Softball: Atavistic Themes for the Homecoming

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

After four arduous months in wandering exile, we finally returned to our cherished Codornices homeland and needless to say, we were delighted to see it in the glorious condition that we had all dreamed of, except for perhaps the ubiquitous clumps of weeds in the infield, the insufficiently mowed outfield, the countless gopher holes, the grungy bleachers and the general sense that the Department of Parks and Wreck basically did nothing to renovate it for the 18 fenced off weeks that it sat there as a needlessly empty and spiritually bereft shell of its prior well-pattered self. But hey, if Big Fence wins, we all win, and in fairness, it was still magical to be back among the redwoods and the Hayward Fault and yeah, those magnificent Tilden rutting yak with their unbridled love for sport itself.

 

In any case, my team took on Anthony’s in a robust exemplar of why we as a people were the best solution to the park’s heartbreaking malaise, and why, in symbiotic return, there is no greater parcel on earth for the manifestation of our league’s unparalleled athletic excellence. Alas, though, apparently not everyone on the Antman’s contingent actually got the memo, for with all due respect, excellence in aerobic affairs cannot be a self-executing process of whim, whimsy, or merely sporadic application. Perhaps you see where I’m going with this.

 

The fact is that the great Jim McGuire was the athletic backbone of Tony’s entire team, and yet his fielding was bobble-laden and jejune while his hitting was outright listless. The magical Paul Fine had a better game, yet his 6th-inning 2-out bases loaded pickoff from a reckless overrun at 3rd extinguished their most critical rally of the match. And even more painfully, the post-surgical Bobby Fulgham continued his awe-inspiring recovery at the plate and on the field, but his centrifugally doomed and dreidelesque triple-circular-stumble meant that he plummeted to the ground at 1st considerably more quickly than Porter’s sky-high 8th-inning RBI parabola did. Pity.

 

The point is that all these players are simply flesh and bone in a neuro-inscrutable packaging that is worthy of our highest admiration, and yet, this game is about results, not media dazzle and stunts, and frankly, I think they all get that in the marrow of their tragically loser bones. Of course Anthony sure does, for his team went down, and down hard, 13-8, and yet at the end of this draining match, all was not lost, for their loss itself was on the verdant grasses of the land that they loved—unfenced, excellent, and fair. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11 IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond