Softball A Game Plan for the Long Run

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

In yet one more sign that the arc of the aerobic universe is long but still bends toward pizazz, my team took on Eoin’s in our very first game featuring Danny’s generously donated and brand new Zero-Tech All-Analog Flip Scoreboard (ZTAAFS ™ — “At ZTAAFS, we flaunt the numbers”). Since it was hung on the left backstop fence as a vital compliment to the small paper scoreboard that usually stays hidden and unseen in my conniving little hands, it served as a joyous fillip for those runners who made it back to home. In fact, they themselves got to flip the numeric cards for their own runs, and while it wasn’t explicit, I could tell that most were doing so while simultaneously thinking, “Yeah, look who just scored, biatches.” 

 

In any case, I’m happy to report that even though Eoin’s contingent jumped out to a demoralizing 8-0 1st-inning lead, most of that snark would eventually emanate from my side. Naturally, it started as soon as the unrivaled Michael Hersh let loose on the first of his many multiple-base RBI-hits, including a magnificent but bitterly contested, dissected, and intensively asterisked 4th-inning triple slide into 3rd that was apparently just under Jordan’s perfectly positioned glove. Truth is objective, of course, though needless to say, objectivity is meaningless given the epistemological constraints of our tiny little brains, and yes, once again I find myself skeptically pondering the jury system. Regardless, I thought the Hershmesiter was probably safe, and I’m not saying that just because he wears the most compelling hat in the history of this league.

 

Even better, the always-potentially-adequate Chris Fure was also on my side, and yeah, his four multi-base rockets to the yak-laden tundra beyond deep left resulted in at least 10 RBIs and proof once again that I can allude to Christopher at his best without always calling attention to his usual litany of ceaseless failures—from feckless leadership to grotesque errorage—that I occasionally mention in these missives. Of course, that's not what I’d do now given it was his jaw-dropping kickass that more than anything else sent Eoin’s peeps into a hot steamy wok of eggplant, lamb, and heaping spice-laden mounds of pure degradation dahl, 26-20. 

 

The point is that as we continue to evolve as the last best escape from the accelerating enshittification of a world gone nutso, I’d like to remind you that it’s your fellow players who will guarantee you the kinesiological release you need to stay hearty and sane. Indeed, thank yourselves when you can, for as we continue to sprinkle our richly fecund seed across our cherished homeland’s pristine grasses, ubiquitous will be our legacy in the millennia to come, from Muscat to Ztaafs, and all softball-lovin’ locales everywhere in between. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond