Apologies for the lack of updates, dear readers. Between meteorological, financial, and technical delays, I haven’t had time for much adventuring, nor the opportunity for recapping the few outings that I had. But the clouds, literal and metaphorical, finally parted last night and the Goddamnit Gerber gang was called to Momma Johnson Park to continue our quest for victory.
And, holy f-ing s, sports fans…we finally won a game!
It was just as remarkable as you’re imagining it to be; but a little background first. Due to the unprecedented number of teams in each division and the inclement weather that has routinely struck mid-week for the better part of this month, as well as the limited field time available and the approaching summer season, the ZogSports gods have been forced to condense the current schedule. As such, we were notified that last night’s contest would not begin until 10:15.
Collectively, we scoffed. A 10:15 start? Would we have to play with mining helmets and reflective vests on? Were the baselines going to be marked with flares? Would someone guarantee our safety from the hordes of bats that emerge from tiny crevices within the cliffs below Palisade Avenue at this late hour, to feed on the flesh of the living?
Then, collectively, we had an epiphany. A 10:15 start meant at least two hours of drinking at Lounge 11 beforehand! Doffing our night-vision goggles, we danced our cares away with all the joie de vivre and grace of your average Fraggle. I have to commend the DJ for offering up some truly exceptional tracks. It was a long time before the requisite Bon Jovi mash-up came on. Prior to that, brother was laying down the funk! A team who had been playing at a reasonable hour and had already finished their game invited us to play Flip Cup with them. Live and learn, amateurs. We made them buy our beer and only played about four rounds before they got tired of waiting for us to stop dancing, taking pictures, and throwing ping-pong balls at each other. We kept drinking the beer, though. Soon enough it was time to head for the field. Our flashlights were lit, and so were we.
We appeared to be evenly matched against our opponents, in terms of players present. We had a few more ladies than they did, and all of their fellas looked like they had gotten lost on their way to a Coney Island hot dog eating contest. Once play began–on the park’s infamous dirt field, mind you–it was clear we were evenly matched in terms of talent, too. Their defense was strong–it was hard to get a kick past some of these man-mountains–but some fleet-footed baserunning and powerful kicks to the shallow parts of the outfield put us ahead early.
We started celebrating a bit too soon, and perhaps a bit too passionately. We were repeatedly asked to keep our line dancing away from the first base line. Our patented amnesia for all things batting order wound up totaling some significant game delays. And our jocular posturing and put-downs were apparently too much for the other team to handle. Rachel was issued a yellow card (or its ZogSports equivalent) for her taunts, and Erin got one, too. Not for anything in particular that she said; just for speaking in general.
Distracted by our own shenanigans, we let our lead slip away. It wasn’t enough that Spitz, JR, and the recalcitrant Rachel were making great grabs in the infield. It wasn’t enough that Stacy once again sacrificed her body at second base, getting bulldozed by one of the other team’s bitch-titted behemoths. It wasn’t even enough that Jenny, fueled by a potent mixture of lust and gin, chased a particularly well-proportioned baserunner to third in an attempt to make the tag, and succeeded only in falling onto and over his impressive lats. No, once again, defeat was prepared to pull Goddamnit Gerber into its loveless, discomforting, and stinky embrace. I’m sorry, did I say “defeat” or “Josh“? Anyway, going in to the seventh and final inning, we trailed by one run. It was going to take everything we had to pull this off.
We kept our opponents from scoring, and it was time for the final at-bat. Volpe got safely to first on a fielding error. He later made it around to third after Joe booted one deep. On the following kick (and I apologize for not remembering the responsible party), Twinkle Toes crossed the plate. We had tied the game! Now, with two outs and heroic Joe waiting on second base, we had a chance to win the game! JR stepped up to the plate, dutifully shouldering the incredible pressure and expectations we were shamelessly piling upon him. He fouled the ball twice. And then…
I don’t remember if it was a line drive or a fly ball. I don’t remember if it was kicked to the infield or the outfield. All I know is that Joe motored around the bases before either he or JR could be caught, and WE WON THE FREAKIN’ GAME! A nail-biter in the grandest of sport traditions, we had overcome our opponents and our own deranged selves to succeed, after many failed attempts, in a semi-athletic endeavor that is the choice form of entertainment for elementary schoolers across the land. We danced more, and took more pictures, and threw more things at each other in celebration. Look out, world! We’ve got a W in our record books now!
And we did it all without Scott.
Game 4 Brief
Record: 1 – 3
MVP of the Week: JR – For his clutch first base play and his game-winning RBI.
Weekly Not En Fuego Award: Kish – His eyes were bigger than his liver this week. After a few sprints up and down the first baseline, he was tuckered out. Eyes half-closed, he groggily sat out many innings in the field. And when the ball went over the fence, he didn’t so much as think to execute one of his famous leaps to retrieve it.
Quote of the Week: “I just told the ref that Erin was an idiot, and she agreed.” ~ Rachel