7/27/03 & 8/3/03: Joint Recap by SRC

First, let's talk about the softball that was played on Sunday the 27th of July, 2003.  I couldn't make it to the game as my Metrocard had recently expired, but apparently what took place between the two mud and rubber-encrusted dugouts that night on the field at Clarkson and Hudson will make the numbers 7, 27, and '03 as much a part of American folklore as 3, 2, and '62 -- which of course represent the night Wilt dropped 100 on the Knicks in Hershey, PA.  How about 3, 21, and '27 -- Lindbergh's historic arrival in Paris.  1, 22, and '73 -- the Supreme Court hands down their decision in Roe v. Wade.  Or 4, 23, and '85 -- New Coke is launched.  4, 23, and '03 -- "Just Shoot Me" is mercifully snuffed out after seven rancid seasons.  1, 2, 9, 16, 34, and 40 -- Curtis Sharp's winning lottery numbers from 1982.  These numbers all represent milestone moments in time that become a part of us, and make us all a part of something much larger.  To talk to the sorry-ass, non-recap-writing-up players from 7/27/03, we'd all best get to work memorizing these new numbers and the life-changing contest they signify. 

Just like Wilt's big night, things started slowly (legend has it he had only slept with four women by tipoff).  In this case, 19 men showed up and the clouds were threatening to open up like the gash on Dinny's elbow.  Apparently, God had a good surgeon because the skies stayed together all night, just long enough for the final run to cross home plate at 9:47pm WVST.  The run in question was scored by D. Lee on a clutch base hit by Dipak, leading the Have Nots to a thrilling, 18-17 extra-inning victory over the Haves.  The Game Ball went to Justin, who is exploding on the scene each week with the most "New Guy" energy since DJ Qualls.  I could add more but I wasn't there, and whatever insight I might offer would be inappropriate.  I wasn't "in the shit."  Good game and come home safe, boys.

I was in attendance this Sunday, 8/3/03, and this is a date I hope to forget quickly, the same way I wanted to forget the day I accidentally stepped on my pet hamster, causing it to cough up blood as it died twitching on the kitchen floor of our rented summer house in Allenhurst, New Jersey (8/21/1975).  Or the day I convinced my parents to buy the ColecoVision Adam home computing system (1/11/84).  Or Kellen Winslow's knee injury (10/21/84).  Unfortunately, we can't force ourselves to forget things any more than we can force ourselves to remember 'em -- and that makes me think I'll be remembering 8/3/03 far longer than I'd like. 

Let's get the game ball out of the way right at the top.  The same way Phil Rizzuto was an almost hall-of-famer as a player and an almost hall of famer as an announcer, and somehow became an overall hall of famer through some strange combination of the two, D. Lee gets the game ball this week for a potent blend of solid play on the field and a ruthless and skilled performance in the pre-game team picking session (not to mention the excellent groundskeeping job he turned in with Gordon).  He hit the ball all over the field, he made the plays on defense, and he refused to cave in to my requests to change up the teams a little bit right before we got started.  He also fooled us all late in the game, opting for a flick-of-the-wrist 2 RBI single to center with his team up by about 8, instead of whacking one towards the scoreboard like we all know he wanted very badly to do.  Solid team play and leadership  from him.  Kudos also to Mr. Lee for getting Josh the Actor and Justin the New Guy and Simon the Gazelle all together on one team, guys who would make 3/4 of a great 4 x 100 relay squad for the 2004 Olympics, and who run the bases as if they were competing in that very event.

I knew we were beat when I first gathered our team on the field.  We had a couple of new guys who were tough to manage (they would just wander over to whatever position they wanted to play, they smoked remorselessly, and they told lousy jokes), and then the rest of the usual band of veterans who are getting older and stiffer by the week.  Their team looked like some kind of elite fighting force, and then I glanced back at my decrepit warriors, and I understood how the Iraqi generals must have felt earlier this spring.  What do you do when the tanks no longer roll and the rockets don't fire no more?  Well, I'll tell you what I wanted to do: I wanted to hit the reset button before the game had even started.  But that would have been unamerican, so we played the thing out. 

And for a while, it looked like our patchwork army might hold 'em off.  But we just didn't have enough firepower, and we hurt ourselves by hitting way too many balls over the fence, throwing plenty of balls away, and generally failing to get anything going.  Meanwhile, the steroid-inflated robot militia kept chugging along, bashing balls off fences and taking extra bases at will.  What had been 4-4 was suddenly 10-4 (possibly due to some questionable scorekeeping by them), and moments after that it was 15-5 and the wheels had rolled irretrievably underneath a soggy tarp.  Our squad pulled out all the stops: we witnessed hustle from Ambrose we normally don't see without being preceded immediately by the words "Last Call."  There was Rob G. asking me to "get him out" of left field because he felt he was hurting the team. We argued every play there was to argue, and then we dug in and argued more, even using the word "horseshit" while trailing by double digits at around 8:54.  In an attempt to spark us, Gordon tried to take third on a misplay, but was thrown out by 18 feet despite a heroic slide.  Perhaps the definitive "No Mas" moment came with them up by about 8  -- I let a soft ground ball go humiliatingly through my legs, and then watched it roll all the way to the wall.  At that point, our museums were being looted.  Final Score: Ho's 16, Mo's 5.  There's always next week, until there isn't, and then there's next year.

(Please check the recap from 6/15/03 for a disclaimer on AJR's beliefs and opinions, etc.)

34 years to the day after Neil Armstrong stepped onto a soundstage somewhere in either New Mexico or southern California and declared a giant leap for mankind, the extra-terrestrials returned the visit.

 He came in the form of a lefty-throwing right-handed hitting [freak] named Matt. In what appeared to be a crude imitation of our human mating rituals, or at least of Kobe's, he picked up a bat and smashed the bejeezus out of our softball-cum-vagina.

 There was, in his wild thrashings, more than a hint of the ecstasy and the agony of man's very bitter and not a little angry reproductive cycle. There was shame (the 3B who couldn't catch the balls hit right at them); there was comedy (the pantywaist IFs who were actually playing deeper than the LF, out of fear); there was jealousy (me, from the bench, wishing I could hit like that); fatigue (the goddam vagrants who had to keep fetching the balls that went out); regret, the deep, life-shaking kind, the European kind, the black-and-white film kind (Matt really ought to be playing, I'd say, AA ball somewhere, maybe the Texas League); and pride (the other aliens, and not the cute ones like in MIBII, who were smiling down on their slugging, righty-hitting, lefty-throwing [I mean, really, who the fuck teaches guys like that how to play] freak).

 The game was tight as tight gets when you're used to playing 37 inning games. The score went back and forth. The otherworldly energy was channeled into a number of guys on the other team, notably Dinny, Chris H., and that Dude playing CF. (Editor: Dude's name is Justin, and he is our equivalent of a Free Agent -- one of the few guys who just walked up off the street one day and managed to stick around and become a regular.).

The first highlight of the game was when Chris L. failed to show up. The second was when we realized the Mantis wouldn't be playing either. What could those guys have been up to?

 Another was getting to play against Steve for a change. It was refreshing: that man has been keeping me down for years, batting me as low as 3rd in the order from time to time, and often having the gall to ask me to play first or third. I still have a grievance active over the time he mockingly congratulated me for having run only 3/4 of the way to first on a fly ball off the center-field fence.

 As far as the game goes, the fence might be needing some repairs after tonight's barrage. A lot of guys (not me) really seem to have found their stroke and are whacking it off the wall every other time up. The primary defensive skill in the OF is now playing it off the fence. As far as IF skills, from what I see, it's become throwing the ball to the most random base possible, with bonus points for balls thrown away as runners are already standing on the base.

 I played SS for about 3 innings, made a decent diving catch on a sinking line drive: I probably should have been able to move laterally and catch it easily, but I'm 31 now, just can't move like that anymore. Some Dude playing CF had a terrific jumping catch that protected the fence from further damage - I liked that play. Otherwise, nothing too special vis-a-vis the leather. There was a beautiful girl in the stands for part of the game. I did not see her as she left, but I hope she's with a good man.

 And there was a ton of scoring, but it never got out of hand either way. Some cheating, but not the 1st-degree kind: it was not premeditated. Some guys just plum forgot there were 3 outs, so the D. Lees scored and extra 4 runs in one inning (this news was a shock to Steve, who had said, "Look, Pardna', I drank a few beers but not so many that I'd lose count of how many outs there were." He gave me that sad ol' Steve hang-dog look when I counted them down for him. Thank god he'd won the game). We didn't forget: Never forget is the D. Lees motto.

 With the soccer players off watching the Tour de France somewhere, or sitting home looking up the Euro-to-dollar exhange rate, or reading "Hello!" and ''Le Monde" and "Die Stern" while getting pedicures, we had the field all to ourselves and played well past the usual 9pm curfew. As often happens when we have the field late, it's usually fatigue that ends the night. A close second is getting really, really tired of each other's company (I often wondered why there are 9 innings in a baseball game - what a random number, who came up with that? On the other hand, that is about how long it takes to get fucking sick of hearing Dinny yell "UP!" and "take a knee" or his just plain calling everyone "gentlemen." Memo to VRF: yes, we're aware the OF stinks, and that it doesn't sometimes. We play on the selfsame goddam field as you do.)

 In the end, the cheating and the alien life-form were not enough, as Chris H. and Mark and Steve and Dinny and that Dude in CF were just too much. Other guys helped, but they were role players on this night. (Editor: Final score: Hamm's 25, Schlitz 22)

 Game Ball goes to Chris H., who's having a terrific year overall and is really one of our best. He gets it not only because martians are ineligible but because he hits it damn hard nearly every time up and rarely hits 'em out. He flashes some leather once in a while too. He also wears bright shirts which make you notice his play more.

 The "Deion Sandals Hustle Award" goes to Doug, who got in the garden to retrieve four balls that he did not hit there. Maybe he did a little gardening too. Later he defied physics and good sense to get a ball out from between the fence and the shed. Note to readers: the shed is directly up against the fence. There is no discernible separation.

******
 

Cue Dream Sequence Music, dissolve to AJR's twisted thoughts as he shivers pants-ankles atop his closed toilet seat, periodically answering his life-partner's increasingly impatient knocks with pleas for "a few more minutes..."
 

******

Think back to those old grainy movies you've seen of man's early attempts at flight.  They usually inspire a few derisive laughs, or maybe a moment of concern over the poor bastards who undoubtedly perished trying to get their little pedal-planes off the ground.  Watching the human race fail is always a sobering experience -- it reminds us that at any given moment, we are all within a hair's breadth of complete disaster.  This is never more true than in those first few moments when we are trying to blaze a trail, to accomplish a feat that nobody's ever done before.  In other words,  when we are trying to do something that we really have no business trying and no idea how to pull off.  The results are often bloody, explosive, pitiful, and hilarious, but none of that should take away from the efforts of those first tryers, those people who put bravery and curiosity ahead of knowledge and skill, and just said, "I'm gonna give this a whack," knowing that there was most likely a horrible ending in store.

The reason I bring it up is because that was exactly the spirit behind tonight's defining moment:  our first-ever DOUBLE HOTBOX.

Take a minute to let that soak in.

OK, if you're ready, let me describe the scene for a moment.  Beautiful evening in the West Village.  Limited odor emanating from beyond the leftfield fence.  One out, man on third, close game, middle innings.  The batter hit a ground ball to me at 3rd base.  Knowing I have an unreliable throwing arm, or perhaps assuming an error would take place at one end of the play or the other, or perhaps just dreaming about sex and half-paying attention to the softball game, the runner broke for home.  Ah, a dead duck, I thought for an instant.  My thoughts quickly turned to panic when I noticed that the team at bat had failed in one of the two simple duties of 7 on 7 softball, the duty to provide a catcher.  Mark, always a team player and ready to mix things up, came running out of the dugout mid-play to cover the plate.  As a third baseman and a Leo, this was a lot for me to process, especially because he didn't have time to grab a glove.  Half out of instinct, half out of frustration, I whipped the ball towards home with as much velocity as my noodle arm could muster.  It was wild and high, yet Mark somehow leaped and caught it barehanded, in plenty of time to send the runner scurrying back towards third.  The cries of "Hotbox!" could be heard as far away as Gramercy Park, as the basepaths became swamped with fielders and screamers.  Let me just make a point about hotboxes.  I was always told that you don't make fake throws in a hotbox, it only confuses your fellow fielders.   I want to point out once again that this is bullshit; a good fake throw will usually reduce the baserunner to a trembling puddle, allowing you to record the out and end the insanity before anyone gets hurt.  Anyway, this hotbox was fairly well executed by our standards, it was all over in perhaps three throws.  Meanwhile, the batter (Chris L.?) had reached second base (for all I know, he may have run straight to second from the batter's box, the hotbox had us all transfixed) and had his mind on something more.  Just as we recorded the putout of the runner between 3rd and home, the batter strayed off of second base a little too far.  It was almost too much for us to handle.  We were all in that post-hotbox period of relief, exhaling and checking ourselves for injuries and generally soaking up the moment, and then all of a sudden, the cry sounded once again: "HOTBOX!"  "DOUBLE HOTBOX!"  The excitement was probably quite similar to the feelings of those early pilots during the moments right before their crafts tumbled awkwardly to earth, when they briefly, but gloriously, understood what it was to fly.  We all recognized the importance of the opportunity, and for a minute it looked like it might work out.  A throw to second sent the second hotbox victim towards third.  Another throw chased him back towards second.   Then, alas, the wheels came off.  A high throw to second sailed into right field, putting a quick end to our too-brief double hotbox.  Worse, as the ball rolled around in the right field corner, the runner scampered all the way home, forcing us all to helplessly watch as our quarry jogged past us with the smug arrogance of a falsely acquitted babykiller.  Still, we all had a taste of the other side, and none of us will ever forget it.

OK, on to the game.  There was a game, after all.

-Our team (the Chris H.'s) beat the other team (the Chris L.'s) by a score of something like 18-9.  The game was close for the first hour or so, during which time several arguments broke out.  I am shocked at my own ability to regress to a third-grade sense of ethics when it comes to these arguments.  I will occasionally be charitable and decent, but once a disagreement really gets going, I will argue like a little psycho Earl Weaver, regardless of how strongly I feel about my case.   Everyone else acts pretty much the same way, except Chris H., who seems completely able to put the game in perspective and always wants to give the other team the benefit of the doubt.  Nice guy.  His fundamental decency would annoy me if I wasn't still feeling slightly sorry for him because of the time he showed up with one ounce of warm, bottom-of-the-bottle Gatorade, and offered to share it as if it was a batch of freshly baked brownies.  Anyone who keeps one ounce of Gatorade in the fridge is OK with me.

-There was one other hotbox, which ended quickly and successfully, although the victim (Dan?) did delay things long enough for a run to score (complete with an argument).

-Matt redefined "minimum effort" on a one-out grounder back to the mound.  When the batting team is supplying a pitcher (its other simple duty), the pitcher is supposed to give a minimum effort in fielding his position.  Most of us are comfortable with this concept from our work experience, but some truly take it to another level.  On this play, Matt could have thrown home for an easy out (or a potential hotbox), or he could have thrown to second for an easy force, but instead, he took the out at first, allowing the run to score and the lead runner to advance.  However, he did it with such calm smoothness, nobody on the other team really had the nerve to invoke the "sub-minimal effort" rule.  It was like they were mesmerized.  The run counted.  Well done, Matt.

-When I arrived at the field, there were approximately four players standing helplessly outside the locked gate, waiting to be rescued.  I ran and pleaded with the guy in the rec center for the key, which he initially claimed not to have in his possession.  Once I promised him we wouldn't steal the field, he admitted that he indeed did have the key, but he had to go all the way to his pocket to get it for me.  After I came and unlocked the door, I ran back to return the key to the rec center, at which point the players all ran onto the field like kids dashing towards the tree on Christmas morning.  Of course, nobody grabbed my bag on the way in, it was just left on the sidewalk, where anyone could have stolen it.  Come on, fuckers.  Help out a little bit here.

-New rules: in the last inning, with our team up by 10, I agreed that any ball hit off the scoreboard was not only a home run, but would bring their team within one run.  Chris L. just missed doing it, hitting a game-ending shot over the fence that was right on line.  Also, the pitching is terrible, so we brought up a rule that when a team is pitching to their own players, the batter is allowed three "no-swings," after which every pitch is a strike (this rule is intended to punish both bad pitchers and tentative, wimpy hitters).  The rule had actually been adopted, but then Mark and I had a disagreement about whether the three no-swings should recycle once the batter had swung.  I say that after three no-swings, every pitch is a strike.  Mark felt that after three no-swings, the next pitch is a strike, but then the batter gets three more no-swings before the next automatic strike.  I say, anything that wastes time needs to be dealt with uncompromisingly.  We can vote on this.

-Danny did make an outstanding throw to the plate that would have nailed our runner, had our "catcher" not dropped the ball.  Gentleman-points (redeemable for free warm Gatorade) to Dan for not arguing the point.

6/29/03: Recap by VRF

It was a good night for softball: good weather, cold beers, Gay Pride Weekend. What more can you ask for? I’m not a big fan of parades. They should all be banned in NYC, it’s just too much trouble. And don’t even get me started on the fucking street fairs. Why is it that every single fucking stand at the street fair is sausage & peppers? I guess every now and then there’s one of those roasted corn stands, but Jesus, blocks and blocks of the same old shit. All that said, the gay pride parade is pretty decent. You get to see a lot of wacky stuff, some nice moments of girls makin’ out with each other, and just generally a good vibe. If one parade has to stay, let it be that one. Note: on gay pride day, it’s the women you want to have throwing the ball back into the park when someone hits it out. The guys can’t throw worth a shit. Play Ball!

A lot to talk about this week. Let’s start with the Game Ball, which goes to D. Lee who became the first player to hit a home run using the new “Hit the scoreboard and it’s a home run" rule.  It was real cool. The ball was hit hard, and had a little loft to it. It was definitely going to hit the fence, but it also was going to be very close to the scoreboard, which has had the score Home “h” to Visitors “M” since the damn thing was installed.  The ball hit the very top of the scoreboard with a satisfying “THUNK!” and everyone started screaming. As we all know, the more screaming, the better. Danny was screeching like a banshee as he rounded the bases and we all congratulated him as he passed by us. Then he was greeted by his own teammates in a big group hug at Home. It was like Hank Aaron’s 715th. All we needed were some drunk, tripping hippies storming the field and it would have been the same thing. Anyway, Game Ball to Danny. Well done.

There was a spectacular HotBox. The best this year, if not ever. A guy on our team (SRC?) got hung up pretty good between 2nd and 3rd. AJR was right on it and started screaming and rallying the troops from our dugout. I don’t know how, but I was one of the first out there (from the offense, that is) and decided to get really involved. This one really was a group effort. It was beautiful, the first guy with the ball threw it right at Steve’s legs like we were playing fucking kickball and he’d be out as soon as the ball touched him. There were several more throws and Steve had that special look of terror and glee on his face. Then I shoved one of the opposing players out of the way. I don’t know if this really made a difference, but Steve was safe. I will also point out that this was the only cheating by our time during the course of the evening. Although, as we all know, anything goes in a HotBox.

Steve had himself a huge cheering section in Right Field. Curiously enough, that’s where he ended up for several innings. There were all kinds of chants for him, my personal favorite being: “Steve, we’ve got condoms!” Those are true fans.

Simon hit two balls out with authority to right center. Nicely done. However, he took about 179 pitches last night and I would like that portion of my life back. Our team played pretty poorly overall, although my own defense improved a bit (it really couldn’t get worse). There were at least two innings when the wheels just flew off into the steamy night air. Errors aplenty, mental and physical. At least my own hitting is coming around. AJR gave me some advice. It sucked. But then my brother gave me some advice and it really helped. We lost the game anyway, I lost track of the score (final: 18-9, Queen over Wham! -- Ed.)because I had to sit out the last inning. More on that later.

Something has been irking me for several weeks now. People are taking FAR too many pitches. And too many people can’t get the goddam ball over the plate. Especially stupid-ass Mr. Baseball Pants who thankfully wasn’t there this week. Therefore, I propose a 10 pitch per at bat rule when the pitcher is on your own team. I’m sick and tired of this patience bullshit. This is softball. Swing away.

INJURY REPORT: I got beat up this game. First I slid into second with shorts on thereby ripping yet another layer of skin off my shin and making for an awesome raspberry. It should be noted that the cop in the stands told me “nice slide.” Then, when I was tagging up from second on a short fly ball to Right (dumb idea to begin with), I didn’t slide into third so as to not further damage my leg. Well, I ain’t fast, but when I get my stocky Irish body going, I don’t slow down well either. I was actually safe at third, but overran it by about seven feet at which point my legs just flipped out from under me and I landed on the concrete(!) directly on my elbow. There was pain. And blood. And swelling. I think I just missed breaking it in 17 different places. Check out the picture.   D. Lee, in a remarkable showing of sportsmanship and deviousness simultaneously helped me to my feet and tagged me out. That’s what it’s all about. In other news, Steve’s arm is feeling better, but his wrist is now acting up. CW, called in from our West Coast affiliate for the weekend, has knee cartilage issues.

