Buttermilk Softball

Ten Thousand Best Friends

2010-07-18T12:59:00.004-04:00

Tom Bissell has a long essay in the most recent issue of Harper's that tries to unpack the discomfiting thing that is Tommy Wiseau and The Room. (It's subscriber-only, but the whole issue is pretty great) Bissell comes surprisingly close to accomplishing that incredibly and obviously futile task -- surprising given that Wiseau is a freaking crazy person and also that The Room's cult following is so manifestly the result of an idiot echo chamber that there is, ultimately, not really a whole lot there to write about besides how strange Wiseau and the film is. It's not that I don't find this stuff funny, and Bissell's descriptions of those two foundational facts are very amusing, but beyond the obvious point of The Room being resistant to analysis or criticism is the fact -- the a-literary and nearly ontological fact -- that the film exists at a level beyond and beneath any sort of analysis. The simple and inexplicably complex fact of its existence is what's most interesting about it, and there's only so much than can be said about that.

All of which is kind of a long way of saying that Gallagher is performing at this year's Gathering of the Juggalos. AND I QUOTE:

Awesome Dre: Gallagher up in this bitch, though? Smashing watermelons with the sludge-o-matic (sic) and shit?

DJ Clay: Is that the real Gallagher?

Awesome Dre: Man, the original Gallagher, man, not that fake-ass Gilligan motherfucker, either.

Good thing it's The Real Original Gallagher, because he has really taken his act to some unique and disturbing new places. Also, Ron Jeremy will be telling dick jokes and Coolio is performing and Tila Tequila will be playing at Ladies Night (sic?). There is nothing to say about any of this. There is nothing to do about it. The 11th Annual Gathering of the Juggalos is like an earthquake.

Buttermilk Softball Season Nine: Shorter Than You Think, Sooner Than You Thought

2010-07-10T13:18:00.004-04:00

Okay, as your commissioner/commissar, I feel like I should try to show leadership. So let's all be grownups about this, absorb the information I'm about to impart, and then take it from there. "Setting the tone is a big part of what I do." -- Buttermilk Softball Administrator David ROth

So, let me start by freaking the hell out, running around high-fiving anything that stands still and mimicking a baseball swing and hopping around a lot. That is honestly as cool as I can be about this. Do you know how much I've missed the opportunity to misplay fly balls? To hit sky-high pop-ups just like my New York Mets heroes? To run around in shorts even though I generally disapprove of shorts on male grownups? (Y'all ladies already know my position on this issue) I have missed all of those things VERY MUCH, and I am very excited to announce that we will very soon be doing them again. To wit, homeses:

Buttermilk Softball Season Nine Begins:
July 11, 5pm (Because softball is not the only popular ball-related sport on earth)
Field Five
Prospect Park
Fuck Yes

The excitement level inside of my brain falls somewhere between this:

And this:

It's so intense. See you tomorrow afternoon/eve. Drinks post at Buttermilk Bar, as per usual, if you can't make the game.

100 Percent Chance of Bummer: Week Five Cancelled Due to Rain

2009-08-02T12:20:00.006-04:00

So, the weather reports -- and my own eyeballz -- are telling me that there is a 100% chance of rain, with the occasional thunderstorm, in the mix for today. Or rather that it will be the entirety of the mix, given its 100-percent-ness. So Week Five is off, and we'll just do this thing some other time. I wouldn't plan anything for next Sunday, for instance. I was targeting that.

So, sorry. No softball means you'll have to figure out some other thing to do on Sunday. I'm pretty sure Scrubs is on right now, somewhere, and more and more grocery stores offer dry or "in-door" shopping, which is nice. That might be fun, right? Or it could be imagination-time, all day!

The important thing -- and it is important -- is that you keep your spirits up. This dude knows what I'm talking about:

Give me a very long "O"! (See you next week)

Weeks Three and Four: Let the Players Play/Not-Play

2009-07-30T18:37:00.005-04:00

What is constant? People barfing on the Real World comes to mind. But let's go bigger.

What is constant in human history, first and foremost, is folly. Hubris. Questionable fashion choices. Some better things. For instance: Softball on Sundays and VIP treatment at Buttermilk (see left for an in-action shot from Week Four) (How my hair look?). What is not constant: the way that softball works or doesn't work.

And so it is that we arrive where we are now, a generally satisfying month into the softball season, but with a strangely spotty record behind us. There was a massive, all-hands-on-deck turnout for Week Three's game -- probably the last game of the season for busy Buttermilk All-Stars Seth and Erika, and the first game of the season for lyme disease-stricken Legend of the Game Scott Snelling -- and yet... something was missing. Was it an even distribution of talent? There were other things missing, but yes that kind of jumps out. This is the hazard of counting off by 1's and 2's -- there are no other downsides and this policy will not change by decree of your Dear Leader. Or rather it's the hazard of doing the 1, 2 thing and then not properly balancing the scales. Things were further unbalanced in Week Three by the (luck-dictated) way that the randoms got distributed. My team wound up with the good-natured and apparently very-good-at-softball Stefan, who authored what will likely go down as the single greatest one-game performance in Buttermilk Softball history -- two homers, five RBIs, somehow no one alienated by said dominance. The other team got a pair of Slacker Softball League players named Kenneth and Gatorade. Meet me in the next paragraph and we'll talk about what that meant.

Playing-wise, not too much. They weren't terrible, weren't great. But their attitude was strictly :('s 4 days -- innings off for reasons both faintly reasonable (have to sit with my (literal actual canine) dogs) and not so much (Gatorade, breaking north for a few innings to go get some Gatorade). Apparently their Friday games turn out dozens upon dozens of people -- everyone fired-up, multiple fields in use, presumably with frequent time off for long energy-drink walks and such. And more power to them in that, but they didn't necessarily rep their set to the fullest that Sunday.

What did they do instead? Did they openly disparage the female players on their own team? Yes, they did. Did they kind of bum out the people on their (already maybe a little outfield-defense-deficient) team? Yes, they did that as well. Were they essentially human warnings against getting successful in probably graphic design or whatever and forgetting that coolness and personal worth is a thing performed and earned and repeated, rather than gifted irrevocably and then used as a dorky bludgeon on random people? I don't know. I don't know them. I just know the ladies on their team fucking hated them.

Those aforementioned ladies (and also dudes) also probably hated not-winning, honestly, and that was something that was also happening to them. Stephen Patnode, I think, homered in this one, for the losing team. Stefan homered twice for the winners, and I'm pretty sure Jordan had a roundtripper of his own. I pitched a complete game, I think, which is much less impressive than it sounds. Everyone was kind of bored and bummed, despite the great turnout, etc. Kate and I spent dinner going over what was wrong with the game (see above) and talking about ways to improve her defense. Suffice to say that fungo bat never got purchased. We do a lot of visualization exercises. I watch a lot of Travel Channel and am apparently trying to get fat (I think you can gain weight watching Man Vs. Food, maybe?). But no fungo. Where do you store a fungo? I don't trust the turtles with it. Would you? Look at these fucking guys.

Scheming.

Anyway, so that was Week Three. Decent softball, but no one really all that happy. So is that why Week Four only had 12 people at it? No, probably not. Probably a weather report that predicted -- with erroneous 70% certainty -- a biblical-grade hailstorm had something to do with that. But probably Week Three's lopsided, bad-vibe outcome didn't help. Which kind of makes it odd that Week Four was definitely a better time.

Not to say it wasn't odd -- it was. The entire modern dance bloc was MIA, which meant that it was Jeff, Colleen, Alex, Kenny, SJ Patnode, Forrest, Jordan, Scott, Scott's Friend Eric, Myself and No One Else when I got there (late). And yet, during an hour-plus of Extended Spring Training -- batting practice, fielding practice, video art, the usual -- and a brief, modified 6-on-6 game once we picked up randoms Luis/"Matsui" and Matt, things went pretty fine. The quality of softball was generally pretty good. I hit terribly, but played better in the field than at any time since I completed puberty (that's 2002). Jeff Ciprioni killed the ball. Eric, Forrest (especially Forrest), Scott Snelling all hit the ball hard. Kenny and Alex had banner days in the field, occasionally at my expense. And despite the inevitable drag of the fact that we basically didn't have an official game -- which means Jeff Ciprioni's four triples will not count towards his season OPS+, sadly -- it was enough to at least get me fired up for this week.

This week, Week Five. Week Five when we'll turn out a full complement, with some new players and returning legends of the game and maybe a new softball or two and hopefully an on-time arrival from your humpy commish and the whole freaking works. Another constant for us, for everyone -- for the wraithlike Luis Matsui's, for the grumpy shit-attitude n00bs and all of the saints and all the rest of us -- is the belief that things will be better next time. When this is applied to colonialism, to crude political positivisms or backdated self-justifications or whatever your poison is, it is one thing, and not necessarily a good thing. When it is applied to softball, it is something else. When it applies to softball, it is very often true. That is: it will be better, this week and next week and after. We wouldn't play otherwise. We wouldn't keep playing otherwise, but we keep playing because it is always -- in some way, always -- very good.

The system still works. I'll say 1, you can say 2, and we'll all say Sunday, maybe 4 o'clockish? Trust me: it works. It still works.

See Week Four Through Stephen Patnode's Eyes

2009-07-27T16:31:00.004-04:00

Or, rather, through the eyes of his digital recording device. This is the upside of a week that was spent primarily in a sort of extended-Spring-Training batting practice mode. Nice editing work by SJP, as well, although maybe a little unfair to Jordan Watkowski, who actually successfully fields many more balls than you'd think from watching this. (Forrest, for his part, actually did hit that well yesterday) Also, the fact that I say "I got it" during my brief appearance and then actually GET the ball I was trying to get is probably the highlight of my season so far. Baby steps.

More on Week Three and Weak Four coming later this week.

The Old Mushball: Weeks 1 and 2 Power Recap

2009-07-24T16:42:00.006-04:00

Activate the powertron! I am going to attempt to push my old, soft brain -- depicted at left, actual size -- to remember something from our three weeks of softball-related activities. Things have definitely happened, I'm sure of that. There are pictures, and there's no way the softballs in the equipment bag could've gotten quite so oblong (again, consult the pic -- that is what happens when Scott Snelling gets aholt of one) if they hadn't been struck by bats. But it's hazy.

But this is what happens when you wait like 20 days to write what should -- and would be, in more competent and less helplessly prolix hands -- be something along the lines of "everyone had a good time at softball and then got beers, so that was cool." But I had to get all SABR on everything, try to calculate my own VORP and break down Jeff Ciprioni's OPS+ (to be fair, he asked me to do this, because he thinks it'll help him in arbitration). And I didn't even learn anything from all this -- I learned that I procrastinate a lot, and that apparently per Baseball Reference's formulae, the most similar player to me through age 31 are Wally Whitehurst and Pat Meares, which was disappointing. And now it's kind of near the end of July, and we started playing on July 5 and okay, fine. Fine. Because you know what? I'm not going to let the fact that I only vaguely remember things that happened earlier this week stop me from attempting to discuss what went down several weeks ago.

Week One:

It was sunny, that's for sure! Or I think it was sunny! Anyway!

It really was sunny, and beautiful in Week One, which was July 5. I remember this one pretty well -- I expected something like an extended spring training/simulated game, being as it was the day after a fairly major holiday (Purim). I'd like to tell you that was why I showed up as hungover as I did, but that had more to do with the fact that I'd worked all day on July 4 and then went to dinner with some people at a sake bar right next to Buttermilk Softball official sponsor the Hawaiian Tropic Zone. As the fireworks boomed behind me and sarong-clad Hawaiian Tropic Cleavage Technicians rushed out to watch, I descended into a basement for fried weird seafood and drink. I knew that I'd have a hard time reaching my Whitehurstian/Mearesian norm by the time I scaled those stairs again.

But the whole experience was a surprise, as it turned out. Thanks to a few good-natured pickups -- Artie, Jason and...Heriberto? I don't remember, it was in like May that all this happened -- and a surprisingly strong turnout, we actually got an excellent game in on Week One. Good enough, in fact, that I didn't even feel badly about rousting the full game of very good-natured lesbians who were playing on the field when we arrived.

The game itself... rust was in evidence. Linda Moucha not expecting to play in her nice pants and Fashion Keds was in evidence. What are certain to be season-long issues with muscle soreness and uncooperative ligaments made themselves known. The long-awaited return of Buttermilk legend Alex -- you may remember him from his avant-garde bloody mary work during his long-ago stint as a Buttermilk bartender -- was marred by injury, although (spoiler alert) he made a triumphant, be-braced return in Week Three. This week also marked the Buttermilk debuts of newbies-turned-regulars Kenny and Colleen, and what may be the final league appearances for awhile for Benny Maniere and Dave Batt. Those two players, who rode to renown as B-Milk rookies in 2008 thanks to their unique combination of competence and good-natured patience with others' non-competence, have signed on with another Sunday softball league, and will only be making it to games when their schedule permits. Which is to say when they don't have a 2pm game on 145th Street in Manhattan. It apparently happens sometimes.

Also, I yelled a profanity at Benny while he was trying -- unsuccessfully! -- to stretch a double into a homer. I don't know if that Hasidic toddler had never heard someone loudly be called a "fucking idiot" before, but he certainly acted as if he hadn't. Which I guess is his prerogative, but I'm just trying to play softball, you know?

Anyway, I don't remember who won. I remember a good-natured pop-up-hitting contest between Joel, Jeff and myself (although I did record a season-high three (actual) hits, despite trailing a clammy, headachey rice-winey wake). I remember solid showings from Stephen J. Patnode, Jordan Watkowski and reliably be-cigged slugger Forrest. But this was a long time ago. I only remember that it was on July 5 because I kept telling everyone about the Hawaiian Tropic ladies running out of their sad boob-staurant to see the fireworks and describing them as "hoes." No one acted offended, which I really appreciated. After the game, Forrest -- a towheaded terror who has been one of the breakout offensive stars of the young season -- told us about his early career as a child star in cartoons. Here's a taste:

Feel the synthesized sax!

Week Two:

Something of a step back, in part due to what might've been a faulty commissioner executive decision on my part. I decreed that everyone who played must pass a basic written exam on the history of softball history, which I thought would be fun but wound up excluding a bunch of people who didn't even know who Francisco Dinosaurio is/was. They seemed more confused than embarrassed, but I'm sure that has changed.

In actuality, we just didn't get that many people this week. My idea of breaking into three teams of five so that there would always be enough people in the field sounded good at the time (to me, and apparently only to me), but everyone was all pissy about how they had to keep leaving the field and changing positions and oh what the fuck ever, you know? You appoint a commissioner and you do what the commissioner wants to do. Even when it's stupid and doesn't help that much.

I paid the price for my decision by committing errors at seemingly every position. But Carlton and Jodi and Jeremy and Abby made their season debuts, and I think more people had fun than not, so that was at least pretty good. The final score was like 8-5-2. It basically looks like a denotation of an impossible baseball double play that gets started by an outfielder, involves an infielder, and then gets the catcher into the mix. Doesn't happen in the real world, but that's how softball works. We've already had two of those this season.

Okay, this is already 2,500 words long or thereabouts, so I'm going to stop here. Week Three recap to come. I actually remember what happened in that one. There are even villains in that recap.

Bush League! Bush League!

2009-07-14T14:03:00.004-04:00

No, there's no recap here. But while I realize I am currently slipping -- my status has officially been downgraded from "game tight" to "get it on time, son" -- I promise that I will soon no longer be slipping. I just finished a writing project I spent longer working on than I'd thought I would, and thus totally whiffed on the recap of our very excellent Week 1 game and am currently behind shed-yool on Week 2's unconventional but enjoyable contest.

But I promise you that there will be a recap. Sometime this week, and hopefully on Wednesday. It will involve polite lesbians, me badly misplaying a ball at almost every position on the field, a three-part final score, and a picture of one of our weirdly mushed-up softballs. People, we need to stop hitting these things so hard. We are playing, and it is fresh. Players old and new, plays good and bad. Me occasionally not embarrassing myself but more often embarrassing myself. I should be writing about all this, and I will. Dat's my word, America.

Season Eight Is Go

2009-06-21T21:55:00.002-04:00

July 5
4pm
Field Five, Prospect Park
Apply Ibuprofen as Needed.

Greg Luzinski thinks you already look like you're in baseball shape, by the way.

Stay Sipping

2009-01-11T11:13:00.003-05:00

There's snow on the ground and it's like 35 degrees, but Buttermilk don't stop just because the weather's fucking terrible and it's January. There's always news you can use, even when it's on the softball hot stove front.

Although...not really that much news at the moment. The field registration process is beginning in earnest (via a weird email from Lynda Hernandez containing a document I can't read), and most players are taking the offseason off. There are a few exceptions, though: I'll be playing in the World Softball Classic in March as a member of Team Venezuela (my dual citizenship finally pays off!); Steve Patnode recently had his 50-game Buttermilk suspension dropped when it was determined that pilsner was not technically a performance-enhancing substance; the relocated Daniel May was mistakenly signed to an incentive-laden one-year deal by the Red Sox during their frenzied acquisition of every second-tier free agent over the last week, then released to make room on the 40-man roster for Takashi Saito.

Also, over the New Year, I went on a scouting mission to India with Buttermilk originoo gangstas Ben Tausig and Serena Roth, as well as my beyonce Kate Garroway. Not a lot of good softball talent over there, sadly -- the softball scene is very cricket-oriented, although Jeremy Holmes explained last year how that can work in a softball context if enough beer is involved -- and some tremendously carcinogenic air. But it was also amazing, filled with monkeys and beautiful buildings and weird old bazaars and, AND there was buttermilk. Actual buttermilk they gave you at lunch, to drink. We drank (some of) it and it tasted like weird yogurt. Weird yogurt but also green grass and dirt and softball, although we were probably imagining the last three attributes. Check the picture for proof, and stay tipping. More softball updates are coming when there's something to update you on.

The Real Rap Comes At Halftime/Overtime

2008-09-10T23:56:00.003-04:00

Our science is so tight, our drama so ill, the softball season sticks around like an unpaid bill. As you might have heard, true (softball) players stay playing. Which is to say that, in this instance, I CAN call it: barring calamities of world-historical proportions (or, you know, rain) we'll be playing this Sunday. People other than me want to do it. I want to do it. So, you know, let's do it.

I'm also working up a post on superlatives for the season. No one really kept stats, which is probably good for my career numbers, and I missed half the games, so if anyone's got any thoughts on MVP or Rookie of the Year or The Francisco Dinosaurio Award (for community service), put them in the comments or send along direct to me via email.

People, I know it's going to get cold. I know that at some point it will be very dark at 6pm. Before that happens, though, I'd like to play just one more time. I hope you do, too. Remember to use with joystick controller.

Season Seven, Week Nine: Jeremiah Holmes Not-Quite-Softball Adventure

2008-09-04T14:15:00.005-04:00

You may know Jeremiah Holmes as Jeremy. That's because he usually goes by Jeremy. But he stood alone as Buttermilk Softball's Labor Day reps last Sunday; here's what happened to him, in his own words. Take it away, Jeremy:

--

Do you remember the fifth season of “The Dukes of Hazzard”, when, as a result of contract issues, Bo and Luke Duke were replaced by their look alike cousins Coy and Vance? No? Not as familiar with the Dukes of Hazzard as I am? You didn’t force your entire family to enter and exit their cars through the window for nearly a year of your childhood? Just me huh? I admit, if I was putting out the Spielberg/Lucas style revisionist history dvd of my life, I would use cgi technology to erase that objectionable “rebel yell” flag from the competition orange dodge charger of my memories. But I digress.

I bring up the “good ol’ boys, never meanin’ no harm” because like that season of the Dukes, last weekend’s softball game was an enjoyable facsimile of the original product. The game of course had its differences. These included lots of babies on the sidelines and some serious on-field tailgating, which I’ll come back to. But the Buttermilk spirit rang true.

But let me start from the start. It was 3:45pm and the day did not look promising. I arrived at Field Five to find about 30 teenagers playing on the diamond with such zeal that it any observer would assume they were watching the Prospect Park under 18 softball championship game. Not discouraged, I chose the better part of valor, and set up shop by myself on the empty adjacent diamond. I put out bases and stood on the mound, calling up friends to see if they were coming, in hopes that this would display my rightful ownership of the diamond. At about the same time, a stranger appeared out of the sunny haze of the day, and he could only be described as my doppelganger. Each of us was sporting sweaty, dirty clothes and a hat in the same color palette. His were gray/blue, mine blue/gray. Each of us was displaying a four-day scruff that if we were being honest with ourselves was never going to be a beard. Each was toting an equipment bag with some, but not all of the necessary tools with which to play a game. He had bats, I had bases. Was this a mirage? After several seconds of playing the mirror game, we finally cottoned to the fact that the other was more than a heat hallucination. Reeling from this idea, Chris introduced himself, and the story got even spookier.

Like me, Chris was expecting 18 people to play a friendly softball game, but realistically expected 6 to show. Unlike me, Chris’ cadre of softballers hailed primarily from the United Kingdom and South Africa. We decided to pool our collective resources. Soon a coalition of the willing was formed, and momentum was gaining.

Next on the agenda was for Chris and I to explain the intricacies of softball to our former colonial masters. In an attempt to bridge Oscar Wilde’s “common language” barrier with the foreigners, we made the requisite feeble comparisons to cricket, and went about the arduous task of providing a cogent description of the force play and tagging up. Results were as humbling as you might expect, but enthusiasm was high.

Soon after, teams were formed. This process unfolded in the awkward gym class kickball style of our youth, as opposed to Buttermilk’s egalitarian 1, 2 protocol. Rather than argue, I reminded myself that one must respect the cultural imperatives of others. Team Mets Fans claimed such heavy hitters as ace pitcher Alonso, Jasper-esque middle infielder Lucas, Cricketeer Darren, Brixton Bomber Sean, Flip flop sporting Tim, and Andy “willing body and open mind” Keshner, who brought along Broadway star Britt Shubow to cheer for him. Team Yankees Fans included such Americans as myself, Chris, his wife and middle-infield/on field smooch partner Heidi, proud papa Adam, Lanky Rick and hurler Michael. Our own South African Jasper clone/short stop, Jake and “British Brooks Robinson” Mark are also among those whose names I can remember. And so, battle lines were drawn, teams took the field, and a Buttermilk-ian game was played with an emphasis on fun and group participation that trumped overzealous competition.

