Game Recap - Mother's Day Madness

Salutations, dear softball brethren!

Sunday's brilliant outing provided a clandestine, insta-classic match for the ages. Like the over-arcing theme of a Proust or Joyce novel, yesterday's torrid affair was based upon that unrelenting constant of human existence existentially, incompletely and obtusely known as "time." Or, to be put more concretely: old-ass creaky-joints motherfuckas versus barely-legal teen jailbait.

Yes, on the day set aside to celebrate our mothers (the invaluable cargo vessels charged with delivering us safely to the magnificent shores known as life), a brave crew gathered in the tepid heat to do battle on the field of glory. As the (let's be honest) underwhelming numbers slowly arrived solo or in pairs, an enticing proposition was offered--the youth (for they are our future!) and their youthfulness would spar with the aged ones (for they are our present!) Also, there can only be one. Highlander, et al.

The vigorous Baby Dicks took to the skies and flew like the brash, majestic eagles they so obviously were, jumping out to a quick 9-0 lead after just one inning of play. But the Council Elders (note: not the squad's real name, but records of the contest are incomplete, at best) simply needed a few innings to warm the joints. By the seventh inning stretch, the wily vets had crawled back into striking distance, trailing only by a flimsy handful of runs. IT WAS A GAME, PEOPLE!

Unfortunately for the wise old souls, it was not meant to be. They dug deep, managing to trim the lead to a paltry 21-20. Alas! Could their youthful opponents simply be toying with the creaky, over the hill has-beens? (Shakes Magic Eight Ball) "All signs point to yes." The intrepid Baby Dicks tacked on a few insurance runs and pulled out a barnburner, 23-20. Wisdom was passed down from one generation to the next, Social Security numbers were revealed, and the youngsters confused the oldies with tales of a curious place called "the internet." Music today, with all the sexin' and swearin', it's no good! Yeah, whatever gramps. You know what I'm sayin'?

But wait! Controversy was afoot! One of the Baby Dicks' most stalwart and valuable of players, a certain "Pam," was rumored to have forged her birth certificate in an effort to join the most obviously superior team. Channeling the myriad Latin American baseball superstars in every conceivable manner--including dubious insistence of youth as well as 5-tool skills and unflappable calm in high-pressure situations--the player in question quite possibly was the game-changing force for the Baby Dicks. Will this game go under review by the League office? Stay tuned, true believers!

Game Recap - Easter Suare

Today's gentlemanly match was an intimate experience shared between a group of tight-knit friends. No more than 14 dedicated, brave softballers brought their wide range of abilities to the diamond on the day of Our Lord, Easter (fuck off, "god", we want to drink beer and rip doubles off the right field fence). Good 'ol 7-on-7 fare, players pitching and catching against their own teammates and everybody stepping into the batter's box at least six times. Worse things have happened in the world (like the Hindenburg, or--hey now!--Jesus dying for our sins).

The plucky upstarts known as the Dream Kids--homage to Dave McCary's (defunct?) band--steadily built a solid lead, scoring a couple runs in each of the first four innings. Simultaneously, the go-getters played stellar defense, holding the business-minded Reality Checks scoreless for a respectable period. Scholars and researchers alike will confirm that the highlight of the day, or possibly the best moment of all time, occurred when all-star Grahm (sic) Fink made a jaw-dropping, full-extension center field layout with two men in scoring position that put a momentary hold on the Reality Checks' designs to drive in a bunch of fucking runs. I'm sorry, sir, but your card has been declined! If you know what I mean.

But, as in life, the scrappy Dream Kids could not withstand the sheer brute power and overwhelming ability of the workmanlike Reality Checks. Final score: 17-11 in a shortened 7 inning affair. There are more Rwanda genocides out there than Obama's becoming the first black president in American history, if you catch my drift. Life is unfair, the underdog is the underdog for a reason, and things have a way of working out in the most obvious, boring and disappointing fashion. As Taylor of beloved Kid Nation fame would quip, "Deal with it!"

Quite obviously, this is the "Observe and Report" of eastside softball recap blog posts.

The Indoor Files, Volume One

Hey all (three of you? Four, maybe?),

While you were out in the sun perfecting the running throw to first base from short, I was sitting inside selling comic books.

"Wow, that sounds pretty radical!" the hypothetical crowd responds. "You sell comic books?"

Well, yeah, but that's not the point. It took a herculean effort of willpower to keep myself from tossing a pristine stack of Dark Avengers #2 in the air, effectively turning it into a glorious pile of makeshift ticker-tape confetti, joyfully bounding out the antiquated wooden doorway until reaching that great shrine--no! Mecca--to the perfect Sunday afternoon known as Tommy Lasorda Field of Dreams. It was harder than kicking my opium habit a few years back, that's for sure.

It is my hope that these short profiles in wont and desire will ease my suffering the next few weeks as I finish up my current occupation, thereby making my glorious return to the playing diamond all the sweeter. Indulge me, fair readers, as I use this outlet to stymie the reasonable urges of a man possessed to play some alcohol-influenced, four outfielder-altered motherfuckin' softball.

Best,

Evan

Yes, it's true

Spring Training begins Sunday

See you on the field at 1:00

Bring Friends. Bring Beers. Bring Smiles.

love,
mustang

Happy New Year

Hey everybody!

Just a couple more months until Spring Training!

I can't wait.

Can you?

Anybody there?

Hello?

Love

Mustang

Checkin' In

I'm pretty sure nobody is reading this besides Cameron and Evan, but thought I'd throw up a little post anyway with some info about the last 8-9 weeks here.

I am doing my best to get down to field by 2:00 now, and so should you. The sun is setting lower and lower and it get's downright dangerous out there when it's too low.

We will NOT be playing on September 28 because I have turned the field over to my friend Lauda for a kickball fundraiser. She is putting on a play in the spring and asking for a $20 donation. I'm gonna go check it out, as I had a good time with the kickballers last time they came through (Adrian, Nick and Jeff can attest).

The Halloween Game (and final game of the season) will take place on November 2, and costumes are strongly encouraged! if you look at a previous post, you can find some hilarious pictures from last year's game.

I know people are upset about not playing in the winter, but time off is what makes the beginning of spring so much the better. Doesn't mean we can't all get together on sundays...

Anyway, see you all on the field!

Bring Beers. Bring Friends. Bring Smiles.

love,
mustang

Recap: Dave is Vanquished

The giant hath been felled. Dave's iron-fisted grasp upon Eastside softball subsided on Sunday--for now. His squad just couldn't get it done against Nick's ragtag can-doers, "The Pins." A hot day, a glorious day, a day that will undoubtedly be recorded in the annals of history.

An important notice (which implies that people read this blog, to which I can only guffaw whilst simultaneously exhale a melancholy lament): The days are growing shorter, and daylight is slowly trickling from our outstretched fingertips. I realize the futility in this plea, but please can we try to start a little earlier? Say 2:30? Can anybody hear me..?

Let's all try to be like Bo out there.