Softball: Kinesiological Majesty Across the Ages

[raymond...@gmail.com]

Dear People,

 

Let the record show that last week’s match was the first one in well over a year in which the entirety of our favorite nuclear family came out to frolic, and that means parental units James and Erica as well as their two strapping sons, brothers Porter and Holden. Of course just pecking this makes me wonder why families are ever called ‘nuclear,’ though in this case, the more explosive connotations of that word have a certain stark resonance that have played out for millennia in full view of both this community and the nation as a hole. Indeed, it’s not easy being Porter when Holden’s in town, or perhaps vice versa in spades, and so needless to say, there was a harrowing moment in the top of the 5th last Sunday afternoon when time itself seemed to freeze in place, for ball, bones, and potential fraternal combustion had never converged so frightfully.

 

As best I recall, it was the legendary Dan May who struck a solid 1-on 2-out fly to the centroidal grassy knollette between right, center-right and short, and it was Porter and Holden who darted from their outfield perches to make the desperate snag. The terrifying collision that resulted instantly felled them both, and as Erica and I watched in shock from the bleachers, she dryly whispered, “it’s now détente or war, ya never really know.” Thankfully, both lads scooped themselves up, and after some brief sass and snarls, the Portmanteau was able to limp off the field for a much needed respite, which naturally culminated in a mellow and stinky 6th-inning doobie.

 

In any case, Chris Fure’s contingent had Porter and Holden while mine was stuck with their parental units. Normally, that would be a wash (sort of), but the bros soon seemed to bond in the wake of their nearly skull-crushing calamity, and with that fraternal synergy now on their side, the Furinator’s contingent began their inevitable domination. Of course they still played some ethically dubious hardball, including Joe P’s brazen 7th-inning violation of the Behind-the-Second-Cone fielding rule that was somehow mob-judged as acceptable simply because I myself was the victim, and, even worse, all my best sluggers batted with a certain jejune torpidity. 

 

The bottom line: My side floundered and floundered hard in a large industrial vat of ghee-coated disgrace, 17-11.

 

The point is that this upcoming weekend marks the 1,992nd anniversary of the resurrection of the one and only Jesus Christ, give or take a decade and a really impressive leap of faith. So, naturally, I wasn’t going to bother organizing a game so that those of the Christian persuasion could partake in a relaxing day of family, quiet contemplation, and ham. But then I started to think about what Jesus himself would want us to do, and especially this year, with so much harmony and good cheer flowing throughout the world. Well, I'm obviously not going to quote myself verbatim, but I would gently remind you of what I wrote this magical community 17 years ago today . . .

 

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I just happened to be reading through the Gospel according to Matthew when it suddenly struck me that the Mattmesiter's most compelling contribution was probably his stirring depiction of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount. 

 

In all candor, I’m not an expert in the ancient Hebraic tongues of the Eastern Mediterranean, and yet my own etymological analysis strongly suggests that the Aramaic slang word “mooundt” (meaning literally, “awesome anthill”) was somehow translated into ancient Hebrew as their word for “mount,” (meaning “nice mountain”), when in reality, the location where Jesus offered his beatitudes was on the “mound” (with a 'd').

 

No, I can’t prove this beyond a reasonable doubt, and I certainly don’t mean to cast aspersions on the fine folks who toiled at the Department of Translation in King James' Court. Yet I am suggesting that recent archeological breakthroughs now clearly imply that the ancient Israelites played a club-swinging ball game that was shockingly similar to our modern game of baseball, and more to the point, when Jesus rose to address the multitudes on that fateful ancient day, he did so from the pitcher's mound at the original Jerusalem Stadium and Rugby Club . . .

 

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Truth be told, I still get a bit verklempt when I read my own scholarly analysis, but regardless, I think you get where I’m going with this. That’s right, you can spend this Sunday hanging out with the usual nutjobs that make up your extended family, or you can do what the inimitable JC himself would do if he were here to do it, and that's play a spiritually invigorating match of softball that would literally glaze you in a fragrant aerobic patina of peace, love and unbridled understanding. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond