Softball: Parsing what Matters

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

Let the record show that when my team needed my athletic acumen most, I totally choked as if a rogue kernel of popcorn had set up shop in my esophagus. Yeah, in our ceaselessly riveting battle against the magical Anthony Weatheroy’s side, I came to the plate in the bottom of the 7th with bases loaded, two out and my posse trailing by three, and yet rather than lead by example, I popped up high and shameful just behind 2nd, and ultimately, straight into Albert Naham’s scornfully outstretched glove. 

 

Of course it was Cinco de Mayo, so there’s some context here; While I’ve always admired how General Zaragoza crushed the imperialist Froggies at Puebla on that storied Spring Day in 1862, I have to admit that at the moment of swinging, I found myself shaken by the sudden realization that only .03% of the North American populace knew what the F this glorious day was really all about (In fairness, I suppose one could claim the same for Boxer Day, Lent, and the 4th of July). In any case, distraction is rarely a justified excuse for such rank biomechanical failure, and yet I mention this given how many of my peeps grumbled about my statistically dubious decision to hit oppo on such a crucial at bat. That’s right, amigos mios, history is messy when you actually dig deep, and the clarity of causation is a fickle mistress indeed. To wit: I was justifiably distracted––Deal with it.

 

Alas, my fielding was also suspect throughout the match, and when Jimmy “the inflictor” McGuire blasted a bouncing 7th-inning bullet down the first base line, I did myself no favors by trying to snag it with the tender radial artery of my upper right arm. Still, and despite it all, we were a contingent of great moxie and resolve, and thus we battled back to a 13 up tie at the end of 9. Even better, while we gave up three in the top of that tranche, I could already feel the initial sparks of our burgeoning rally as soon as Bobby W took to the plate. 

 

Unfortunately, my failures were multitudinous. For not only did I crumble as a hitter and fielder and thus as an athlete qua athlete, but my mastery of managerial galvanization cratered as well. The fact is that we only had one out with the winning run at the plate, and yet despite my impassioned exhortations to just not suck, it was only one force and a flyout later that my team went down in a rancid stew of loser lentils, chives, and potential denied, 16-14. 

 

Of course my primary job is to keep this entire league salubrious and hale, and any close game, no matter how painful the loss, is an organizational triumph for the greater whole. Moreover, I remain vigilant as to what we owe the outside world and how we prepare for its ceaseless threats, and while I certainly don’t mean to gild the lily, it’s in this broad context that I arguably transcend my own ineptitude. 

 

Indeed, over the next 48 hours, I’ll be announcing our official Statement of Neutrality as applied to the latest brouhaha between Drake and Kendrick Lamar (fine, bitterly object if you must, but do we really have a choice?!), and shortly after, I’ll be releasing our Emergency Recovery Plan should an orchestral swarm of those hideous 50 trillion cicadas turn unexpectedly west in order to eat our homeland. To be sure, the controversies and perils never cease, but I think we’re on top of it, and therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11 IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond