Season Eight Is Go

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


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

Stay Sipping

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

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

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

The Real Rap Comes At Halftime/Overtime

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Week Six: It Never Really Happened

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Week Three Recap: Better Late Than Never

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

Heat. Hotness. Warmth. High Temperatures.

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

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

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

Atlee Hammaker started the game for Ones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Steve Lombardozzi would have none of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2Pacalypse Now

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

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

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

Week Two Mini-Recap: I'm Throwed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



/wipes single tear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Game On

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.

Labor Day Softball: Si Se Puede

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.

Your Buttermilk Softball '07 T-Shirt Design

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.

See Anything You Like?

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.

We're In UR Rainstorms, Playin UR Variant On Softball: Softball Week 7

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.

Sunday Cloudy Sunday

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.

See you soon, peoples.