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Ball 11: Hello, Mudder
By now, the readers of this journal have either heard all about the tremendous amount of rain unabsorbed by the Washington D.C. area earlier in the week or they have personally dodged warning buoys on their way to work. Given that the rain did not stop dripping until early Wednesday morning, I was surprised that we were able to play softball on Wednesday evening without innertubes and water wings.
But play we did, on a modest neighborhood field deep in the heart of the District's Shaw neighborhood, which is a "transitional" area of the city in much the same way that Iraq has a "transitional" socio-political structure. I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt a little uneasy when local youths began setting off firecrackers in the street. The snap, crackle and pop reminded me of the immortal words of 2Pac: "Yo, I been shot."
The field could have been worse, I suppose; there was a small makeshift pond out in shallow right-centerfield but I earned two extra bases by dropping a few hits into it. The grass on the infield grew high enough to make my ankles itch, but the fireworks apparently scared off any potential snakes (not counting the myriad attorneys on my team). More troublesome to me personally was the soft clay composition of the pitchers "mound." It was the inverse of a mound, really, because with every step I sank deeper and deeper into the earth until I felt like Dorf on Golf.
Early in the game, this metaphor had taken on an entirely new dimension. Every pitch I threw was slapped around the field with remarkable good fortune. Most of their hits found holes in our defense; the ones that didn't were promptly thrown around the field by nervous defenders. I was a major culprit in this regard; I could have stemmed the tide with an cutoff throw from the mound to second base for an easy out, but I airmailed it into centerfield as if I were trying to launch it into orbit.
At bat I was productive but frustrated. Our field had a short fence in right field, and whenever I see a fence I have a typical macho compulsion to try and blast the ball over it. This urge inevitably manifests itself as a lazy fly ball to centerfield, when a simple sharp grounder through the hole would probably get me extra bases. I either have to get it through my head that I'm not a stud, or I'm going to have to start drinking Creatine instead of Ovaltine.
It was the very definition of a sloppy win, in every sense of the word. And since we were playing a team that isn't even in our league, even a win isn't a win. But we made it out of Shaw alive, and that's the most important thing.
That and the seventeen mosquito bites on my legs. Goddamn rain.
June 28, 2006
Blue Team (5-2)
WIN, 20-13 (non-conference)
BATTING: 3-5, 2 doubles, 2 runs, 2 RBI
PITCHING: 5 innings, 12 runs
FIELDING: 7 innings, 2 errors
Season-to-Date
BATTING: 57 AB, 38 hits (.667 AVG) 15 doubles, 4 triple, 5 HR (1.333 SLG) 30 runs, 28 RBI
PITCHING: 45.2 innings, 122 runs (18.70 RA, per 7 innings; 24.04 RA, per 9)
FIELDING: 69.2 innings, 9 errors
But play we did, on a modest neighborhood field deep in the heart of the District's Shaw neighborhood, which is a "transitional" area of the city in much the same way that Iraq has a "transitional" socio-political structure. I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt a little uneasy when local youths began setting off firecrackers in the street. The snap, crackle and pop reminded me of the immortal words of 2Pac: "Yo, I been shot."
The field could have been worse, I suppose; there was a small makeshift pond out in shallow right-centerfield but I earned two extra bases by dropping a few hits into it. The grass on the infield grew high enough to make my ankles itch, but the fireworks apparently scared off any potential snakes (not counting the myriad attorneys on my team). More troublesome to me personally was the soft clay composition of the pitchers "mound." It was the inverse of a mound, really, because with every step I sank deeper and deeper into the earth until I felt like Dorf on Golf.
Early in the game, this metaphor had taken on an entirely new dimension. Every pitch I threw was slapped around the field with remarkable good fortune. Most of their hits found holes in our defense; the ones that didn't were promptly thrown around the field by nervous defenders. I was a major culprit in this regard; I could have stemmed the tide with an cutoff throw from the mound to second base for an easy out, but I airmailed it into centerfield as if I were trying to launch it into orbit.
At bat I was productive but frustrated. Our field had a short fence in right field, and whenever I see a fence I have a typical macho compulsion to try and blast the ball over it. This urge inevitably manifests itself as a lazy fly ball to centerfield, when a simple sharp grounder through the hole would probably get me extra bases. I either have to get it through my head that I'm not a stud, or I'm going to have to start drinking Creatine instead of Ovaltine.
It was the very definition of a sloppy win, in every sense of the word. And since we were playing a team that isn't even in our league, even a win isn't a win. But we made it out of Shaw alive, and that's the most important thing.
That and the seventeen mosquito bites on my legs. Goddamn rain.
June 28, 2006
Blue Team (5-2)
WIN, 20-13 (non-conference)
BATTING: 3-5, 2 doubles, 2 runs, 2 RBI
PITCHING: 5 innings, 12 runs
FIELDING: 7 innings, 2 errors
Season-to-Date
BATTING: 57 AB, 38 hits (.667 AVG) 15 doubles, 4 triple, 5 HR (1.333 SLG) 30 runs, 28 RBI
PITCHING: 45.2 innings, 122 runs (18.70 RA, per 7 innings; 24.04 RA, per 9)
FIELDING: 69.2 innings, 9 errors