5/25/11
Softball: The Challenges of Our Potentially Ephemeral Youth
Dear People,
My team pulverized Mike Davey's 17-6, but the real story was yet another bipartisan and unsightly display of the delicate interplay between the raw glory of sport and those athletes amongst us who are now deep into our stark middle geezer years. The fact is that I myself was once again hobbling about with no business being on that field-my sprained and tender little ankle a festering symbol of basic aerobic decay. It was clear that I could not really twist or pivot and that my normally manly-man hitting power had subtly degraded to that of an eager young toddler swinging an aluminum ski pole. Naturally, the Daveyator's outfield would swarm forward like a cackle of sneering cockroaches whenever I came to bat, and in all candor, I now understand the inherent humiliation of being Nanci at the plate.
Of course I had little time to wallow in empathetic veklemptitude, for the walking wounded were still everywhere, and in the bottom of the 6th, Enid added to the calamity by stopping a blistering foul tip with her upper teeth (This is really ill-advised). She'll be fine, but the incident put an ominous chill in the recreational zeitgeist, and just one inning later, time nearly froze as Andrew marked his community debut with the most ghastly sprint to first in the history of this league. I still get teary-eyed thinking about how his fragile little hamstring felled him half-way down the baseline, for the upshot was a human canvas of bloody Rothkoesque skinnage from his palms down to his knees.
It was a frightful scene as the Drewster lain there still, sallow and supine, and as you can imagine, my mind raced for the words to comfort Eli as he quickly approached to see how his mother's favorite brother was faring. “Ray” he asked me in a solemn whisper, “how many outs is that, anyway?” Yeah, I've said it before and I'll say it again; There is no familial bond as tender as that between a burgeoning young nephew on the cusp of manhood and his beloved, sagacious and quadragenrian uncle.
The point is that I'm still stunned by the failure of the Lord to rapture me and his other chosen folk this past weekend, but as long as I'm still here, I'd like to once again implore the dozen or so Cal biologists who participate in these games to please focus your research on telomeres, gerontological biophysics and whatever else will quickly lead to the end of the aging process at the cellular level. I don't think that's too much to ask, for frankly, this appeal is not merely “about” vulnerable ankles and hamstrings, but rather the simple and humble proposition that if 65 years from now, the only current members still playing in this league are part of Eli's dumbass generation, then science as an institution will have utterly and tragically failed us. At a minimum, I think we can all agree on that, and therefore there will be a game at Grove Park this Sunday at 4, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning…Raymond
5/27/11
Softball: Where Have all the Flowers Gone? (Them Three-Day Weekend Organizational Blues)
Dear People,
There will be a game at Grove Park this Sunday at 4, but as of now, we only have 15 players. You are therefore welcome to commit any non-community people you happen to know, including embittered ex-lovers and former parole officers.
For those commitaphobes on the fence, I can guarantee you there will be 18-22 players by the time the game rolls around, but when you make me grovel for warm bodies on Saturday afternoon, it's the entire community that feels the taint of dignity lost. Is that what you want to feel? No, I didn't think so.
Please bring $4 for the field, which for this week only includes a delightful post-game feast featuring Italian blood sausage and duck eggs on a succulent bed of fresh buckwheat groats ….Ray 845-7552
6/1/11
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