Softball: Temptations of the Old World in Proper Recreational Context
Dear People,
On a warm and sultry picture-postcard day, my team tenderly asphyxiated Allan Brill's, 9-7. David Anderson showed staggering control from the mound with his deeply sensual curve balls-each and every one a batter-bruising blend of roll, pitch and yaw. Still, the game was stirring and taut throughout, in large part because the great Steve Seskin refused to be cowed by such a tawdry use of Newtonian physics; Indeed, the Seskinator hit 1,000 against those very throws, on a walk, a delightful fly past short, a bobbled grounder up the middle and a perfectly placed blast a full five feet down the left base line! So yeah, a hurler can be as dominant as all get-out, but if at that plate stands a power-hitting singer-songwriting Renaissance-mensch, then history now shows that raw dominance itself can quickly fritter away. I for one get chills.
In any case, it should also be noted that Anne made her long-awaited community debut, and as expected, she displayed a compelling British poise as both batter and catcher. Nevertheless, the joy of her presence on the field was tempered by the news that her equally British hubby had accepted a dubious job in London finance, and thus both she and Tom will be returning to England as early as next month. Naturally, I discretely pulled them aside as soon as I was informed of their plans and gently reminded them that London is nothing but a podunk town with little to see or do, and regardless, the nearest American softball games would be 200 miles North, in Aberdeen.*
*See D.K. Slater's majestically reported masterpiece, Big Yankee Balls: The Improbable Rise of American Softball Deep in the Scottish Bush.
As you can imagine, Anne was visibly shaken, especially since she had no idea that London was so utterly bereft of the pastime she now knew she'd crave forever. Tom, for his part, awkwardly tried to console her with some gibberish about “always having cricket,” but in all candor, I think we all know that an utterly incomprehensible English sport based on stick-wielding inanity is hardly a substitute for the crown jewel of America's athletic exceptionalism.
Yes, my friends, Tom and Anne will undoubtedly cross the pond one sad day soon. Yet every fibroid of my being tells me that they'll be back before long, for the aerobic heart is a lonely and nomadic hunter, and in any case, ephemeral is the allure of statistical arbitrage, spotted dick and the world's dreariest climate. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning…Raymond
7/7/11
Softball: Gourmet
Dear People,
There will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11AM, and as of now there are still three slots left.
Please bring $4 for the field, which for this week only includes a succulent post-match loin of Elliot Ranch lamb with cranberry beans and braised new garlic…Raymond 845-7552