To the naked eye, players seemed to choose their respective positions at random, but as is often the case, sociological patterns soon emerged. For example, it was an imperative that whomever took the mound must at least intermittently smoke and drink in the field, substituting a cold one for a rosin bag. Michael did so with cool calculation and cooler sunglasses. Alonso on the other hand, relished the opportunity to intimidate and cajole opposing hitters with both his words and his presence. For a batter, it is intimidating enough to stand at the plate and stare down someone who calls to mind a Latin Rod Beck, but to have this person deliver pitches with back spin through a beady eyed stare, teeth clenched menacingly around a lit cigarette...that dear readers is a once in a lifetime freak out. Drinking in the field was also compulsory for shortstop and third base, provided that they were of drinking age. Third baseman Mark displayed great confidence in his glove, as he rested his clear plastic cup of oat soda (why hide public alcohol consumption?) between his legs during live play. More than once, the collective over-confidence in the glove led to a spilled beer. Behind home plate, on the mound, on the bench, the suds did flow.

The game itself provided everyone with ample hitting and fielding opportunities, and it must be said that all parties involved flashed some great leather and swung a mighty bat. The middle infields of both squads made a strong argument for the return of Olympic softball, with their insistence that age, stature, sex, and nationality were not a hindrance to making the tough force plays. All suspicions that Brits could not get the hang of it were gone after each team had batted through the order once. Darren and Sean in particular made me run much harder out in left than my quads would have liked.

It could also be said that I lost at least three “can o corn” fly balls in left field to the blinding floodlight of the sun, but hey, who’s counting?

By the sixth inning, right field was devoid of defensive representation. I don’t exactly remember if players had dropped out, were taking a smoke break, or were nursing babies (all of which happened in the middle of live play, consequently). In any case, an opportunity presented itself for both sides. Soon everyone was aiming the ball to right field, and as often as not, popping up to the first baseman. A stroke of luck hit me, the likes of which I do not recently recall, in which I drove not one, but two consecutive balls deep down the right field line for the first homeruns I remember hitting since I was 18. I didn’t feel great about the first one, it just seemed a little cheap to slap the ball at a vulnerable area. I felt a little bit better about the second one since clearly no one felt obliged to engage in a Jim Thome shift. I’d brag more about hitting for the cycle, but I think I was one of three or four people to do so.

I must also apologize for the competitive monster coming out in me a couple of times late in the game. I believe my third base coaching to Michael included such rants as “RUN, stop looking at the ball and RUN. RUN like you intend on winning. Stop admiring the hit and RUN.” Finally Adam reminded me that he and wife Janna had brought a delicious watermelon to share. This was of course a subtle way of reminding me to check my blood sugar and cool it with the agro-Bobby Knight routine. The watermelon was delicious by the way.

It took nine innings of solid softballin’ before we called it a day. I say called it, because we as a group chose to leave the game a 16-16 tie, rather than push forward into extras. Die hards among us (see also the Americans), wanted to play until a winner was established, but restless babies, sore bodies and sound logic ruled the day.

Looking forward to next week, perhaps enough original cast members will return to Hazzard (start fighting now about who gets to be Cooter), or perhaps the sun of summer has truly set. If this must be how the season ends, so be it. I’ll deal with my withdrawl by awkwardly trying on catcher’s equipment at Modell’s until they ask me to leave, again. But that’s my problem, not yours. Take care.

Season Seven, Week Eight, On Our Six: That Which is Behind Us Matters Kind of a Lot

2008-08-25T00:20:00.012-04:00

We all know. I don't put myself on much of a deadline for the recaps. This is not because I'm busy -- no one whose self-imposed rules are so lax (no scotch after 1am on weeknights except if it's like a special one-time thing; try to change out of sleeping clothes before the 4pm Access Hollywood; remember to floss like, sometimes) could really be considered busy -- but rather because I consider these posts a treat. Like a post-1am scotch or a day spent entirely padding around my apartment, worrying about deadlines, wearing the misshapen clothes I slept in. That's some real Treat Williams ish right there. Y'all can't live my life baby bay-beh.

So, uh, yeah. I know it took kind of a long time for this. I actually got started on it early before work intruded. My original thought process: considering that this was probably my last game of the season -- if hopefully not the league's; keep reading! or skip to the end! -- I figured I may as well be about this here preview. It's a big one, and while I'm not going to forget just how brutal my own showing was in this game (ever, I will never ever forget it), I know there's a chance I might mis-remember a triple here or there. I don't want that. My new thought process: what the eff.

Also, and this is actually for real, this was actually a busy week for me: I churned out just-warmer-than-boilerplate copy about pro sports and professional athletes with a density of intensity that was really quite difficult for someone who doesn't care about it very much. And I don't, really, relative to this. I do care about baseball, but this -- our softball, our little weird humbling thing that we do -- is the sport I care about. You are the athletes I care about. Not Alex Rodriguez. Especially not him. I mean, I was into Madonna, too, circa Body of Evidence, but I was like 14. The Kabballah bracelet is not a good look, A-Rod. "Be adequite," playboy. Also: if there's any possible photo more heterosexual than the pic above of A-Rod with his wifey, it...I don't know, it would probably have to have Rip Taylor in it.

Ah, Rip. Anyway, while Labor Day Softball is apparently on for a second straight year, I will be missing it for the second straight year. Which means that this is not only my final in-season recap, but was my last official game of the softball season. My Ones wound up winning, 13-10, on a last second field goal by Dave the Tattooed. Or...no, because we had a 6-run inning powered by Dave, Jeremy, Benny and Seth. More or less our entire output was powered by them, actually -- although Abby and I both had RBIs in that big inning, if I remember right -- and helped greatly by a late-arriving Steve Patnode, who powered through an aching groin (and how!) and memories of his traumatic, Bloomberg-related dream from the previous evening. With the exception of one brutal inning in the outfield -- in which I followed a just-miss of running catch of a Scott Snelling blast that would've been a career highlight for me with an instant career lowlight about which I'll moan more later -- I was on the mound. And I was as sharp as a mound of butterscotch pudding, in keeping with what was one of the worst single-game performances of my career. Yes, it was slow-pitch softball. But even by slow-pitch softball, I gave up a metric poopload of triples -- at least one apiece to Dan May, Kelsey and Scott, and possibly to Jordan, and possibly more than one and possibly to other people -- and just generally felt kind of out of it out there. Yes, I got the win, and that's what matters. It's the only thing that matters to me, that has ever mattered. But in strict quality terms, I was right there with the numbers Hideo Nomo put up over his last three seasons. Click here and look. Look at it! I was once like you! Now I am Hideo-us.

Of course, there are other things I care about than winning and playing poorly. And I suppose theoretically it is in the realm of possibility that you could care about those things as well. One thing that I've cared about all season long was whether Kate Garroway, my girlfriend and an x-treem n00b to the world of actually playing softball, was enjoying herself. She always claims to -- and that's the kind of nice lady she is; she also claims to enjoy our nightly push-up contests (I'm like 75-2!) and to be psyched for our two-week ice fishing trip to Beloi, WI this winter -- but it's fair to say that she'd struggled some at the plate during the earlygoing and, uh, middle-going of this too-short season. But a bit of pre-game coaching from Benny -- who was also looking natty in a homemade Buttermilk Softball t-shirt and whom I respect enough not to let the latent Jersey Possessive Guido Guy out when he marched up to Kate before the game and announced, "I've been thinking about your swing" -- seemed to straighten Kate right out. She launched four line drives in four at-bats. Three were caught, but the one that wasn't drove in a run, and Kate later came around to score. I know that Kelsey does this like twice an inning, but I thought The Bird deserved a special in-blog mention.

And there's something else I should probably mention: I fell down really hard chasing a fly ball. I assume that it was funny for those who saw it -- and in the abstract, me breaking in really hard on a ball hit well over my head and then wiping out in an attempt to correct that error, is pretty funny -- but I want to get serious for a moment here. Some people were concerned that, during that play, I had been shot by a sniper located somewhere in the park. I understand that I went down pretty quickly and pretty hard, but I want to let you know, I'm okay. There's no such thing as snipers. There was a movie about them starring Tom Berenger, I know, but he's just make-believe, too. I'm fine. Just don't ever ask me about the play again.

And then we got beers and burritos and Nik Johnson -- not this one; the one who's still popular in New York -- showed up and Ramin made a brief cameo, and then we were done. Or not really. I mean, we did really get beers and such, and Bug brought this delicious salsa and it was all really good. I meant that we're not really done. We have the field for this week, and a hardy band of patriots -- Chee, Kelsey, Jeremy and Abby, Dave, maybe Ben -- are showing up to play ball. And there's still the possibility of overtime: everyone's pretty hyped to do it, the weather should be nice for another month...anyway, something we'll talk about later. I'm already at like 3500 words, and may arms hurt. A good long weekend and godspeed to you all.

Week Six: It Never Really Happened

2008-08-15T00:00:00.002-04:00

So, you don't fuck with the weather. I mean, mostly the weather just fucks with us -- and let me say up front, this profanity is all pretty egregious so far -- and we sort of deal with it, in terms of wearing galoshes or carrying an umbrella or snowshoes or a staying inside and watching HBOWest (I guarantee you it's showing Mr. Woodcock right now; they've been showing it, without exception, for the past eight days) (and people, it is a-larious!). Such is the human condition. We crawl around, at the mercy of a great many things, hoping -- against hope, against all reason -- for the opportunity to bat with runners on base, in the sunshine. I think I'm quoting Beckett right now. Josh Beckett.

