Softball: A Personal Tale of Challenge and Feats

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

Let the record show that just because I got four brain-crushing cancels in the 16 hours leading up to last week’s game, what actually sent me to the edge of a nervous organizational breakdown was when I realized at 11:16AM that right after the great Michael Hersh had committed the previous Thursday, I inexplicably wrote down the name of the inimitable Dan May instead (To be sure, aging is not healthy for synapses or other living things). This was the only explanation for why the Hershster was unexpectedly there and joyously prancing about the outfield that fine morn,' whereas DantheMan was nowhere to be found. Yet once the nature of my fuckup came into sharp relief, I was able to instantaneously tweak the rosters with admirable alacrity despite the fact that as communally cherished as both lads are, they have very different skill sets, potential, and clarities of athletic purpose. 

 

Of course alacrity is not equity, which is to say that my peeps took on Chris Fure’s and the match proceeded as planned and on time, but as a gesture of admission to my side’s decisive edge on paper as a result of the calamitous and last-second team-creating process, I agreed to rotate across the diamond’s every defensive position for every inning in which we had the lead. That’s right, every defensive position, and if that meant that I would eventually play left, 3rd, and even shortstop despite my cupless sterile jewels as well as my universally accepted lack of courage, depth perception, and ‘ability,’ so be it. Yeah, the principled pursuit of athletic equilibrium is not a task for sissies.

 

In any case, Christopher’s side jumped out to an impressive 9-2 lead at the end of the 1st, but then, the rosterferian tilt and his predictably feckless captainship steadily took their toll. Indeed, by the bottom of the 4th I had begun my rotational journey far from my normal 1st-base perch, with my first big move to right. Luckily, my play was totally adequate, and thus by the time we got to the bottom of the 9th, I may have been tremulous and exposed, but I was also indisputably in charge of guarding our fragile lead on the most harrowing real estate in all of sport—the treacherous clays of short (for a germane point of reference, see D.K. Slater’s stunning new masterwork, The Treacherous Clays of Short: Napoleon, Madison, and the Wielding of Executive Power in an Era of Towering Little People, 1799-1836).

 

The point is that I could’ve easily crumbled under the unspeakable stress, but in fact, I held my own even when Chris’s team suddenly found themselves in that final tranche with one out, ducks on 1st and 2nd, and their tying run in the hole just behind the hole! Yet despite it all, I somehow managed to stay calm and grounded before snaring Kyla’s searing pop fly to the dead zone between short and the mound. Even better, I instantly turned, gazed, and then hurled the orb in question to Kira at 2nd for the game-ending pickoff of the great Ivan Laddish. Ivan, of course, is the teenage son of community-legend Greg Laddish (back himself after more than a year away!), and to be clear, his morning commit as a spontaneous national hero and his subsequent league debut had been totally inspiring until that very moment. 

 

Alas though, life is nothing if not nuanced, complex, and generally a waste of time, and because Chris’ team went down and down hard, 28-23, that’s something that both Furfeathers and the kid are gonna’ have to seriously ponder in the guilt-ridden decades to come. But yeah, in our world, atonement is never more than a week away, and therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond