![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldClick here for the previous update.
My right knee is swollen to the size of a large grapefruit this morning, a malady that can only be attributed to sprinting around a small softball diamond repeatedly for two evenings in a row. It is not a natural physical activity, running at full speed in relatively tight circles, made worse by the fact that I had been fairly out-of-practice recently.
Wednesday's softball game was my first in almost three weeks, as a series of life events and logistical problems conspired to keep me off the diamond in the interregnum. Usually I can provide a casual analysis of the district's spring and summer weather by making a mental catalogue of the number of rained-out games. Two years ago -- during a supposed drought, I might add -- the season was particularly wet, and I was commonly found in the late afternoon, staring wistfully out my office window at the clouds gathering, full of portents. Well, some portents. About 25 percent portents. The rest was humidity.
But it isn't weather that has thwarted me, this season. First there was an evening of theater, then an out-of-town trip. Then there were scheduling snafus, made worse by the invasion of the national mall by the giant tents of the Folklife Festival, a pseudo-nostalgic boondoggle that inexplicably entices thousands of people to wander around and Absorb Culture, despite the fact that nothing interesting ever happens there except for an obligatory smelting demonstration and the occasional drunken quilting contest. It lasts ten days and apparently takes about two months to set up.
The raising of various tents and whatnot, in addition to the interminable construction around the Washington Monument, has severely limited the number of places for recreational athletes to play this year, forcing many depressed individuals to skip the sporting element entirely and go straight to the bars wearing comical but unsullied softball jerseys.
On Wednesday, June 15, we found a field farther west of the mall, adjacent to the Vietnam memorial. The fields are less-than-ideal, since the ground is so uneven that the diamond must be placed on a rather extreme slope, requiring batters to hit uphill. You could also say that it is not properly landscaped for softball, since the lush grass is growing so wild and high that it could conceivably be hiding alligators -- save for some very weird-looking closely manicured pathways as if an allusion to midwestern crop circles. Plus there were mosquitos, enormous Sumo Mosquitoes that are likely on some kind of growth hormone regimen. And did I mention it was 90 degrees?
My Wednesday team, the aforementioned Red Tape, was playing, and the team came out en masse. No fewer than 19 people showed up to play, a veritable army of royal blue and glove leather, enough to play a pretty good intrasquad game. Our crusty manager, trying to do the right thing by her many charges, drew up a substitution plan rivaling Operation Desert Storm in scope and complexity.
My part was easy; I was to be the second-string third baseman, going in for the last half of the game. But it means I didn't get to bat until the bottom of the fourth, by which point (1) our team was already up by at least a dozen runs, (2) the starting third baseman had cracked three doubles and driven in a handful of runs, and (3) several of the opposing team's players had either dramatically injured their [own] groins or collapsed from heat stroke.
In my first at-bat, I snapped a meek single to the opposite field and was subquently stranded at third. In my second at-bat I hit a line drive into centerfield and legged a double out of it, but once again was stranded without scoring. In my last ups, by which time we were leading the other team by about three touchdowns, I saw the first pitch and swung hard, knocking it way the fuck into left field and into the middle of a nearby kickball game. Given the fact that I was hitting at a 20 degree angle and still hit it well over the left fielder's head, I have to believe it was the longest I've ever hit a softball. Still, I ran out of the box and around the bases at full speed. As I rounded third, I noticed that the preceding runner -- who had started out on second base -- was only a foot or so in front of me; I nearly gave him an amateur colonoscopy as I crossed the plate.
It was a good day, by no small measure because my three hits were all legitimate hits. Things would not be so clear on the following evening, June 16, when I played with my Thursday team on one of the precious few fields left on the Mall.
Evaluating a hit in softball is extremely subjective, since the average team's fielding prowess is likely to rank somewhere between mediocre and Stevie Wonder. Bobbles, flubs, misses, overthrows, underthrows and purported equipment failure are prone to turn easy outs into easy scores.
For example, my first "hit" was a sharp grounder to the left of the shortstop with a runner on first. In a just world, I would have been doubled-up or thrown out by three feet. I was running pretty hard, so I didn't see the play, but something else must have happened because everyone ended up safe. That goes in the book as a single, but when I add up my day, I think of it as an out. Likewise, in my second at-bat, I lofted a fly ball straight to the left-centerfielder. It could not have been more catchable if it had been slathered with glue. Fortunately for me, the fielder managed to misplay it in such a way that enabled me to run all the way home; I can only assume that a squirrel bit him or stole the ball or bit his balls or something.
In my last three at-bats though, I hit two solid triples and a real home run, giving me a solid week at the plate, even with my gift-wrapped outs-turned-hits. Which is great. Although not as great as the fact that my teams won both games. Which is really great. But still not as great as the fact that there was copious beer at both games. Which is exceptionally great. And I haven't even talked about Brown-Eyed Girl yet.
She can't hit, she can't throw, and she can't catch. But dear God, can she run.
Jason's Statistics, through ten games:
Won-Lost: 6-4
Batting
At-bats: 34
Hits: 22
Batting Average: .647
Doubles/Triples/Home Runs: 4/4/3
Slugging Percentage: 1.205
Runs: 14
RBI: 10
Pitching*
Innings: 26
Runs: 71
Run Average (9 inn): 24.57
Run Average (7 inn): 19.11
My right knee is swollen to the size of a large grapefruit this morning, a malady that can only be attributed to sprinting around a small softball diamond repeatedly for two evenings in a row. It is not a natural physical activity, running at full speed in relatively tight circles, made worse by the fact that I had been fairly out-of-practice recently.
