6/26/02
Softball: PolySci
Dear People,
Congratz to all on last week’s politically moliminous 17-12 excursion to the wondrous crossroads where democratic theory and aerobic practice so stirringly collide. In retrospect, the occurrence of such sublime convergence was hardly inevitable, but then again, neither was the Bill of Rights, and indeed, the events of this past Sunday were so replete with the values of kinesiologic liberty that it’s as if James Madison’s tiny little 18th century spirit had somehow decided to protectively hover over the calamitous soils of Codornices’ cherished infield. Allow me to explicate:
As my team struggled to hold on to its narrow 9-9 lead in the bottom of the 7th, Peter faced Frank with two outs, runners on first and second, and the chilling specter of hens on the pond if he were to give up just one more single. My heart was pounding, my palms were clammy and frankly, I felt like throwing up, but I also had faith in my team, for I knew with every fiber of my being that we were poised and ready for any possible contingency.
Suddenly, Frank sliced a shallow blooper to center right, and as Don and Micky shot off from their respective bases, a surging crescendo of conflicting possibilities played havoc with the very notion of strategic containment. But then despair turned to hope as Don rounded second and rocketed toward third, only to find Micky casually standing at said base, apparently content to do his nails until the following batter brought him home. Naturally, my heart fluttered with joy as Frank added to the severity of their cumulative miscalculations, arriving steps from second base as it suddenly dawned on him that this tiny oasis of plastic square sanctuary was perhaps not ripe for his presumptuous little feet. Yes, it was a moment of sheer exhilaration, and as the ball flew into Lisa's glove from shallow center, she turned around, took a deep breath, and contemplated TWO SIMULTANIOUS PICKLES by which to crush, punish and humiliate the enemy!
Time seemed to freeze as I cautiously advanced behind Frank's clearly cornered ass, and as I looked into both his and Don's eyes, I saw nothing less than the terror of wild bison before their imminent eviscerations, each of them now spastically lurching back and forth, undoubtedly praying that Lisa would choose the other. As the frenzied whirlwind reached its denouement, I starred directly into her baby blue corneas and tacitly signaled that it was time for the coup de grace, but that the individual choice of victim was to be entirely based on her own calculations of the situational gestalt. I must tell you that as captain, I had never felt more assured about the ultimate outcome of such a critical play.
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In retrospect, one could certainly argue that is was not tactically wise for Lisa to freeze in her tracks and then frantically scream out "What do I do?!?!" no fewer than four times in a row. Aside from the immediate evaporation of whatever psychological advantage we momentarily possessed, the sight of her discombobulation most likely worked against our overall plans for picking off the base runners in question. Furthermore, her inability to remove the ball from her hand, or for that matter, to move her body at all, was, to say the least, unfortunate, and thus as my desperate pleas for an end to the paralysis went curiously unheeded, Micky scampered to home, Don darted back to third and even the wily Franker serenely traipsed into second. In all candor, it was truly pitiful.
Nevertheless, it would be way too easy to say that Lisa somehow "blew it." Oh sure, Frank’s team went on to score four more runs that inning, and thus by any standard analysis, her recreational abulia was the primary cause for our subsequent implosion. Yet this compelling tale is about so much more than blamitude or scoreage, and I think you understand that. For in daring to ask her fellow teammates that inherently humble but starkly profound question——"What do I do?’’——Lisa almost single handedly brought the venue of aerobic decision-making down to its most profoundly democratic roots.
To be sure, we are so used to actions made under the guise of individual authority that we have forgotten that our teams are actually more than just metaphoric republics, for as it is written in The Federalist 38, "even proper governance does not exclude the people themselves from deciding on the course of their normal (athletic) lives." Listen, I wouldn’t deny that the timing of Lisa’s appeals for input were somewhat less than useful, but ultimately, it was she alone who brought a genuine Madisonian vision to the thorny dilemma of defensive strateegery, and for that, I am eternally grateful. And therefore, there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning….Raymond
6/27/02
Softball: The Price of Dawdleage
Dear People,
There will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11AM, but alas it is with a heavy aorta that I must announce that it is already full. As always, feel free to call for late cancels.
This week’s field fee is just $2, and that includes a wide selection of fresh seasonal berries and glutamate receptor antagonists…. Raymond 845-7552
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