Softball: Sport, Growth, and Life Under the Lunatic

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

Let the record show that as this league began our radical break from a multi-decade ban on mandatory walks to our new and eerily stern walk-on-ball-four rule, Jim McGuire’s team immediately exploded into a 9-0 lead over my own in the top of the 1st. To be sure, hurler Steve Bedrick’s initial attempt to adjust to the new pitcher-dissing regime was a harrowing spectacle to behold, and thus as we took to the plate in the bottom of that wretched tranche, I was so shell-shocked by the reality before us that I seriously considered tendering my resignation right then and there, and I’m not saying that just because to tender is arguably the greatest verb in all of legal English. 

 

In any case, no doubt that Steve himself was feeling the heat, but rather than scarf down a bunch of Xanax and whiskey like all of you would’ve done, he looked deep into his inner child athlete instead. That’s right, the contemplative road is king when the stakes are so high, and thus as the 2nd inning began, Bedboy suddenly found his legendary gonadal sinker, and thus, over the next three magnificent innings, my peeps clawed their way back to a stirring 13-up 4th-inning tie. And yeah, it had only just begun.

 

For the rest of this extraordinary taut and riveting match, our teams see-sawed for the lead on honorable pitching and clarity of resolve, and by the time it was all over, there had been only three forced walks the entire affair. Even better, my posse had community debutants Ally and Jermaine—the great Michael Hersh’s very own daughter and significant-other-in-law—and with their inspirational acumen in both the outfield and at the plate, it was no coincidence that the Jermainator scored the glorious 9th-inning walk-off run as Professor McLoser’s peeps went down, and down hard, 24-23. God, I love close games, and I bet Jimmy does too, despite it all.

 

The point is that this community continues to organically evolve and thrive in a myriad of ways, and yet once again, the Weschler-hating city of Berkeley has refused to give me the Finest-Unaffiliated-Email-Organized-Softball-League-West-of-the-Sacremento-River Manager’s Prize. Yeah, nobody’s ever seen ingratitude like this, and so we clearly have no choice but to irrefutably own Bushrod for our vital aerobic security, for needless to say, Oakland and its pissant dogsleds can’t possibly deter the Ruskies, the radical left, the softball-hating soccerites, or even the marauding Norwegian libtards. Fortunately, I have a plan, and therefore there will be a game at totally seizable Bushrod Park this Sunday at 11 IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning  . . . Raymond