Softball: Futzing with the Sprachgefühl

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

In one of those rare aerobic masterpieces that sparkle with both the macro and micro dynamics of ceaseless organic evolution, my team took on Jim McGuire’s with rigor, moxie, and a modest dollop of contemplative Zen. And to be sure, we needed it all since even though my side had the inspirational buzz of fantabulous league debutants Jordan Downey and Tim Liebowitz, we initially floundered, and floundered badly. Indeed, in the bottom of the 3rd, the wily Bobby Fulgham retired my three batters with just three pitches, and frankly, with each one of those throws being his demoralizing yaw-dusted bull-gravy balls, it was perhaps inevitable that we fell into a ghastly 14-3 4th-inning crevasse. 

 

Luckily, things change, and when the shift is in momentum itself, nothing is more exhilarating (for a germane point of reference, see D.K. Slater’s A TikTok that Mattered: The Early Blues, Tonal Physics, and the Rise of the Metronome in Post-War Northern Florida, 1945-1954). I mention this because a desperate invocation of the 10-run Mercy Rule is not always destiny, but merely, in some cases, a warning wrapped in the innards of a wayward karmic riddle. And so it was, for over the next five innings, we defiantly clawed our way back with courage and elan, and thus when the legendary Dan May stepped to the plate with 1 out, 2 on, and my peeps trailing by one single little run in the bottom of the 9th, the tension was so thick that you could lathe it with a butter jar. 

 

In any case, it all came down to this, but unlike six innings earlier, Bobby immediately fell back on an unexpected 3-fingered slider with just the slightest patina of tar. Needless to say, Dan was practically grinning at that pitch with his classic ‘fuck-yeah tude,’ and then, as a despondent shovel-nosed sturgeon gurgled nervously in the distance, he unleashed a walk-off 2-RBI bullet to right that gave my peeps the triumph, 19-18. It was, to be sure, a nail-biting and joyous dénouementwith the full-on froggy accent and no true losers, though admittedly, it may take Professor McFailure a lifetime and then some to internalize the profoundly nuanced validity of the annoying bromide at hand. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond