The bad news is we lost on Tuesday night. The good news is we played the best we’ve played all season. Our defense was at its finest. The game was scoreless for three innings. For the first time in a long time, we felt evenly matched.
The only way in which our opponents surpassed us was in their sheer obnoxiousness. Honestly, what is in the water this season? Our opponents this season have been a steady parade of contemptible asshats: the shrill harpies and overzealous foreigners from Week 4, the gym class heroes of Week 3, the groan-inducing hipsters from Week 2, and the realest thugs this side of Don Bosco Prep from our inaugural contest. Week 5 proved no better, as we had to deal with the belabored temper tantrums of the Grey Team. Their pitcher led the charge. Bearing more than a passing resemblance to Joba Chamberlain, in all dimensions, this turd pulled some of the most ridiculous crap I’ve ever seen in Momma Johnson Park: walking off the mound to “discuss” a call with our utterly disengaged ump; pegging Pete at first base, long after the play had ended and Pete was called safe; and calling for time out so he could coach his batters on a full count. Are you fucking serious, Tubby? Eventually my disdain faded to pity and shame, as I realized that this guy is destined to a future of alienating his own children by managing their PAL soccer and local Little League baseball teams as if a six figure contract extension hangs in the balance. When the dad of the other seven year old who is on the receiving end of the spikes-up slide this glory-hungry douchebag orders his kid to execute cuts him in the parking lot with a broken beer bottle, you can bet I’ll be saying, “Told you so”. So infuriating was his behavior that we came up with a new strategy for winning: Piss Off the Pitcher, or P.O.P. I can’t say it was particularly effective, but it was certainly a lot of fun.
Even when runs started coming in, the game was still tight. It wasn’t until the fifth inning that they finally got the best of us. Bunting proved to be our downfall. I can’t fault Julia for being shy about rushing the plate, knowing that any one of these crotch-goblins tearing down the third base line would not think twice about bowling her over. Scott, however, has to take responsibility for his apparent shell-shock, this paralyzing adrenalin rush that prevents him from ever making the proper toss off a bunt. He throws to first, a runner scores from third. He throws to third, no one’s going there. On a series of plays like that, our foes quickly advanced. The game ended 4- 3 in their favor. (Thanks for the correction, Erin. I don’t know where I pulled 8 – 2 from, but that’s certainly what it felt like)
It was a particularly painful loss, as we were playing at full strength and against some truly reprehensible characters. No favors came our way from the umpire either. We traded in the superhuman ferocity of last week’s official for the meditative yet immovable stolidity of the one we had this time. He appeared to have been tragically born without a personality, and his strike zone was wider than the gap between Michael Strahan’s two front teeth. It was really unbelievable. Pete even struck out again, but we could hardly hold him accountable. According to this guy, if the ball passes behind you, you’re supposed to swing at it.
We finished the evening the way we used to, back in the old days, with most of the team playing flip cup at Lounge 11. I was ready to enjoy some laughs with my teammates over an unhealthy and unsanitary contest of consumption and coordination, but then Jenny and Mike had to go and get all sociable, and they invited our opponents over to play. Don’t you understand? Whether it be kickball or beer balls, we don’t play well with others. It’s just not who we are. Before I could press my case, the Greys were saddling up to the table. I had the pleasure of being near Joba Lite, who was suddenly all smiles and apologetic. “I don’t know what it is,” he aw-shucksed to those of us within ear shot. “With sports, I just get competitive”. I know what it is, Fat Ass. You’ve got a tiny dick. There’s no doubt in my mind that if we had won that game, you would have spit on your hand before shaking with us. Don’t think you can sweet-talk me, jackass. I’m watching you.
After a few rounds, the beer was gone. Being the socially gracious people we are, we up and left when we decided it was taking some of the Greyettes too long to refill our pitchers. So, we may have lost yet another game, but at least we saved a few dollars.
Another game next week. If you’re tired of watching the Mets lose, come watch us for a change.
Game 5 Brief
Record: 1 – 4
MVP of the Week: Erin – An accomplishment I never expected to see: back-to-back MVP honors for the Mouth of the Hudson River. While it may not have been hard for her to stand out last week, Erin managed to distinguish herself again on a week when everyone was on their game. Guarding second base with tenacity and claiming control of any pop fly to the right infield (and even a few in shallow right outfield…you’re welcome), Erin was playing All-Star defense. (Ed. Note: She also had three RBIs. She asked that I mention that)
Weekly “Not En Fuego” Award: Scott – Not just for his aforementioned spasms on the mound, but also for the fact that he repeatedly took the field with his iPhone in his pocket. Keeping your iPhone on your person while playing a child’s game in your twenties is the equivalent of wearing a mouth guard in middle school dodgeball because you have braces. It’s unnecessary and doesn’t make you special.
Quote of the Week: Tie – “That was a mosquito, and I just saved your boob.” ~ Julia, after suddenly five-fingering me across the chest and “You’ve never heard me poop!” ~ Jenny