Wednesday's softball game was my first in almost three weeks, as a series of life events and logistical problems conspired to keep me off the diamond in the interregnum. Usually I can provide a casual analysis of the district's spring and summer weather by making a mental catalogue of the number of rained-out games. Two years ago -- during a supposed drought, I might add -- the season was particularly wet, and I was commonly found in the late afternoon, staring wistfully out my office window at the clouds gathering, full of portents. Well, some portents. About 25 percent portents. The rest was humidity.
But it isn't weather that has thwarted me, this season. First there was an evening of theater, then an out-of-town trip. Then there were scheduling snafus, made worse by the invasion of the national mall by the giant tents of the Folklife Festival, a pseudo-nostalgic boondoggle that inexplicably entices thousands of people to wander around and Absorb Culture, despite the fact that nothing interesting ever happens there except for an obligatory smelting demonstration and the occasional drunken quilting contest. It lasts ten days and apparently takes about two months to set up.
The raising of various tents and whatnot, in addition to the interminable construction around the Washington Monument, has severely limited the number of places for recreational athletes to play this year, forcing many depressed individuals to skip the sporting element entirely and go straight to the bars wearing comical but unsullied softball jerseys.
On Wednesday, June 15, we found a field farther west of the mall, adjacent to the Vietnam memorial. The fields are less-than-ideal, since the ground is so uneven that the diamond must be placed on a rather extreme slope, requiring batters to hit uphill. You could also say that it is not properly landscaped for softball, since the lush grass is growing so wild and high that it could conceivably be hiding alligators -- save for some very weird-looking closely manicured pathways as if an allusion to midwestern crop circles. Plus there were mosquitos, enormous Sumo Mosquitoes that are likely on some kind of growth hormone regimen. And did I mention it was 90 degrees?
My Wednesday team, the aforementioned Red Tape, was playing, and the team came out en masse. No fewer than 19 people showed up to play, a veritable army of royal blue and glove leather, enough to play a pretty good intrasquad game. Our crusty manager, trying to do the right thing by her many charges, drew up a substitution plan rivaling Operation Desert Storm in scope and complexity.
My part was easy; I was to be the second-string third baseman, going in for the last half of the game. But it means I didn't get to bat until the bottom of the fourth, by which point (1) our team was already up by at least a dozen runs, (2) the starting third baseman had cracked three doubles and driven in a handful of runs, and (3) several of the opposing team's players had either dramatically injured their [own] groins or collapsed from heat stroke.
In my first at-bat, I snapped a meek single to the opposite field and was subquently stranded at third. In my second at-bat I hit a line drive into centerfield and legged a double out of it, but once again was stranded without scoring. In my last ups, by which time we were leading the other team by about three touchdowns, I saw the first pitch and swung hard, knocking it way the fuck into left field and into the middle of a nearby kickball game. Given the fact that I was hitting at a 20 degree angle and still hit it well over the left fielder's head, I have to believe it was the longest I've ever hit a softball. Still, I ran out of the box and around the bases at full speed. As I rounded third, I noticed that the preceding runner -- who had started out on second base -- was only a foot or so in front of me; I nearly gave him an amateur colonoscopy as I crossed the plate.
It was a good day, by no small measure because my three hits were all legitimate hits. Things would not be so clear on the following evening, June 16, when I played with my Thursday team on one of the precious few fields left on the Mall.
Evaluating a hit in softball is extremely subjective, since the average team's fielding prowess is likely to rank somewhere between mediocre and Stevie Wonder. Bobbles, flubs, misses, overthrows, underthrows and purported equipment failure are prone to turn easy outs into easy scores.
For example, my first "hit" was a sharp grounder to the left of the shortstop with a runner on first. In a just world, I would have been doubled-up or thrown out by three feet. I was running pretty hard, so I didn't see the play, but something else must have happened because everyone ended up safe. That goes in the book as a single, but when I add up my day, I think of it as an out. Likewise, in my second at-bat, I lofted a fly ball straight to the left-centerfielder. It could not have been more catchable if it had been slathered with glue. Fortunately for me, the fielder managed to misplay it in such a way that enabled me to run all the way home; I can only assume that a squirrel bit him or stole the ball or bit his balls or something.
In my last three at-bats though, I hit two solid triples and a real home run, giving me a solid week at the plate, even with my gift-wrapped outs-turned-hits. Which is great. Although not as great as the fact that my teams won both games. Which is really great. But still not as great as the fact that there was copious beer at both games. Which is exceptionally great. And I haven't even talked about Brown-Eyed Girl yet.
She can't hit, she can't throw, and she can't catch. But dear God, can she run.
Jason's Statistics, through ten games:
Won-Lost: 6-4
Batting
At-bats: 34
Hits: 22
Batting Average: .647
Doubles/Triples/Home Runs: 4/4/3
Slugging Percentage: 1.205
Runs: 14
RBI: 10
Pitching*
Innings: 26
Runs: 71
Run Average (9 inn): 24.57
Run Average (7 inn): 19.11
