Softball: A Modestly Indulgent Narrative in the Quasi-Recursive Form
Dear People,
In one of those transcendent displays of the indomitable human spirit, my team rallied from a brutalizing mid-inning 15-2 abyss to eventually crush Paul Fine's, 31-27. The fact is that by the end of the 3rd, we were already down by double digits and most of my peeps were so demoralized that I honestly feared some would simply crack under the strain, strip off their skivvies and flee nude and degraded into the surrounding bush. Yet curiously, I could also sense a nuanced and semi-gaseous pivot in the recreational zeitgeist.
This was played out in the top of the 4th, when, with two out and Jerry on 1st, the Finester himself smashed a fearsome line drive straight up the middle. Jerry took off like a rocket and started to round 2nd, but then quickly realized he faced a ghastly tag-out if he didn't reverse course. The fact is, though, he was running as part of a team that had already sucked all the hope-nectar dry from the very marrow of our bones, and so, frankly, it was all the more satisfying that he seemed so terrified, as if he were one of those darling Malawian pup seals who suddenly understands that she's surrounded by a contemptible shoal of carnivorous hagfish.
Yeah, he looked that freaked, and as he desperately ran to and fro, my entire infield swarmed into what was clearly becoming an ambush for the ages. Indeed, our pincers closed ever tighter as Chris Fure, Mel, Frank, Donny, and Kora all took their turns at a potential catch'n'kill, and for the record, all showed a breathtaking focus for the entire 30-second spectacle. But then, and for reasons I don't pretend to understand, Frank threw the ball over Donny's head and into the left field tundra, and thus in an unsightly collapse of the stupid theoretical pivot theory, Jerry giggled his way to home.
Yet this failure of basic picklecution (Yeah, pick-le-kyü-shen---Deal with it) was actually our renaissance in disguise, for as I explained to Kora in the nadir of her despair, it showed that we still had our vital aerobic id just waiting to be unleashed. Or maybe that was just a bunch of pseudo-Freudian cattle crap and life is just random shifts in the inexplicable wind. Either way, for every additional Alan Shabel missile to the metaphorical moon, we now returned fire and then some, including with a cornucopia of triples, homers and even a staggering 7th-inning Chris Fure Grand Slam to deep shallow right, which, for the record, put us ahead for good.
Truth be told, I still get teary-eyed just thinking of that hit, and more specifically, the audacity of the indomitable Malawian id-nectar within every one of our bony little marrows. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning…Raymond
8/9/13
Softball: Cognitive
Dear People,
There will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11 and as of now there are still four slots left.
Please bring $4 for the field, which for this week only includes a rare post-match symposium and genuine academic twofer in which the basics of advanced design for integrated circuits are presented in a soothing introductory level Mandarin…Raymond 845-7552