could repurpose, holler at me. Vote for preferences or whatever in the comments, or email me.
Oh, hai. Your Softball Week 6.5 Update is in UR internets.
I'll explain the lumpy, furry gentleman to the left -- I'm highly allergic even to the picture, and am wacked to the gills on Claritin as I write this -- in just a moment. First, though, let me set this Sunday's scene for you: it was cloudy and kind of cold and right around 4pm the glowering sky delivered a little bit of drizzle. Not enough to soak anyone, but enough to keep those who'd been on the fence in their homes. And those who had not been in their homes -- a long list of regulars were on vacation or otherwise indisposed -- represented further attrition. I got to the park, just a few steps behind Joel and Linda expecting to find no one waiting at all. Instead, we found Kelsey and Amber and Ted and Greg under a tree, watching the all-weather Feist Squad from last year playing on our field. They'd turned out a full 18-plus. We barely had enough for 3-on-3 hoops. The arrival of Jasper and Scott Snelling helped, but even this talent-rich assemblage wasn't nearly enough to play a game (of softball) (you need to pay attention). Unwilling to bum rush Da Feist Squad so the five of us could stand in the field and complain about how wet we were, we headed to another field (the site of last year's inaugural away game).
There, we took infield and batting practice in the rain, which didn't seem terribly smart even then, but we all had gloves and what else are you going to do when it rains, go home and get high and watch a movie? (A: Yes) Everyone hit, some of us fielded, Jasper received his usual tutorial from Kelsey and managed to get catchable throws to first base from shortstop with much greater regularity than I was able to from the same position. Harold, a former random who starred last week and is hopefully on his way to becoming a regular, arrived slightly later. Gabe London and his friend Mike some time after that. But even when you consider that I have the wit and charm of six men, that's not enough for a game. For a game of softball. Which you'd know is what I was talking about if you were...forget it. Anyway here's where it gets interesting.
I know, finally, right? It turns out that Kelsey, previously known for his associations with Larry King (right) and the University of Redlands, actually grew up in Oregon. Where it rains a lot, forcing hardy Oregonian baseballers indoors to play a variation on baseball Kelsey called "One-Eyed Cat." Linda called it "One-Eyed Monkey" as a joke. I called it "One-Eyed Jack" apparently in earnest, thus displaying the same Roth-family knack with names that led my father to conflate Dead Man Walking (one of the few movies I went to on a date in high school; holla at a true playa) and 12 Monkeys (which I saw with a bunch of high school dude friends) into "12 Men Walking." Anyway, while Kelsey thought the game was indigenous to the Evergreen State, it turns out that what we were playing was a much older game than we'd thought. Once known as "Old Cat," it was a predecessor to baseball played mostly in the rain by people too stupid to stay at home and watch a movie when that was obviously what...anyway, here are the rules:
There is one base. Second base. There is also home plate. There is a pitcher (pace Wikipedia, this position was originally known in Old Cat as "The Giver"...peace, Lois Lowry), there are fielders, there is a hitter (or "Striker" back in the Andrew Jackson administration). The Striker hits and runs -- past the Giver -- to second base. Once the Striker reaches the base, he or she can choose either to run back home (for a run) or stay there; this makes possible numerous witticisms of "the base is loaded" or "play at only base" variety. One-Eyed/Old Cat is a pretty simple game (not nearly as sophisticated as the two-eyed cat above), but it's a lot simpler when Kelsey explains it. I use too many adjectives.
Due to the wet conditions on the field, there were a lot of hits and a lot of runs, and very little scorekeeping. Highlights included Scott Snelling homering in his first two at-bats, me hitting a homer and wiping out really badly (I think everyone knew that was going to happen), Linda registering an RBI on perhaps the littlest hit of the season, gnarly wipeouts by Amber and Scott, late-game cameos by Gabriel "Santiago" London and his friend Mike, and one of the most amazing home runs in league history by Harold. You may remember Harold from last week as the Yankee-fan newbie who had a nasty collision with Elliot (in the Jermaine O'Neal throwback jersey) at first base. He was back this week, dropping Mackey Sasser jokes with a panache that recalled a young Jeff Ciprioni and doing his hard-working thing in the field. On one long drive he rounded second (that is to say, got there and turned around) and headed (directly) for home as a perfect relay arrived via (I think) Ted. The throw beat him to the plate. Kelsey caught it in perfect position. And Harold leapt over the tag and landed directly on the plate. It wasn't a particularly high jump. It wasn't a particularly graceful one. But it was one of the most amazing plays I've seen in my entire One-Eyed Cat career. I may never see its like again. The game ended with Amber making a leaping grab on a liner I authored. Then we went to the bar, where the nice new rockabilly bartender guy almost made us forget the horror of Zombie Ryan Adams. Did you know that guy complimented my girlfriend on her skirt one day? Can you believe that? And then he chased a dude while mumbling "braaaains." What a jerk.
