9/4/02
Softball: A Narrative on the Mores of Persnickety Hitters
Dear People,
Congratz to all on last week’s superb 17-15 sojourn into all that makes softball the aerobic ambrosia by which we sate our ceaseless hunger for meaning. And for the record, I don’t write that as some sort of glib Kantian justification for what I did as captain on that broiling Berkeley afternoon, but merely to remind you that while I delight in having led my team to victory, I am well aware that the manner in which this triumph was snatched will be forever debated among all athletes, historians and recreational ethicists who search for beauty in truth, and in truth, meaning, which is, alas, all ye can really knoweth on this earth. Yeah, I think we all see where I’m going with this.
In any case, and for those who missed this most extraordinary match, allow me to explicate: As my team clung to life in the top of the 9th, we began to chip away at Frank’s 15-12 lead with the focus of a famished cougar about to introduce herself to a distant and clueless grazing goat. The heat was unbearable, tensions were high, and we were soon down to our very last out. Yet we were also facing a completely inexperienced closer who had been inexplicably called on to deliver the presumed coup de grace. Dumb.
As the inning steadily progressed, the stark reality of Ken’s pitching was quickly exposed; From what I could surmise, the odds of his actually throwing three strikes to a single batter was about 800,000 to 1, meaning that any of our players was more likely to suddenly keel over dead than actually strike-out looking. This is not said to disparage Ken as a person, for he is indeed one of the finest and most decent lads in all the community. However, it is to say that he is a truly pathetic pitcher who has no business being anywhere near the mound. Regardless, this was the raw statistical context as Kamala came to bat, with our team now down by one and the bases loaded, and yes, with two of those runners having gotten there without even swinging a bat.
What can I say? I have always maintained that while a hitter’s attempt to intentionally walk is technically permitted, it is nothing more than a crass show of strategic fascism by those who do not understand the splendor of our game. This is in fact what I truly believe, and yet as Kamala and I exchanged solemn stares, the count quickly went to 3 and 1, and at that point I looked again at her baby brown corneas, yearning for guidance, and in all candor, I had no idea what to do. I then glanced at the three occupied bases, our tying and go-ahead runs loitering with frisky and shameless intent. Finally, I gazed back to Ken, whose tiny little face was now so frozen in fear that I honestly wondered if a hammer and chisel could ever salvage its previously human features.
Of course his visage was not my concern, and as I looked one last time at Kamala, I instructed her not to swing, no matter what. "He’s legally blind!" I coyly lip-synched with excited abandon, and with that, she took balls 4 and 5, thus forcing the tying run home from third! It was beyond glorious, and yet I am not ashamed to tell you that I soon felt lewd and unclean.
For the record, and in fairness to myself, Andy was the next batter up, and as a wave of Hebraic guilt surged through my bosom, I told him that since we were already tied and the pressure was off, his skill sets were better suited for a punishing grand slam than the corrosive dribble of our continuing hitless assault. He tacitly concurred and then nodded knowingly, but for some reason he immediately proceeded to chip Ken’s very first throw into the shallow air directly above the pitcher’s mound, thus assuring what has to be one of the most asinine pop-ups in the history of these games.
Despite this unsightly setback, my team still went on to win a sublime nail-biter in 10, but the hard reality is that our rally was tainted by acts of such crass strategic depravity that I still find myself encrusted and splayed in a congealed lagoon of sheer ethical paralysis. Sure, my advice to Kamala was "legal," but had John Keats himself seen me so shamelessly dispense it, his salty little poet’s tears would have most certainly seeped deep into the granular and bloodied despair of Ken’s shattered heart. Fortunately, Keats croaked in 1821, and therefore, there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11AM, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning….Raymond
9/6/02
Softball: Anything to Woo You
Dear People,
There will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, and as of now there are still five slots left.
Please bring $2 for the field, which for this week only includes free valet parking and low-toxin dry cleaning, as well as a continental breakfast with Danish, seasonal greens and chilled organic prune juice….Raymond 845-7552
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