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.
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.
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.
Oh, Doctor. Our first game -- shown at left, quite literally sitting on 22s -- is still almost six weeks away, but this season has already had its share of drama, at least on my end. As much drama as The Game's 12-minute remix of "One Blood?" I don't know, honestly. I can't listen to that remix all the way through to its conclusion, and the message board action underneath that link kind of makes me feel sad. But yes, some drama.
Even beyond the part where I thought we weren't going to have a league anymore. People are getting married, getting important-seeming jobs that require them to be out of town on weekends, moving out of the 'hood, losing interest in injuring themselves running out grounders...and as The Game says, "it's okay." I'm still keeping it real in the just-this-side-of-food-stamps tax bracket with my freelancy antics, but I understand why people want to grow up, do things, etc. But after finally deciding that there was a critical mass of people who wanted to play softball, things got rolling.
It was during this period that things got complicated. It was raining, I wasn't sure the league was going forward, and so I passed on going to a meeting at the Park Ranger Haus in Prospect Park for potential permit-holders. I called Lynda Hernandez, the Boss Lady of This Prospect Park Shit, and told her I wasn't sure we'd have a league this year. I called her back a couple of weeks later to tell her that we were going to, and asked that they call me back and let me know what I could do to move things forward. I was, of course, not called back, naturally -- as it turned out, that first phone call was obviously a memorable experience for Ms. Hernandez. Finally I went in and filled out an application, gave it to some nice lady, and left. And that, too, somehow turned out to be a mistake.
I heard nothing for a long time. I called and left a voicemail on Lynda Hernandez's phone again -- Lynda Hernandez, if you were curious, is a generously apportioned lass who was wearing sweatpants and a large polo shirt whilst screaming at some guy over the phone when I was filling out my application -- and was called back, in what seems like an unrelated incident, by a park volunteer named Eric Johnson. He said that someone in the office -- hint: sweats, rage, does not return phone calls -- believed that I was not interested in holding a permit this year, but that he'd TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF DRAWING ONE UP ANYWAY. I told him I'd filled out an application back in April. He mentioned that it had been, ah, misplaced. But the important part is that this unpaid dude totally saved our bacon. He even suggested that we dump our final date of the season to save money (it'd save $16 of Buttermilk's money, so I thought we should keep it), because no one's usually around on Labor Day anyway.
Anyway, I thanked him so many times that I think he became uncomfortable, before finally allowing, "well, we try our hardest to get people onto the fields." He certainly did. Eric Johnson, you are a true hero of Buttermilk Softball. If I ever find out what you look like (I assume it's not this person), I'm going to commission a plaque of you for the Buttermilk Softball Monument Garden in centerfield, alongside D. Original Buttermilk Squad and Zombie Jeff Tweedy and Francisco Dinosaurio.
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