Anyway: I'm going to try to work up a recap for last week's classic. I feel badly about not having done one, and that game -- a 14-13 barn-burner played as well and as joyously as any contest this year -- deserves better than my shabby memory can probably provide. But I'm going to give it a shot, and I'm also going to post an image that includes a couple of speculative t-shirt ideas for this season, to see if we can't get someone to work up a demo on a shirt. Ted opined that after his efforts yesterday -- that is to say, getting soaked and then making audible squishing sounds en route to the bar -- he deserved a shirt. People, we all deserve shirts. Every last one of us. Ted deserves two, maybe.
It looks like a hangover out there. And I have yet to recap last week's contest, which was probably the most competitive and enjoyable game we've had yet this season. I can't imagine how that second point would affect turnout this week, but the first part might. So if you're looking here for information on whether we'll be ballin', look no further: I'm going, and hopefully you will, too. The dog days are hard days in which to turn out full sides, but let's do this thing anyway. It's softball. It's fun. And you'll be much less sweaty than usual at the bar.
Long story. But your recap is going to be here eventually, you animals. You're like animals.
Anyway, I've been sleeping a lot. Something by tomorrow PM for sure. T-shirt designs will not be here this week, apparently. And Jeff is going to be in Toronto this weekend. But we will make shirts happen, that's my word. If you don't believe me, ask the weird owl (above).
Buttermilk Softball is a lot like being a session drummer. When you walk into that studio we call Field Five, you have to be prepared to play with any kind of musician, in any style. You accept that you’ll never know what you’re going to play in advance.
And, you’ll never know what kind of equipment you’ll get to play on. For example, you might be asked to play a kit that looks like this:
Dozens of toms. Ten crash cymbals. Four snares. Four kick drums. The sheer wealth of drummable objects offers an endless number of options. You become the Neal Peart of softball, engaging in flashy and complicated play … simply because you can.
And sometimes, you have to play on this drum kit:
On those weeks at Field Five, you have no choice. You’re Buddy Rich. Here’s how week five went down:
A women’s pickup game was in full swing when we arrived. We told them there was no way we’d be able to field a team before 4:30, but our permit was deeply respected, as if I flashed a Masonic ring or something. They moved to an adjacent field to continue an exciting game that I, frankly, didn’t want to stop watching.
We had a small crew – Scott Snelling, Colleen, Andrew, Sanj, Amanda, Linda, and of course, Jasper (who has perfect attendance this season). We needed to find bodies for our own game.
It should be said straight away: In his first game of the season, Scott did a yeoman’s job. He was the only person who arrived before four. He brought friends. And when it looked like we were going to be short, he got on the horn and started calling more friends. Then, he started asking passersby.
Jasper asked a group of four guys playing catch nearby if they wanted to play. They may not have taken Jasper seriously, unaware of the fierce Jose Reyes-like heart that beats inside that young man. But they declined, preferring instead to play a totally sissy game of whiffleball.
We nominated Colleen to go over to proposition a couple playing catch on the “nice” field just beyond our left field. After she took a few steps, it became obvious that Colleen wasn’t kidding about the heat stroke she’d taken home from a Yankees game yesterday. Yes, maybe she was maybe a little out of it today, so I trotted over and welcomed a handsome couple named Chee and, oh, I’m forgetting her name now.
Upon arrival, Chee immediately recognized Jasper, called him “little man,” and inquired as to his whereabouts for the past four weeks. A precocious 12 years of age, Jasper sort of dodged the question and answered in a way that didn’t necessarily bind him to us. We understood.
Eventually, we were able to cobble together a five-on-five game, using rules that were very fresh and flexible. Right field was foul. Three fouls were an out. Balls have to be hit past the pitcher or they’re foul. Baserunners passing third must sing the chorus of Peter Cetera’s “The Glory of Love” before touching home, etc. (Karate Kid II fans: this Miyagi-Danielson-Cetera portrait can be yours.)
Right field was briefly reopened when a group of three women from another game joined, but they left after two innings because our rules proved too intellectual, complex, asinine, etc.
Three of Chee’s friends turned up to fill their spots, including, I swear, the actor Ving Rhames (left, with Zombie Bat). Except I think a dog at the real Ving Rhames’ estate mauled someone to death over the weekend and I don’t think Ving had time for a quick game of “You Provide Pitchers and Catchers and One Team Can’t Have a Third Baseman.” But the doppelVinger pitched the whole game left-handed, wearing a righty glove – Jim Abbott-style.
Despite her heat stroke, Colleen was a trouper and made the catch of the game in left field. Amanda and Jasper played it smart and played a lot of catch to kill time while the braintrust tried to remember the rules at the top of every inning.
Scott’s friend Sanj proved to be one of the game’s biggest surprise. The second British citizen to play the game this year, Sanj called upon his cricket experience. He also probably benefited in some way from his experience as an officer in the British military, where he commands tanks in places like Iraq. Where he’s going again this fall. So, undaunted by our fearsome game, Sanj doubled in his first at-bat and then hit a homerun (although he nearly forgot to touch home plate).
(Sanj’s nerves of steel do have a limit. Later that afternoon at the bar, Scott and I explained the American health care system to him. He went fairly green.)
All in all, a classic Buttermilk game. Confusing. The score was lost to history. Some weird old guy took me away from first base to ask me where all the 17-year-olds were. But we played with a bunch of new people, had fun, and beers were consumed later.
As if yesterday didn’t provide drama enough: Andrew is stage-managing a production of “The Tempest” somewhere in the East Village. At 9th and Avenue C, I think. More details when I get them.
We'll it's official: The Commissioner sent an email a few moments ago saying that we're rained out today. It's a shame, too. Week Four looked really promising, with some new faces and a batch of chocolate pastries whipped up by man-of-many-talents Darren. But if you've ever tried to play on Field Five within 72 hours of a light drizzle, you know it can be miserable.
Now what? For the past three Sundays, we've all had plans after 4 p.m. That's the best part of the Buttermilk Softball league: just when the weekend's over ... it's not over! There are fly balls to muff, hammies to stretch, exotic white sangrias to swill. But not today.
Here is a short activity book to keep you occupied on a rainy day. These are suggestions only. Feel free to make your own fun. My wife is out shopping for a wedding dress with a friend (it's the friend that's getting married), so I've got nothing but time to make these kind of suggestions.
Option No. 1: Music Videos
Bat for Lashes, "What's a Girl to Do?": My favorite music video at the moment. If you haven't seen it, I won't spoil it with any details, except to say this: It's like E.T. meets Donnie Darko with a soundtrack by a Bjork-Cat Power cloned hybrid.
Fionn Reagan, "Be Good or Be Gone": No relation to the former president, this Irish singer shot what might be one of the cheapest "clever" videos ever. What's more important? The song, or the ambient audio where he's playing?
If you are a Nick Cave fan, check out Brooklyn Vegan's compilation of Grinderman interviews and videos.
Dizzee Rascal, "Sirens": DR pushes the "chase video" into new territory, yet leaves many questions unanswered. Like, what's with the ending?
Option No. 2: Blog for ButtermilkSoftball.com
The Commissioner and I are looking for fresh new smartasses to blog here. If you want to post on ButtermilkSoftball.com, just start a free account at Blogger.com and then send me an email at joel-at-joelmeyer.com. I'll set you up.
Option No. 3 (Nerds Only): Watch the New 'Batman' Trailer
It won't be out until next summer, but promotion for "The Dark Knight" has already started. More details here.
Option No. 4: Talk About Last Night's Sonic Youth Show
Or, watch this awesome clip from the 1983 film Vigilante, which features a chase through McCarren Park Pool -- which was dilapidated even back then.
Who loves the sun? Who cares that it makes flowers? Who else thinks that those are among the doofiest lines Lou Reed ever wrote?
Except the first one. It makes sense. Sun is far preferable to today's hazy, fugazy something-more-than-drizzly meteorological situation, and after consulting with the Buttermilk Softball League's leading meteorological figures, I have gathered that we can't play today. Everyone who lives near the park says it looks super shitty to the max and that there is, as they say, no end in sight. So game's off. Sorry.
You could always read a book or something (or order the anthology I'm in, you could do that: you won't get it today and not all the essays are that good, but what could be more satisfying than spending money on Amazon while it's raining?). And Comedy Central is probably showing a heavily edited version of Van Wilder or Scary Movie 2 or something. But you'd probably be better off killing yourself, honestly. Or buying my anthology. Do the second one first.
Okay: sorry about this week's crappy outcome, and I hope you'll all turn out next week. I won't be there, but this is one of those do-as-I-hope-not-as-I-will-do situations. Have a good week, playaz, and I'll see you in a fortnight.
It was bound to happen, right? I received an email from a relative of someone who played on a Buttermilk Softball team in Comanche County, Kansas sometime around 1950. He thought our site might somehow be related. Because, you know, how many Buttermilk Softball teams can there be in the world?
Well, apparently there are at least two. You can read more about the team -- and check out the design of their so-spartan-they're-cool uniforms -- on this geneology site. FYI: The most recent U.S. Census data puts Comanche County's population at 1,884 -- equal to the number of high-end strollers trolling through Prospect Park at any point in time.
The team apparently took its name from the unincorporated town of Buttermilk, Kansas, home of the Big Gyp Cave Pictograph Site. The name refers to the presence of gypsum in the cave, not to its quality as a tourist destination or to a common epithet leveled at the Roma people. Big Gyp Cave is even listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
The entrance to the cave, one of Kansas' largest, is pictured at right. Here's how a Witchita Eagle reporter described an expedition a couple of years ago [emphasis added]:
He gets out, then leads a group of students from West Texas A&M University down a steep hill and into what seems to be another world.
It looks like Colorado, or maybe the Ozarks in Missouri. A stream babbles over a small waterfall. Dense cedar trees create a canopy from the outside world.
And upstream: the entrance to Big Gyp Cave, one of the largest caves in Kansas.
It's home to some of the bats that Roth has grown to love over more than four decades.
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.
By now many of you know the truth: I was not playing in Japan last season. I was not working out with Roger Clemens in Texas. I did not spend a year spreading the baseball gospel throughout Brazil. I did not get a Crash Davis-like offer to manage a team in a neighboring town. There was no Padres scout watching me during our 2005 season, and Marge Schott never called to ask if I wanted to be the Reds sliding coach. Marge Schott is dead, I am now told, and teams don't allot a special management position dedicated to sliding. Although they should.
I told most of you at least one of these stories. Several of you, I told two or more of the above. Dave, I told you the Marge Schott story, which was really stupid, and I also told you the Padres-scout tale and also the Crash Davis whopper. I need to stop here, Dave, to clarify that time at the Buttermilk I told you that I had $25,000 in diamonds in my equipment bag but just didn't feel like showing them to you. That was a lie. And you probably know that.
I spent the 2006 season on ice in Minnesota, working for a radio show. I got married to my wonderful Linda. I didn't touch a bat once.
OK, that's another lie. I went to a batting cage twice in St. Paul. But it was indoors, and the batting helmet liners were soft and rotten, and the Juggs machines were so poorly calibrated that I actually got beaned.
To fill the Buttermilk Softball void in my life, I purchased a Twins season ticket. A crappy one. In the crappiest stadium in the majors (not counting RFK). I attended about 50-60 home games and witnessed a truly incredible regular season. Walkoff homeruns. Grand slams in high drama. No-name players absorbing what should have been devastating injuries to star players. Batting title. MVP. Gardenhire getting tossed all the fucking time. Everyone had fire in the belly. After the last game of the regular season, I sat in the Metrodome with about 40,000 other fans and watched the Tigers implode. The division title was ours. Twins players rushed out of the dugout and dove into the outfield seats. I stoicly wept next to the childhood pal in the season ticket next to mine. It was just meant to be: Another half-page-tall Star Tribune headline ... Magic!
But a humiliating post-season defeat at the hands of an accounting firm (Oakland) put an end to all that. And my job in Minneapolis ended. Another one surfaced in New York. Linda and I loaded a big Penske truck with all our belongings, and I went down to the DMV to get my very first driver's license so I could drive the thing. (OK, OK, she did the tricky driving.) Soon enough, we were back in the borough of Kings, living among the Polish people.
My negotiations with the Buttermilk Commissioner's Office were not easy. Not for me. Not for my family. The first game was also not easy for me. The crowd booed and they all put on fake glasses that look like the prescription ones I wear off-the-field. So cruel. I almost couldn't take it, but Commissioner Dave came over to me on the field and put his arm around my shoulder. Just like Pee Wee Reese did for Jackie Robinson. Also, I went spikes-first, hard, into second base later in the game and I felt way better.
So that's the real story of where I was last year and how I worked my way back onto the team. Well, mostly it's real.
And that is why we go to the bar. That and alcoholic drinks and free songs and the thrill of the zombie chase.
For some reason my camera wasn't focusing very well today, which means that a couple of coulda-been baseball card-style photos came out really artistical, and that Joel had to pose with bubble tape one (or two) more times than was necessary. This photo, while not perfect, is exactly what it looks like. A dog in an AC/DC t-shirt. Drew, you better tell your dog to get his game together, because there is now some mascot competition on the block. And I'm not even going to talk about this guy:
Dog, you're slipping. Call Jet Li.
Recap to come sometime this week, for sure. Pretty sure. Also hopefully TK: my camera, functioning; injury updates; Joel Meyer and Linda Moucha's guide detailing how not to ride a bus to Prospect Park.
Having "the power" is not all about taking it easy and buying new Raiders hats and getting the high-top fade touched up when necessary and rapping from a podium. There are downsides to all that responsibility. Uneasy rests the be-faded head that has a lot of writing to do on short deadlines (click here to see some of it). Last year, when I was working at Topps, I could do my 1,600-word recap thing on the company clock. That might've had something to do with how long they were, looking back. Now, though, the freelance lifestyle has attacked...and trust me, you don't want that.
And so we find ourselves once again behind the times on the Buttermilk Blog. I mean, things are happening, games are being played, t-shirt ideas are being bandied idly about, all that good stuff -- but I hear you: where are the recaps? How can you prove to those who might care that you had an RBI groundout last weekend? Where is the reminder that an older dude with a wife and kid came, got two hits and five RBI, and then decided to leave? The answer is: it would be in this space. If, that is, it were still well-ensconced in my head.
It's not, totally. It's not totally not, either. So this will be rushed, maybe skimp on some details, maybe ignore an RBI or two of yours. It's nothing personal. Just mention it in the comments section -- "actually, I had two doubles and four RBI in that game" -- that'll make you look really cool, Jeff.
So: Week One dawned bakingly hot but clear in New York City, and some hours after that dawn Buttermilk's Finest raised their bedheaded heads, ready to put heads to bed. The Bodegas were open and the Blue Jeans ablaze. And when four o'clock rolled around...we took batting practice for a long-ass time. A quorum was not obtained for some time, but by 4:35 or so, a regulation-size softball game was ready to bump. Fan favorites Joel Meyer and Linda Moucha returned from a brief exile in Minnesota -- where they'd gotten married and co-founded The Brad Radke Institute For The Advancement of Poise -- and the familiar faces attached to the names Ciprioni, Coulton, Pitts, Bielinski, King, Nelson, Hooper and, yes, Roth were all ready to roll. Newcomers expected -- Jeremy Holmes, a highly touted Ohioan; Patrick Boniface Resing, an emerging video artist and versatile defender who came to one game in '05; Daniel May, longtime homeperson back in NYC; Andrew Bell, big-swinging, classy-staying San Diego-an -- and unexpected showed. The unexpected were, as ever, amazing: an extremely new to New York couple named Kelsey and Amber, who brought a sunny California outlook and impressive skill sets to the table were joined by Jasper, a very young dude who would have a hard-ish time seeing over this metaphorical table. Young Jasp rocked batting gloves, fundamentals, and a dedication to fitness that extended to him nailing a bunch of sit-ups between innings. He's awesome and we all love him. The cast was set, and the game was on.
And, surprisingly, it was pretty on point. Big hits came from the bats of Seth Nelson, Kelsey (got to get a last name, there) and Joel Meyer, stunning defensive plays came from Amber in the outfield and from...that one guy. You know him. Handsome one, writes too much? That guy made a play in the infield that was pretty much the high point of his life, period. Period. I'm going to put it like this: Dan May hit a grounder that bounced off Jeremy's leg and into the air. From which I plucked it bare-handed and threw to first base in time to retire the batter, thanks in large part to a great stretch by Seth. I could find a way to make SUVs run on hugs and positive thoughts and I think that will still be my finest hour. The game was a shootout, with a walk-off win coming for the Blue Jeans (I think? It was my team) on a Jeff Ciprioni infield single that plated Andrew Bell, I think. Ted Pitts somehow recorded both the win and the save for the Blue Jeans. Statisticians will puzzle over it for years to come. The final was 13-12. The player of the game was I AM AN AWESOME DEFENSIVE PLAYER. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
And thence to the bar, where good conversation was plentiful, one-dollar High Lifes were off the menu, and bartender Zombie Jeff Tweedy (right) continued to perplex. He gives us a bunch of songs: awesome. He's also weird and unfriendly and definitely was scheming on how to eat our brains: less awesome.
And then week two. Which dawned clammily hot and clear...in Philadelphia, for me. Our regulars were scattered across the nation: The Meyer/Mouchas in Blowing Rock, NC; Colleen in Delaware; Scott Snelling climbing K2 or some such thing. Rumors of rain in NYC proved just that, and by the time I stepped into the park it was, once again, hot as hell. The game once again kicked off late, but extensive practice once again made for a pretty well-played matchup.