Lessons to be learned from this week: 1) don’t slide, don’t overrun the base, basically just don’t hustle; 2) lesbians have good arms; 3) those huge Heineken keg cans get warm too quickly; and 4) Ain’t nothin’ like a good HotBox.

6/15/03:

New feature:  Game Ball, awarded to the player of the game or the person who does something completely stupid or ridiculous.

This week's game ball goes to Dinny, who apparently got on base every at bat -- we know this because he told us about it repeatedly.
Honorable mention goes to Deion Sandals, who got the last-inning rally started with a clutch, sliding double.

Recap by AJR.  The following recap reflects the thoughts and opinions of AJR, not the policies or beliefs of verbungle.com or the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

One has to admit, the ball is better this year. To a man, everyone is playing well. But it's a good thing and a bad thing. For one, the homeless guys beyond the fence (freshly back from their Giuliani-sponsored trip to the moon) seem slightly more impressed by our ability, but they seem less willing to cooperate and throw the HR balls back over the fence. They get grouchy when they get hit, too. In English: the balls hurt now. There was a time when our best shots wouldn't have woken a sleeping cat if it struck him in the ass.

And on this night, halfway through June, everyone seemed to strike the ball solidly, yet the score on both sides remained low (yes, 12-11 is low). Why? The defense is now spectacular. It's 1968 all over again. Why, every time I batted, it seemed there were 6 or 7 guys out in right field. Hit it where they ain't? They ain't nowhere.

And where are the suckers of old? Time now for a little shout-out: Simon has become a terrific player, valued guy. That bastard was still learning the ropes a couple of years ago, now he's one of our best. I like watching him play (but not pitch). He's my ace beaucoup mutherfucker.  The only thing that bothers me about this kid is his speed.  He's almost as fast as I used to think I was.  I know it's kind of hard to believe if you watch me now, but I was fast -- cockroach fast, fast like a creepy little Irish pickpocket.  I ran all the time, and when my feet slowed down to rest, my mouth took over -- I used to tell everybody in my office how fast I was, until one night I lost a sprint to a middle- aged schoolteacher.  After that, I stopped talking about my speed.  But this Simon kid runs the way the great sprinters do -- surprisingly upright, muscles quivering with every graceful stride.  I could watch him all day, and it reminds me what I must have looked like when I used to run.   I'm not afraid to say I feel drawn to him, if only because I see in him what I could have been.  Or maybe what I could never have been.

On the other hand, Chris Lee has obviously hit the wall. As one of our younger players, we were looking forward to seeing his game develop. But not unlike Danny Heep, Ruben Rivera, and Hensley Meulens, his early promise has simply not yielded great results. We knew he was insouciant, but we thought he had heart and the guts to become one of the so-called "Big Boys" like Steve, D. Lee., Mark (who turned in the defensive play of the night -- nay, the season), and Deion Sandals. Oscar Azocar, anyone? Tonight, we had 13 men on one of the best softball nights you'll ever know. But where was Chris Lee?

And where was the Mantis? Busy working? Feeding?  Beheaded by his woman during coitus?

The game itself was tight. There seemed to be several Dinnys running amok on the field. About half a dozen of them were yelling "Take a knee" and the rest were uttering sundry other pithy baseball expressions. The rest of us did our level best to glad-hand these uninvited Dinnys, as we normally do with the genuine, invited one: We nodded in understanding, we laughed when we assumed they wanted us to, and we didn't mention their piss-poor fielding, or girlish throwing. We were right gentlemen to his adorable little chubby doppelgangers.

Yet they turned out to be a mirage: as it happened, the real one happened to reach base every time up, tying or possibly establishing a Jimmie Walker Park league record. He scored about three dozen runs. He played the outfield a lot and caught every other struck ball and wouldn't shut up about the smell out there. Yet the stench might be his friend. Between the awful June sweat, the acquired aroma of the impromptu sewer in the OF, and his own odors, in the cab home, Dinny smelled musky as a moose's balls. You could tell he was self-satisfied as he saluted his doorman on his way to the elevator to his apartment. I'm certain I saw a tear on the doorman's cheek as he half-heartedly returned the salute.

There is some wisdom in his experience from this week: we won't be able to play forever, we won't always find it funny that the city has established an open-air sewer for vagrants in left-center, and we won't always have the desire to play our hearts out: let's enjoy it while it's there.

Editor's Additional Notes:

-We won the game, 12-11, in the bottom of the "ninth" inning.  The D. Lee's, who had a heavy metal team name that slips the mind, pulled an "Ambrose Shift" maneuver that really hadn't been set up properly in advance.  One of their fielders sprinted over to the left side of the infield at the last minute to try to protect that entire side of the diamond, but left a spot where Ambrose's one-out, two-hop bouncer was fielded too late to make any throw to the plate.

-There was one homeless guy who retrieved several home run balls for us.  I say "homeless" because I can only assume that anyone who would spend an evening sitting in that disgusting fecal park does so out of necessity.  At one point, a long shot splashed down in the swamp/cesspool/graveyard beyond the centerfield fence, and the ball was just soaked with revolting goo.  We were like, it's ok, you can leave it there, man.  But he went after it anyway, he was standing on a Sprite can and leaning out over the center of the morass, and I was terrified he'd fall in.  He got the gross ball back for us, and I suppose we should have offered him something in return, but all offers seemed condescending.  A beer would assume he was an alcoholic, a dollar would assume he was broke.  So we gave nothing.   We are doomed to hell.

-At the end of the night, Alexi braved the swamp to retrieve another ball.  Once we got it and properly sealed it in a bag and a box, we decided it was too gross to take with us, so we left it in a private spot until the next time we have an emergency.

5/25/03: Recap by VRF

Apparently threat advisory "Orange" extends to our softball field. Once again, it was locked up good and tight. Luckily someone had pliers and we were able to get in through the small patch in the fence in Center Field. Among the many disadvantages facing a short, heavyset Irishman is the inability to easily squirm through small holes. It's enough to make me think about getting more exercise. However, it wasn't enough to stop me from downing several ice cold beers and a chicken quesadilla later on in the evening.

Anyway, eight guys showed up. I'm starting to get fed up with some of the "regulars." A little nasty weather and they hole up in their cozy little apartments acting like adults while we brave the elements and behave like children for over two hours. Adulthood is for suckers. Play Ball!

Once again, the rules needed some tweaking. This week it was every man for himself. One guy would bat, and the rest would be in the field. No catcher. Needless to say, the Invisible Man played an integral role in the game.

Steve really likes the Invisible Man. Personally, I think he has bad breath (Invisible Man, not Steve).

All-in-all, the game was pretty good, really not a lot to report. I don't know the score; I don't care because I didn't win.

Injury report: AJR's arm looked awful, and despite some good hustle, it looks like the arm is done for the season. SRC threw someone out from RF, so the howitzer may be on the mend. We'll see. My arm feels great, but I can't hit worth a damn. I think it's because I have a sore wrist. I also think it's because I suck.

Toward the end of the game, the Office of Homeland Security caught on to the fact that we had thwarted their security efforts and they locked us in the park. This despite the fact that a player's girlfriend was in the stands as the park was locked. She didn't stop the parklocker. Not cool at all. In fact, that could lead to banishment.

Of course, due to the lockdown, my worst fear was about to be realized: fence climbing. One of the reasons I hate climbing fences so much stems from an experience I had as a young boy. A friend of mine, Jason J., was having a birthday party. We were probably about 8 years old. Jason lived near Columbia U., so his mom took the whole lot of us (aboout 10 guys) over to the campus to run around and chase each other. We played some form of hide and seek, which involved just generally running around and chasing each other. At some point, I had to climb a chain link fence to get to a good hiding place. At the time I was wearing those Adidas shorts with the underwear built in (you know the ones I mean). So I climb the fence and start swinging my trailing leg over preparing for the "dismount." Well, I tried to dismount, but nothing happened. I just hung there, almost suspended in midair. Almost. Turns out that my adidas built in underwear had caught on the top of the chainlink fence and I was dangling there like a fish on a hook. That wasn't good. but worse was the fact that the "underwear" had been hiked up so that my entire pale Irish ass was showing to all passers by. And there were plenty of pedestrians. Jesus, it was Columbia on a warm spring night. So, I didn't want to yell, but I also needed to get down. Finally I meekly yelped "help" to one of the nicer looking people that passed by. I told him I was stuck, and he kind of giggled (I later realized that he was stoned of course). However, he managed to dislodge me from the fence and didn't even attempt any funny business with my rectum. Still it was pretty embarassing. Anyway, that's why I don't like fences.

Still, we had to get out of that damn park, so we climbed. The area where we had to get out smelled bad. Apparently the bad smell from Left Field has migrated to the park's entrance. It smells like feet and ass. Through a series of not particularly deft maneuvers, we all managed to get out. As depressing as it may sound, there is still a triumphant feeling to getting over the fence. Especially when it doesn't involve exposing your ass.

Bonus! Recap by SRC

Tonight was another humbling experience.  When we arrived, the gates were locked.  It was rainy and dismal and soggy outside, and we only had 8 guys.  8 guys who stood around in a rough circle, staring at the locked gates to the field for about 20 minutes.  Luckily, a master thief just happened to be in the neighborhood, and he stopped by to see what the problem was.  When we explained that we had a permit and needed to get onto the locked field, he produced a pair of pliers and pried open the patch of fence in centerfield that had been repaired since the last time we B & E'd.  Thanks, friend.

The low turnout put our game-devising creativity to the test.  We settled on "every man for himself," another of those expressions that I hadn't  heard since 6th grade.  Each week, we seem to go through about four or five of those.  In this case, each guy batted until he made three outs.  When he hit the ball, he would advance as many bases as he could without being thrown out.  Once the play ended, he would jog back to the batter's box and try again.  It was tiring as hell.  Generally speaking, our group is not in marathon-running shape.  The new system meant there were multiple opportunities for the "invisible man" to be a factor in the game.  In fact, he brought two friends this week, who, conveniently, were also invisible.

Here are some things we learned about him this week:

-He is a cautious baserunner -- he didn't tag up on one fly ball all game, and he never took an extra base on a ball hit to the gap.
-He gets a great break on balls hit on the ground -- he managed to score from third on a hard shot fielded cleanly by the pitcher.  Of course, the run may have scored because of the pitcher's reluctance to throw the ball home to the invisible catcher.
-He has a "thing" about touching other players...several times, he slapped me on the ass for no reason. 
-He voted for Ross Perot, twice.
-He claimed to have played "some college ball," but he refused to bat or play the field. 
-He's a belligerent drunk.

Other developments:

-Ambrose can no longer throw the ball.   He claims to be experiencing no pain, but his throws are just terrible.  I feel OK about this.
-Evan won the game, 9-8-7-4-4-3-2-1 or something like that. 
-At one point, the game was briefly delayed when a player paused to urinate through the leftfield fence.  This may provide a partial explanation for the MOLF (Mysterious Odor in Left Field).
-A new rule: balls that roll through the hole in the centerfield fence are in play.  Didn't happen yet, but we are all looking forward to some poor schmuck having to squeeze through the hole to fetch the ball and relay it back to the field.
-When the game was over, the Mantis immediately disappeared into the shadows.  Then we heard his voice calling to us from no place in particular, letting us know that the city had come by and locked the OUTER gates to the park, meaning we all had to climb a fence or spend the night locked in there.  The Mantis had already made it to freedom and become one with the night, which was easy for him as he is "2-dimensional." Eventually, we all made it out, but it wasn't pretty...

5/18/03: Recap by SRC

What is the quintessence of baseball? To me, it's a hard-fought contest in late September, in the heat of a pennant race, when every play takes on a stomach-churning significance that makes the game almost unbearable to play or even to watch.  Inevitably, it's a close game, heading down to the final at-bat, and everyone in the stadium is holding their breath.  The only sound is the delicate, steady popping of flashbulbs.  Each player senses the importance of the moment, and finds a way to put aside the butterflies and raise his concentration to a whole new plane.  One mistake, one lucky break, a clutch base hit from an unexpected player on a bad pitch -- there are a hundred ways to lose a game, and nobody wants to wear the goat's horns on that crucial day.

What is softball, at its heart? Games like tonight.  Games that are played in mid-May on a field too small for little league, played 7 men against 6, played with an oft-invoked rule entitled "Minimum Effort." Games when you feel like you might step in something.  Games when each colossal boneheaded mistake blends harmlessly into the next.  Games when a wild throw that should easily be backed up by the first baseman ends up rolling into the dugout as said first baseman thirstily tugs on a 40 oz. Budweiser with his back turned to the play.  Games when a rightfielder is unable to track down a shot to the gap because he is busy wolfing down handfuls of Pirate's Booty.  Games when a ball hit to the gap might never come back.  Games when one team shamelessly cheats and still loses 20-10. 

But to make tonight's game out to be meaningless or halfhearted would be unfair.  Both teams wanted to win, one was just far more capable of doing so.  Our team had more soft spots than Kathy Bates's nude scene in "About Schmidt."  Amazingly, after the first 10-15 "innings", we were winning 5-2.  Still, our chemistry wasn't right.  We were constantly yelling at  at each other and bossing each other around.  Well, I guess we do that every week, but this one felt different somehow.  And sure enough, on cue, the wheels came off.  Then they rolled under a crumpled up tarpaulin and stayed there for the rest of the night.

I have to accept the responsibility for this loss.  For one thing, I couldn't catch the ball.  Grounder, throw, pop fly, I didn't discriminate -- I booted them all over the field.  My arm was also dangling limply at my side like someone who had just been in a horrible car wreck but didn't know how bad it was yet.  "I think I'm OK." This made me a liability for any position except first base.  Of course, at first base people are always throwing you the ball, and you are expected to catch it.  I couldn't do that, and I tried blaming everyone from the throwers to the moon to the soccer players to my new glove to my parents to the vintage of the Budweiser I was drinking (it was dated 24FEB2003, which is a little older than I like it -- I like drinking the "babies").  It was hard to watch, and I felt like Pedro Guerrero, when asked about his defensive game plan: "First, I pray to God that nobody hits the ball to me.  Then I pray to God nobody hits the ball to the Mantis."  Our opponents (named Posion or Dokken, I forget who was who) did plenty of each.  When we weren't misplaying their batted balls for up to a minute at a time, they were lining shots all over the field and into places where our more competent fielders were helpless to do anything but wait for them to stop rolling and pick them up. 

I did smash two arching lefty shots over the fence.  The first one wasn't as poorly timed as the second one, which was leading off the "eighth" inning and pretty much "sunk the boat," as Dinny pointed out.  We all agreed that once the wheels came off our theoretical vehicle, the only choice had been to turn the car into a boat, and my idiotic hit ended that new plan within moments of its conception.  We ran out of time before we were able to turn it into a submarine.

Were there good moments?  Well, two people confirmed that the expression "hotbox" was used on Sportscenter this week,  in the correct context.  Since we all know that the term is completely fabricated, this can only mean that the Sportscenter staff has been reading verbungle.com and lifting their hip anchor banter directly from our pages.  It was only a matter of time.  Also, we didn't lose any balls, and everyone seemed to accept that any ball fouled over the side fence = two strikes. At one point, one of our faithful ball-retrieving passersby tossed a throw from an angle where it could easily get lodged atop the fence/backstop/roof thingie behind homeplate.  Only Mark has ventured up there to retrieve balls, and we were running short on time, so there was a moment of concern as the pedestrian cocked his arm and threw.  Dinny, looking away, said, "Two to one it gets stuck up there."  Sure enough, the throw hit the roof thing, but it had just enough momentum to skid beyond its limits and float back onto the field.  We all cheered.  Between mouthfuls of Pirate's Booty, Drew made a nice diving catch in leftfield at one point.  Ambrose made a tumbling stop at short and threw from his back to get the force at second.   But for the most part, I found myself angry at nobody in particular, and actually afraid that the ball would come my way. 

Next week is Memorial Day.  Maybe we can play some 4 on 4 and I can get my confidence back. 

