11/25/15

Softball: The Historic Meaning of Turkey to Us as a Recreational Folk

Dear People,

Anthony's team soaked my own in a dreary basin of ineptitude ink, 10-4, and frankly, that's something that me and my posse are going to have to think about long and hard if we're ever going to understand the sheer fragility of basic human dignity. The fact is that Jerry once again unleashed his lethal blend of curve, knuckle and semi-engorged blue balls with such devastating effect that almost every one on my batters was splayed metaphorically nude before the degrading mound of potential destroyed-Among others, Donny, Jim and Michael Davey were all rendered sallow and scoreless shells of their former power-hitting selves. Indeed, if it weren't for Pace's two stirring homers to deep center right, we might've endured the first shut out in the history of this league, and so yeah, I tremble at what we almost became, and yet frankly, I still have gratitude in my bosom for having dodged the unique disgrace of a scoreboard at zero.


And speaking of appreciation, I'm well aware that many of you will soon be departing for the extended Thanksgiving Weekend and so I was leaning toward not even bothering to organize a game this week. But then I started thinking that this is exactly what the terrorists would want, and I'll be damned if I'm going to give in to a bunch of severely under-medicated mediaeval psychopaths. Moreover, I also started to reflect on what I had written to this community just 15 years ago this very eve, and while I'm obviously not going to quote myself verbatim, I would gently remind those of you who are about to take off for your usual sanity-crushing family reunion that the roots of softball are profoundly steeped in the proud American traditions of community, reflection and succulent tryptophan-laced poultry. Indeed, as I wrote back on that innocent day in the Fall of 2000 . . .

Few seem to remember that when Captain Miles Standish and Squanto rose to toast their good fortune on that frosty Plymouth evening in November 1621, both men agreed to a post-dinner match of exhilarating AAA Pilgrim Ball (A curious colonial pastime that most recreational historians now believe was an embryonic version of soccer, although it was actually played with darts). Unfortunately for the Wampanoag, their team lost 10-8, and thus under the pre-game agreement, they and their relatives had to abandon all of New England by 1625. Nevertheless, the honored tradition of combining hearty fowl-based meals with vigorous exercise was firmly established, and I for one see no reason to discontinue it now.

The point is that we arguably live in more complex and perilous times than in the Fall of 1625 or even the November of 15 years ago (before we had even heard of Osama bin Lederhosen), and so it's obviously tempting to spend this entire upcoming holiday weekend sheltered in place with the reassuring presence of your extended and only moderately under-medicated family. I get that. Yet I also know that if Captain Miles Standish and Squanto were around today, they'd crave nothing more than to play a bracing round of our own national pastime, modernized as it is with its fine leather glovings, wondrous aluminum batting sticks and semi-engorged ISIS-defying blue-balls. And therefore there will be a game at Codornices this Sunday at 11, IF I get enough commits by this Friday morning . . . Raymond


11/26/15

Softball: Return to Beverly Hills

Dear People,

I am so dang stuffed.

In any case, 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 either a complimentary post-match crystal-intensive aura cleansing or a mud therapy body wrap with a special zucchini peel facial . . . Raymond

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