It’s me, again.
I know I said that others from the Goddamnit Gerber nation would be recapping our games for you, but this week is an exception. At press time, I may well be the only team member who was in attendance who is not now in a foreign land or monstrously hung-over…or both.
We were working the late shift last night, with kick-off scheduled for 9:45. This meant that, on this particular evening, I would be missing both Lost and Glee. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit bummed. However, my teammates are immune to such pessimism. A 9:45 start wasn’t an inconvenience; it was an opportunity.
Led by none other than Kish, eight of my fellow ballers headed to Lounge 11 a full three hours prior to our game to get their drink on. I arrived briefly after 9:00 to find them split into teams of four, huddled over fish bowls full of neon-colored jungle juice, straws clamped tightly between puckered lips, sucking harder and faster than the New York Mets at Coors Field. This was apparently the latest in a series of competitions of consumption that had been raging since happy hour. I was offered a straw, and later a shot, but declined. I was going to get my buzz drinking in the sights and sounds of their shenanigans.
Twenty minutes, three ass-slaps, and a drunken slice of pizza later, we arrived at the field. Our more abstinent teammates soon arrived, but some of them seemed to have been taking crazy pills on their own. Someone brought a grapefruit to the game, and that quickly became the prop as well as the projectile of choice. I sincerely hope no one actually ate it.
We had a crowded roster, but there were absences (see the game brief below). We had a guest player in Ryan, our sometime-teammate/sometime-opponent/sometime-referee. He quickly found a way to endear himself to those on the squad unfamiliar with him. During one of our at-bats, someone noticed him kneeling on the ground, and asked if he was all right. It turns out Ryan was more than all right. Ryan was being a god’s-honest champ. With his legs bent at right angles, one knee up and one on the grass, suggesting the lower half of a swastika, Ryan had rolled up his right pant leg and, demonstrating either the malleability of his sweatpants’ fabric or the blessings of his forbears, was discreetly peeing onto the grass. We all watched in scandalized fascination. He’d later explain the mechanics of this maneuver, which he has clearly utilized regularly. There wasn’t even any dribble on his pants once he was finished.
I bet you thought that was the only genital-centered story of the evening, but it wasn’t. We tend to crowd the third baseline when we’re in our dugouts. At least one of us will be certain never to do so again. Pee Pants Ryan booted one to right for an easy RBI, but fleet-footed Kish was determined to make it home as well. The opposing team’s first baseman, vaguely reminiscent of the newly svelte Kevin Youkilis, got the cut-off throw and saw Kish hustling for home. Hurling the ball with all his might, he missed his intended target, but succeeded in pegging George square in the nuts. After writhing on the ground to the sounds of our barely suppressed laughter, George blinked the tears out his eyes and soldiered on.
Our opponents in navy blue had a disproportionate number of large guys on their team. Of particular concern was their third baseman, who was the size of Dwight Howard. His ego was just as large. He would throw the ball to first with the force required of those playing the same position on fields of major league proportion, and rather than let bad pitches roll by him into the catcher’s arms, he would dismissively kick them into the dugout. Sorry to be wasting your time, Superman. I didn’t realize the scouts were here. He was simply too big and too strong and too serious to be playing with the cacophonous amnesiacs I proudly call my teammates, and this volatile combination would explode early in the game. When a base hit allowed the Man of Steel to advance to second, he ran head-on into Stacy, who was squared up to make the play. I don’t think even NBA players could have taken this charge. The big guy showed no remorse, which was absolutely the worst thing he could have done. Piss off Sober Stacy? You best check yourself. Piss off Ol’ Whiskey Lips? Better check the weather forecast, because there be a shit-storm a-comin’. After she was physically restrained by Eric and our already-exhausted referee intervened, play resumed.
Our defense got stronger as the game went on, but our offense never improved. We lost 7 – 5, prompting Spitz to note that we do, in fact, play better sober. However, we don’t seem to be half as entertaining.
Will we halt our losing streak with next week’s game? What other odd displays of biological ingenuity have yet to be revealed? And will someone else ever write one of these? Stay tuned.
Game 3 Brief
Record: 0 – 3
MVP of the Week: Multiple Winners – I really can’t single out just one MVP of the Week this time. Ryan had a nice game, on top of his urological prominence. George and Stacy are to be commended for recovering from mid-game injuries. Joe had a three-run homer in his first at bat, and backed me up in center field to make a crucial catch. Eric also had an outstanding grab in the outfield, falling end over end to make it. Rachel made a number of smart plays at second. And whether it was simply a matter of luck or a strange side effect of acute alcohol poisoning, Scott was taking names from the mound, ripping three line drives out the air, demoralizing the opposition (however temporarily).
Weekly Not En Fuego Award: Everyone Who Wasn’t There – Honestly, Tony, Jenny, Annie, Steinhaus, and Liz… Where were you? I think it’s clear you missed one for the ages. Some of you have only made it to one game so far. What’s your excuse? Were you really working until after 10? Did you have that much to pack for your vacation? Was your date really that hot? If I find out that any one of you was sitting on the couch with a box of Mallomars watching Glee instead of showing up to Momma Johnson Park to support your team, I swear to whatever heathen god or goddess you pray to that I will inflict upon you a punishment so cruel yet hilarious that even Sue Motherfucking Sylvester herself will shed salty tears of pity.
Quote of the Week: “Looks like your ball was caught by…twins.” ~ Amanda to Yours Truly, after my fly ball to right field was caught by a rather buxom opponent, wearing a t-shirt that supported Minnesota’s Major League Baseball team. (Think about it for a minute)
(Editor’s Note: This is my 200th post. Quite the entry for such a milestone)