5/11/03: Recap presented by VRF

4/27/03: (this recap presented by VRF)

4/20/03:

Tonight was excellent.  A lot to talk about.  But it didn't start off well -- when we got to the field, the gates were locked, and that meant a climb over a fifteen foot fence to get in.  A few people made the climb, while the rest of us kind of milled around outside muttering stuff like, "There's no WAY I'm climbing that fence."  Then a couple of guys got a leatherman and pried loose a patch of fence that had been installed in centerfield to plug a hole.  The hole we created was just big enough for the fattest of us (and I am in that group) to squeeze through.  Play ball!  On my list of things which I felt I had passed the point in life to ever do again, "climbing a fence to play softball" and "squeezing through a fence to play softball" were pretty high up there.  Right up with, "ringing someone's doorbell to see if we can get the ball that we just broke their window with back" and "jumping turnstiles." Maybe we can make a list of such moments on the lists page. 

The first hour or so of the game (our permit is for two hours, and a bunch of annoying soccer players always gather about halfway through the game, as their permit starts immediately after ours) was really dull tonight.  It was Easter Sunday, and so, as Ambrose pointed out, "anybody with a life or a real family is home."  It was the usual concoction of errors, pop-ups, and guys playing positions they shouldn't be playing.  But somehow tonight seemed really depressing.  I felt like a guy repeating his senior year in high school or something, while my friends moved on to bigger things.  It just had a nasty vibe, it was almost eerie.   Very quiet, boring game.

Then a couple of guys came in off the street, and things picked up.  We had one lefty glove for three lefty players, which always makes life interesting.  One of the "off the street" guys was a lefty who had to play righty, and in fifteen minutes he was better at "catch the ball, flip off the glove and throw the ball with the glove hand" than Jim Abbott ever was.  Granted, Abbott only had one arm. 

There were no hotboxes and no real arguments tonight, but there is a rule that we need to investigate.  The field is very small, so any ball hit in fair territory over the fence is an out and ends the inning no matter how many outs there were when it was hit.  We modified the rule to say that any ball hit over the outfield fence, whether in fair or foul territory, is an inning-ender.  This is to prevent guys from swinging as hard as they can.  Now the rule has become one of the following, although nobody really knows which one:

a) all balls, fair or foul, hit over the back (outfield) fence are inning-enders.
b) all balls that land beyond the back fence, even if they are hit too far foul to actually pass over the back fence, are inning enders
c) all balls hit over any fence so that they "roll down the street" are inning enders
d) all balls hit over the side fence are outs, over the back fence are inning-enders
e) all balls that go "across the street" are inning-enders
f) any combination of possibilities a-e

I guess you could call this rule "vague" -- and the truth is, it's kind of more fun that way.  We should not clarify the rule until we absolutely need to. Like in the last inning of the last game of the season, when someone hits a foul ball that meets some, but not all, of the criteria.

Other details: Tonight's game ended at 9pm sharp in a 12-12 tie, according to the now-seamlessly functioning scoreboard.  We stopped the slash marks, so now we have less room for confusion, which kind of sucks.  I kind of liked the tie, though.  It captured the spirit of the competition.  My arm is shot, so I haven't played outfield, but from what I heard, left field smelled really bad like piss or maybe shit.  We had fourteen guys on a somewhat chilly Easter Sunday, including three "walkup" customers right off the street.  I am thinking that when summer rolls around, we are going to have WAY too many guys, which is going to suck.  Some dudes are going to have to be told to go home.

Also, we failed to sew the fence back shut.  That's the price the city must pay for not providing us with a key to the field.  That's what we're saying, anyway.
 

4/13/03:

Sunday was the first game of the season.  We added a scoreboard (well, actually, a dry erase board that is like 8" by 10") .  We got it to take away some of the confusion that we sometimes experience about the score.  We weren't really bright enough to figure out how to use it.  It could only be read from like 18 inches away, and we had decided to put little slash marks up every time someone scored, in addition to changing the numerical score each time as well.  It was pretty challenging.  I think there were several times when the numerical score did not match the slash-mark score.  Nobody knew which, if either, was accurate.  Luckily, the final score was like 26-13 (our team won!) so nobody really gave a shit.  There were at least two decent "hotboxes" -- a "hotbox" was my friend Chris' term for a rundown, or a pickle, or whatever regular people choose to call it.  I guess when he was growing up in Texas or Connecticut, that's what they called it:  Hotbox.  What a great term.  We have all embraced the term and the event itself.  There is something glamorous about getting in a hotbox.  It's like you're battle-tested after you've been through it, and you can brag to the kids about what it was like.  It got to be such a badge of honor that people were purposely trying to get caught in the rundown, and one guy even brought a camera and began snapping pictures from the inside of the hotbox.  I guess that cheapened it a little bit, because to me, the ultimate thrill of the hotbox is the sense of both abject terror and utter defiance you feel when you are caught in one.  Like, "I may die here in this hotbox, but I am taking some of you down with me."  Last night's hotboxes (I was one of the victims, and I went down fairly quietly) were pretty satisfying, and each one was accompanied by the insane cries of "Hotbox!" from some of the participants.  People come swarming in from all over the field to take part in it.  The second hotbox involved Mark, who is one of the  more aggressive baserunners.  He put up a hell of a fight, drawing multiple throws and even collapsing twice.  After we made the putout, he scrambled back to the base and claimed he was never tagged.  Luckily, we still had the 3rd grade "Out of the baseline" argument in our back pocket, and we promptly invoked it.  I am still not sure if he was out of the baseline, but sometimes it's best for everybody if a hotbox ends with a putout.