Softball: The Compelling Logic of Easter Dating
Dear People,
Jeff W’s team beat my own 23-16, in one of those explosive paragons of high athletic theatre. Indeed, after my side pulled out to a crushing 12-2 lead in the 3rd, one of the more ghastly incidents in the history of our community nearly shut the game down cold, right then and there. That I was personally involved made it all the more intriguing, and yet in the end, the bruising, the near-concussion, and the momentary skirting with death simply didn’t capture what I was truly “feeling.” If you’d be so kind, allow me to explain:
With the pressure on and his team floundering badly, Ira popped up a deceptively sensual curve ball, about half way between the plate and first base. Naturally, I bolted toward that orb with both alacrity and conviction, and in all candor, I sensed a burgeoning sensation of inner calm and accomplishment as my feet, eyes and hands all converged on that plummeting sphere of utter symbolic failure. Unfortunately, though, and for reasons I don’t pretend to understand, Ira darted toward first while apparently unaware that there might be someone near the baseline actually trying to catch the ball. The result was one of those stark head-on calamities in which diametrically opposed torso, knee and spleen all collide in a singular nanosecond of sheer bone-crushing terror. In fact, I initially thought that I’d been hit by a Hummer, though Jonny would later say it was more subtle than that, as if two embittered stags had gone horn-to-horn over their cherished yet conflicting rutting rights.
Regardless, both the Iranator and I endured shock, excruciating pain and a nearly irresistible urge to throw up all over the infield (yuck). But there was also something magical about the entire experience, and while I don’t want to say it was a good thing, I do believe that we shared a truly tender moment of rare Newtonian intimacy. No, I can’t speak for him, but I for one will cherish the memory of our collision for as long as I live, and in fact, I may even drop my suit for aggravated battery.
The point is that this weekend marks the 1,977th anniversary of the resurrection of the great Jesus Christ, give or take a decade and a fairly robust leap of faith. JC, of course, was both a radical hippie Jewish lad who frowned on litigation, AND a dominant hitter for the Nazareth Epistles, the most revered Stickball team in all of Judea. So yeah, at first I was thinking that I wouldn’t even organize a game, but then it occurred to me—what better way to honor the Prince of Aerobic Peace than to play on the first ecclesiastical full moon that occurs on or after the vernal equinox? I guess some things are just intuitive, and therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11AM, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning…Ray