My first turn on the mound was...anyway, based on those numbers, I'm probably challenging this guy for Worst Jewish Starting Pitcher Ever. Once your humble former Plesac Award Winner yielded the mound, though, the Blue Jeans (that's just going to be the team I'm on, going forward) began to cut into the 7-run deficit they'd been handed. To call the game a shootout is an injustice -- while there were again north of 20 runs scored, there was also stellar defense from Jorge (a friend of Jeremy's who made a couple of dazzling plays in left field), Kelsey (who at one point retired something like five straight batters himself), Jasper (thanks to a lot of coaching from Kelsey) and, in her first unassisted putout, Beth Ann. RBIs came from everyone but me, basically. Newcomer shouts go to The Family Man, who showed up, let his wife and kid watch him pwn us, and then bounced. Also Gabe London, a Pomona Sagehen from way back, and Darren Guyer, probably the second-best baker in our league and a long-awaited debut. This is going to be more detailed and shorter next week. I'll try to do it while I still remember what happened.
As ever: next Sunday. Guest stars (my sister, for real)! T-shirt talks! Postgame Gatorade purchases at the reasonably priced deli! Your suggestions on how I might edit these better! Catch that shit. It's softball season, and we play softball.
Yeah, I'm behind. Slipping. Falling, even. But getting back up again, covered in orange dirt, ready to ground out. You know how I do.
Two game recaps are owed, and I also need to transcribe the set list from yesterday's Klezmer Sunsplash blowout in the bandshell. I know that one lady played "Yeidel Deidel," "I'm Trill," and "Gefilte Fish (East Coast Remix)," but the rest of my notes got all sweaty. Give me time, people.
Seriously, though, I just got an article assignment, which is good because now I can afford to buy a Metrocard next month. The bad news is that it's due tomorrow, so I kind of have to get on that. If I get it done today, you'll get an update today. If not, then not. Do not stare at that picture of The World's Only Living Sexosaurus (above, left) for too long, and I'll see you in a few.
I don't mean to brag, but it's obvious that I (left) am adjusting well to my newfound power as quasi-commish. My goal as commissioner is to win your trust and earn your hearts, to buy your respect with the only currency this world understands: a willingness to pitch in slow-pitch softball, when necessary.
My initial move as leader was, obviously, the racoon-skin duster you see in the photo above (you can't see it under the fur, but it has my name embroidered on the left breast, too). Second was the big email I sent out alerting people to the July 8 Opening Day. Future emails will detail exciting new developments to come in The Buttermilk Softball League, such as Francisco Dinosaurio Bobblehead Day and a scheduled away game against D. Original Buttermilk Softball League All-Stars. For now, though, I'm just going to keep that Cris pouring (onto the floor? why, Diddy?) and repost the info in the email:
OPENING DAY: July 8, 2007, and each Sunday thereafter until Labor Day 4-6pm Field Five (same as ever) Postgame Activities at Buttermilk Bar
Why do we do this? Why do we run around in the sun, wearing outfits that are -- for the most part, with Carlos and Greg Ciprioni excluded -- not our most flattering? Why do we do things like slide into third base, get an authentic baseball "strawberry" and bleed through our jeans (welcome aboard, Ted!) or let my sister hit line drives off our shins (be careful, Seth Nelson!)? Is it because we don't get the chance to clap enough in our everyday lives? Is it because there aren't enough weekday opportunities to swing a bat? A shortage of rhetorical questions in the blogs we read regularly?
I think it's because of days like Sunday. And I'm not saying this because I played well -- I spent most of my day chasing softballs that had been hit far over my head, and managed to nail myself on the back of the head with the follow-through of my swing not once but twice. I'm saying it because Sunday's game was pretty close to the way softball is supposed to be.
Due to work obligations the next day -- if talking to NBA rookies for seven hours can be considered an obligation (the answer: yes, it can) -- I drove my car in from New Jersey, where it lives. Due to my customary time-management issues, I cut things kind of close in getting to the field. Had there been a parking spot right by the park's entrance, batmobile-stizz, I would've been there around 4:05. As it worked out, I gave the equipment bag to Colleen (pay attention: this will become important) and went looking for a spot. I had no idea what to expect when I got to the field. Well, I was expecting Team Vehemence to be playing its customary 16-inning split squad game while a few of my hungover softball paisans chilled out in the shade, grousing. But when I finally arrived at the field -- around 4:20 (dude) -- I was met with a glorious sight. Not only were the softball regulars out in force (even without Scott Snelling, Chris Martin and either of the Ciprioni Bros., seen above at left), but rising stars Anna and Molly showed up, brought with them their friends Kate (who'd been working towards her softball debut for weeks, to be fair) and Sam, and a large group of the team we dispatched in Week Five turned out ready to rock. Team Vehemence, it turns out, had been turned out -- willingly, pleasantly, and apparently in a transaction wholly devoid of rancor (I say apparently because I was trying to parallel park while this was happening) -- by Colleen, brandishing the permit with a cool forcefulness that I think it's fair to say I've never displayed in my life. We had our field back, and enough people to play a full game. The sun was shining, the temperature gently pushing 80 degrees. Green grass and dirt and softballs and bats.
So that was pretty awesome.
For me, it would wind up being one of the high points of the day. See, the thing with counting off is that it doesn't work sometimes. Like when one team has the formed-like-Voltron combo of my sister, myself, Ben Taussig, able randoms Kim, Jeff and Angelo (from The Week Five All-Stars), Molly and newcomer Sam, Ben's friend Ted (in a smashing debut that involved the aforementioned jeans-compromising strawberry) and, in her long awaited debut, modern dance dynamo/softball backstop Erika Hansen-Nelson-Nordicssen. And the other team has a bunch of varsity college baseball players on it (Emerson College, but still) and skilled players at every position. They scored early, and scored often. A partial list of sluggers who went deep includes Random Henry (from Emerson? Transcendent!), Random D.J., fresh-off-the-plane Random Crandall (spelled phonetically, because you made me run, dude), Drew, Drew's Dog Buster and Seth. Multi-hit games came from Colleen, Michigan alum Katie and Anna -- whose multiple hits included getting pelted by a thrown ball while pulling into second base. Except for one rocky inning from Seth -- throwing some reverse-spin ball that everyone hit very hard, including your slightly concussed author, delivering his only RBIs of the day on a triple -- their defense was game tight. The game was not tight: final score was something like 15-6.
Highlights on the losing side: Ted's authoratative first-inning triple, culminating with a knee-shredding slide that was officially on some Jody Gerut 2003 ROY shit; Ben handling first base with the grace, skill and mustache of a young Keith Hernandez; brilliant diving defense by Angelo, a standard-setting lefthanded 3B; continued accomplishment at the shortstop position from Kim; Molly "Boomerang" Bielaski (that is a joke only for my sister) nearly catching a scorching line drive and then displaying remarkable hustle by crawling after a ball later in the same inning. And I finally caught a ball in the outfield in the seventh and final inning after spending much of the game in center, breaking in on 475-foot line drives.
Anyway, good times. Alex is done for the season as B-Milk bartender, as he's heading off to Argentina and Uruguay to take photos and eat fried food for two weeks. I'm gone for a week to scout talent in rural Maine. My sister and Ben T. are out for a week to attend a wedding of redneck Jews in Michigan (seriously). Sam and Ben are out because they now live in Minneapolis, but I spoke to them in a happy coincedence on Monday night and they send their love to all. I'll see you all on August 27. Hopefully Jeff, or somebody else (Joel, I never did get that email about how to open up the blog to other posters), will cover next week's game. If he/she can do it in a more long-winded and needlessly allusive way than me, I'll buy him/her a High Life.
We're in the home stretch with this season, we've got our field back, got our games as tight as they get, and have hungry eyes on some P-Swayz shit. Here's to continued excellence. And maybe batting helmets. My brain hurtz.
Oh, also, the Not Mentioned: The Worst Day Ever To Be A Baby Near Buttermilk Softball And Seth's Attendant $100 Debt; The Molly-Sam parallel cutoff; The Randoms' New Bats (feel great bouncing the fuck off my head!); An Extended Discussion of Phillip Kauffman's super-shitty (and not family-safe) Rising Sun. Yeah, that's a good note to end on.
Several days late, several dollars short: it's your week six recap of what was and wasn't in softball, several days ago. It's going to look something like the recap from the week before, but probably without another photo of David Foster Wallace.
The reason it's going to look like last week is that, once again, we arrived at the field to find forty-plus dudes going at it in a softball game of astonishing vehemence. As Colleen, Greg and I watched and waited, more of our less-vehement crew made their way to Field 5. By 4:30 there were eight of us sprawled in the shade of the right field tree in foul territory, just west of the rightfield power alley commonly known as Seth Nelson Cove. And when I say sprawled, I mean sprawled: everyone was lying down, Greg and I were still working off a hangover that had been born in the same seemingly innocuous bottle of Jim Beam, and Colleen was recovering from a day of devastatingly small-bore commerce at the stoop sale she and Kate (and me: I sold my VHS copy of Deep Blue Sea!) had held earlier in the day. Frankly I found it a little tiring watching the hundreds of players on our field getting after it. One dude, with a poofy ponytail and honest-to-God baseball pants, spiked his glove after every hit by the opposing team. His counterpart on the other team had to deal with the fact that Poofy P-Tail and Some Other Feisty Dude ran onto the field, and after him, after every ball he played. "Kick that nigga," they yelled, after he dropped a foul pop-up. (Reminder: he was not on their team) They proceeded to do so. I sat there and sweated bitterness. Softball?
Yes, eventually. We notified whoever listened on the squatters that we had a permit and were going to ask them to move once we got enough people to get out there and do our business. But we never did get enough people for our own game. We did, however, wind up doing our business when, after some rejections and vexations on our search for a spare field, we squared off with a group that had already been playing for some hours on a full-size (baseball) diamond on the other side of the basin. Once again, our opponents were a kind of bizarro version of Da Buttermilk Crew: people who knew each other and were comfortable mocking each other (in Carlos' case, during the previous game, very comfortable) and yet played hard and seemed to be around our skill level.
That field created some weird hops, offered a dusty shallow outfield, and a second base nestled in the green, green grass roughly 75 feet from home plate. But it was good enough, and since it was by then after 5 -- and since our opponents were very generous about sharing their Molson Canadian -- it was more than good enough.
But were we? Our personnel was limited to 9 (Drew's dog Buster, above, was physically unable to perform, lacking opposable thumbs) and, sadly, captain-less. I had been appointed acting field general, and was, as mentioned earlier, brutally hungover and not that fiery. Some comments were made on my lack of fiery-ness by Scott Snelling. They were ignored. Anyway, Jeff had jetted off to Memphis to collaborate with Three 6 Mafia after a triumphant and solo-tacular Metric Mile show at Union Hall (if you didn't make it, this random British blogger knows how you feel and would like to tell you about another band you might like). BA had been sea breezed away to the land where hangovers frolic gingerly. My sister and Ben were paying a $10 food minimum to watch Will Oldham get all Superwolf at 4pm. Our randoms were MIA, some of our regulars and semi-regulars were indisposed, depriving us of the depth that had carried us to our easy and inspiring victory a week earlier -- in short, the usual Dog Days of August attrition was in e-f-f-e-c-t. Those smooth operators left -- a triumphantly returning Chris Martin, Greg, Drew, Scott, myself, Colleen, newcomers and Naidre's of Carroll Gardens royalty Suvi and Jeanette -- did indeed operate correctly in the early going. Suvi, in particular, acquitted herself well considering that she is 1) from a Scandinavian country where softball is less prioritized and 2) hadn't ever played the game before. Timely hitting on our part and the other team's early inability get the ball out of the infield against my (if I may say) hellacious stuff lifted us to an 8-6 lead going into the bottom of the fifth inning. That was when the wheels came off, to the tune of a 6-run inning that featured me botching two plays at home (yeah, I was pitching, and yeah I was covering home unnecessarily -- I'm fucking sorry), Scott Snelling catching a throw at first base five feet shy of first base, Chris booting a few at third and some balls that either fell in or flew way the hell over everyone's heads. And then our bats went dead -- we pushed across only one run in the last two frames, and ended up losing 12-10. I think they put something in our Molson. Like...I don't know, alcohol. And failure.
Anyway, we'll be back this week. Hopefully on our field, but if not, we'll do what we do: grab the bag with the bases and softballs in it, and find some chumps to chump. This may be my last game of the season, so even if you just want to share a shot of Absolut Peppar with me and a similarly soon-to-depart Greg Ciprioni, you owe it to yourself to make it out.
Not mentioned: Mexican Wedding Dances; The return of Drake "Shirtless" Beefcake in the multitudinous game; unsupervised young kids throwing stuff at Drew's dog and being chastised by Colleen; Squeaking purple chew toys; the guy on the other team who batted and fielded with his hands-free phone set in; Colleen being nicknamed "Gorgeous" by the other team's catcher; The New York Nitros softball club, sponsored by HBO (apparently); The fact that I woke up smelling like a bar towel. There is always more. This Sunday, there will be.
No one gets called out in this interstitial post. All apologies to Anna, who came through like whoa this week and who gave a very good explanation for her absence the week before (because all who are absent must explain their absence to me) and didn't deserve to get called onto the proverbial carpet. That said, Scott Snelling must explain this week's absence via a photograph of some sort.
Anyway, there will be more here tomorrow or the day after. Actual, overwritten and overwrought substance. Until then, here's a little bit of history to look at. I'm the guy holding the bat.
