Softball: The Majesty of Seesawing
raymond...@gmail.com
Dear People,
I’m not gonna dwell, but there was an eerie couple minutes in last week’s game in which my team was savoring our 4th-inning 17-7 lead over Chris Fure’s when Mother Nature herself appeared to offer a cryptic warning on the satisfying onslaught at hand. I had already been pondering the contours of our accelerating rout when a veritable whirlwind descended onto the rich clay soils of the Codornices infield, and to be clear, that swirling dust of conical perfection evoked the dreadful twister that slammed Dorothy’s house in Kansas just before she drifted off to Munchkin Land. Yeah, it was that spooky, and at the risk of abusing comparative cinema, I would still suggest that by the time it swirled anew from the mound to the plate and then back out to 3rd a full 90 seconds later, it felt as if the air itself was now possessed by Beelzebub, just like that perfectly innocent and totally hosed girl in The Exorcist. Needless to say, our lead suddenly felt well beyond tenuous, and as one could reasonably predict, a rare fluffy-backed tit-babbler brayed defiantly in the distance.
Sure enough, our double-digit dominance cratered into the residual dust, but credit where credit is due, for the Furinator overcame his usual managerial torpidity with both poise and pluck, and so much so that his team found itself up 18-17 going into the bottom of the 8th. Of course a softball game is nine innings, not seven and a half, which I only mention because Chris himself was playing sharp right when the great Jerry Dalo struck a solid but parabolically genteel 2-out 2-on can of fresh sweet corn to the soft zone where our hero was manning the ramparts. Alas, Furefeathers apparently ‘miscalculated’ its geometrically prosaic arc, as seen by the nonchalant confidence with which his upside-down mitt scooped up a big ol’ dollop of pure empty air as the orb in question sailed right past his forearm and onto the lush grasses of ignominy beyond. 37 seconds, a four-bagger and 3 RBIs later, we were back up by 2, and as we entered the final tranche, we held a 24-21 lead. Life was good.
It was also a roller coaster, and thus Chris’ peeps fought back gallantly to take their own three run lead in the top of the 9th. Yet all was not lost because he was still in the outfield when we got our final chance at the plate, and sure enough, the arguable ‘imprecision’ with which he observed, charged, and then charged straight past Stefano’s tying 1-out 2-RBI hopper to right was yet another fine exemplar of aerobic momentum in the throes of its dialectical evolution. In brief, just one minute later the magnificent Dave Snyder hit the walk-off single to left, assuring our grand 25-24 victory while perhaps reminding Christopher that while it’s true that I’d prefer to lose by 1 than win by 2, I actually prefer to win by 1.
Yeah, that’s an admittedly nuanced approach to triumph and tragedy, but I think we can all agree that it’s something that Captain Feckless is going to have to ponder long and hard over the contemplative years to come. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond
PS: The agreement with Dr. Furefeckfeathers was that I could be merciless in exchange for a shameless plug on this very email. To be clear, he doesn’t even broach the vital topic of softball, but happy reading if you dare . . .