9/8/04

Softball: The Painful Process of Codified Explication

Dear People,

I’m not going to try to explain why my team lost to Frank’s, 28-6, because the hard reality is that I can’t even pretend to understand what the fuck happened. Sure, I could blame the broiling noon-day sun or the spiking of my side’s sodas with generic Phenobarbital. I suppose I could also cite a slight miscalculation in the abstract potential of some unknown athletic entities, or for that matter, the vicious aerobic circle that sucks away all hope, pride and hand-eye coordination from any team facing the somewhat inauspicious position of a 3rd inning 16-0 deficit. But ultimately, I have no idea if these are the key factors that led to our hosing.

What I do know is the following; Despite some bitter grumbling to the contrary, I can assure you that when balancing the teams that hot and fateful morning, I was well aware that I was doing so for our usual slow-pitch softball game, and not, as some have implied, for a spontaneous afternoon of Trivial Pursuit. Having said that, though, I have no doubt that had we not been distracted by that enticing cornucopia of postgame barbecue fare, my side would have immediately challenged Frank’s to just such a rematch, and in all candor, we would’ve kicked some serious epistemological ass. That’s not a boast, just a fact.

In any case, it’s now 10PM on another sweltering Tuesday night, and if I may gently confide in you, I am wallowing under the strain of severe writer’s block. Not because I have to compose this weekly missive (annoying as it is for both you and me), but rather because I am stuck in the middle of a chapter on the joys of ovulation, for a potentially massive readership of shrieking teenage girls. The point is, frankly, that I really don’t care if every single one of their post-pubescent ovaries is filled with Rice Krispies instead of eggs, making the whole stupid chapter semi-irrelevant. Perhaps that’s being unduly crass, although in fairness, I am a barren 44-year-old man who has never felt the joys of mittelschmerz, and thus sometimes I think that my current struggle with the pen is deeply rooted in the vacuum of experience denied.

In closing, my name is Raymond P. Weschler, and I approved this sassy little message. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11AM, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning…Raymond


9/20/04

Softball: A Brazen Organizational Gamble

Dear People,

There will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11AM, although shamefully, there are still so many slots left that if I weren’t so busy, I’d normally threaten to cancel the whole kit’n’kaboodle if I didn’t get at least two more commits by noon today (as was my strategery in years gone by). Fortunately for you, though, I now believe that this community would never force me to incessantly badger individual players in unseemly guilt-laden Saturday evening phone calls that reduce me to the status of a tawdry aerobic whore.

Please prove me right/Anyone can commit/$2 for the field/See ya Sunday….Raymond

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