Softball: A Pseudo-Hegalian Take on the Troubled Athletic Condition
Dear People,
My team crushed Chris Fure's 16-12, though for the record, 'my' team was actually Pace's since I inadvertently overbooked the roster (as I'm wont to do), and thus I had no choice but to resign my captainship and take over the prosaically non-aligned and bittersweet administrative roles of ump, scorekeeper and Gatorade-girl. As such, I believe I saw the match from a broad and uniquely anthropological perspective, as if I were watching competing tribes engaged in a cornucopia of nonsensical rituals designed to apparently garner the approbation of a capricious aerobic God. The pointless running around the sacred square, the swinging of the metal sticks, the ceaseless yet earnest bickering-frankly, the whole spectacle made me ponder our future as a species.
Now in fairness, ours is a communal endeavor of individual performance, and some of our stars did indeed shine bright; Reece's deep double to left was both stirring and understated while Donny's rocket to the sloped yak-laden tundra beyond center-left was an almost perfect half-ellipsis of stark Kepleresque curvature. And yet, for all that spatial pulchritude, there were also the inevitable displays of kinesiological disgrace. Yeah, I think of the Great Martin of Michigan-who, in the chaos of the tumultuous 6th, stoutly grid his loins, extended high his mitt, and then, focused straight up above as Andreas' sky-high pop-up to center came plunging back to earth. Curiously, though, good' ol Teeter-thighs hit the ground first, falling back stiff and fast as if he were a mighty redwood that had just been felled by a deviously invisible logger. Pity.
I also think of the Great Stephano of Not-Michigan, who spent no fewer than 12 seconds in the 8th trying to scoop up an already essentially stopped grounder at short; Perhaps the orb in question had suddenly taken on the properties of a photon whose position and momentum were inaccessible to mere infield mortals (though for what it's worth, resorts to quantum tampering are never accepted in court, and regardless, the runner at 1st had no such issues easily reaching 2nd). Finally, of course, I think of the inimitable Paul H, who, as a rotator, apparently committed an error in every position he played. In retrospect, such a feat is worthy of goose bumps, yet the fact is that at the time, his performance merely blended, and truth be told, for all three of these cherished heroes, I couldn't even tell you which team they were on.
The point is that my ascension into that starkly neutral plateau of principled indifference suggests to me that when you strip away the inherent passions of the participatory process (actual, vicarious or otherwise), one can only conclude that the objective essence of softball is like so much else in the grand tapestry of the mammalian experience-say, for example, snoring, praying, ballroom dancing, or, for that matter, virtually every act of human sexuality. Indeed, I think we can all agree that, like every one of those, our own beloved pastime makes us all look completely and utterly nutso. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond
11/12/14
Softball: Beverly Hills (A Brief Coda to This Morning's Theme)
Dear People,
There will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11 and as of now it is already full. As always, please let me know ASAP if you committed and need to cancel, and if you still want in, feel free to get on the wait list or contact me later for news of reopened slots.
This week's field fee is just $4, and that includes a complementary post-match charka reading with your choice of either ascension crystal therapy or aura energy restoration! . . . Raymond 845-7552