That useless paragraph was my way of beginning to communicate that we were rained out with authority on Sunday. I don't know about youse, but I really only get so many opportunities to high-five people and run bases every year, so I was inclined to overlook a no-doubter of a weather report -- 80% chance of rain at game time, which I prefer to think of as a 20% chance of, you know, oppressive cloudiness and uncertainty -- and roll the dice on leaving the game on. As our F/G train (nice one to the MTA for making a shitty commute that much shittier all season long, by the way) surfaced between Carroll Street and Smith-9th, the air was heavy and menacing but fairly dry. Between Smith-9th and 4th Avenue, it started to rain. By the time Kate and I climbed out of the 15th St./Prospect Park stop, everything officially sucked and it was raining fairly hard. And...that's your ballgame.

Respect, obviously, to Dave the Tattooed (who also bought new bases: seriously, this guy is a frontrunner for early MVP honors based on said purchase how often he's had to hump the equipment bag alone), Chee, Carlton, Jodi Bender and Joel and Linda for actually going so far as to come to the field. There were few positives at Prospect Park -- although I did find a really nice softball glove someone had abandoned in the rain, which was both nice and kind of a mild moral dilemma for me.

Things improved markedly once we reached Commonwealth -- the bar of choice for day-drinkers throughout greater South Slope -- and joined Abby and Jeremy, Scott and Catherine, and a late-arriving Stephen X. Patnode. A few beers, some tacos, and a heaping helping of context from Joel Meyer regarding this hilarious bus-accident of an interview with the Deal Sisters made the day a success, even if I didn't get to play softball. I won't get to do so this week, either, as I'm off to Minnesota for a Buttermilk Alumni reunion and to enjoy some jumping-in-a-lake action. But I hope you all get out there, and play beautifully under sunny skies. Frankly, we're due. You're all due. There should also be angels, and your favorite band playing at the Prospect Park Bandshell.

I'll see you all in two weeks, probably with a new/old glove and a couple of new ideas on how I can hit the ball harder. The ideas will be dumb, but I'll keep them to myself.

Neither Rain, Nor...Anything Else: Season Six, Week Five

2008-08-06T16:24:00.014-04:00

I'm often amazed at how many names I know. I forget the names of friends' significant others all the time, of course -- you should forget this the next time I ask how "your special lady/dude-friend" is doing -- and yet, whenever my girlfriend tells me about an article she read in a recent New Yorker (or Cat Fancy), I ask the author's name and then respond to it as if I know who the person is. "Oh," I say, "David Grann. He used to write for The New Republic." Like he's fucking Alfredo Griffin (um, left) and he was the good field-no hit shortstop for the A's in the pre-Walt Weiss era and I know everything about his career. Sadly, though, I know a lot about both David Grann and Alfredo Griffin. More, at least, than I need to know about either. What I'm saying is...what am I saying?

Oh, I'm saying that I -- and maybe you -- compile all this useless information, and yet have no need for it. What I need is to remember the things I want to remember -- that is, the details of softball games in which I enjoyed participating, as opposed to the life stories of guys who wrote lengthy, impressive, remunerative features for The New Yorker (or Cat Fancy) while I was writing, say, this (or who retired with on-base percentages of .285 after 18 seasons (!), for that matter). I want to remember every hit, every defensive gem, every bit of salty clubhouse wisdom (note: we have no clubhouses and are not an especially salty group). But what I have for you, people, is this: the best I can do, a few days after the fact. Oh, and I'm padding the job with an LOLAnimal image somewhere down there. It makes it easier.

And there it is. So, uh, hai. An unexpected glut of work -- unexpected considering that my working life is, in general and to the extent that it can be referred to as containing either "working" or "life," defined by the absence of work -- delayed this recap by a few days, but the more memorable softball games tend, luckily, to be more memorable than your less-memorable ones. Which is to say that I can tell you this: the Ones won, 8-7, with Serena Roth (she's my sister! and a doctor!) (my parents ask that I mention that, parenthetically, every time her name appears here) earning the win and Jeff "Rhymes with Aase" Ciprioni coming on to earn a harrowingly John Franconian save.

The losing pitcher, if you need to know, is so awesome that it doesn't even matter that he lost. A lot of losing pitchers couldn't write 1500 words on a softball game played between goofy folks in their late-20s to early-30s several days after said game happened. How could a loser do that? The guy who didn't win -- because he gave up 8 runs and nearly botched an easy pop-up catch and still feels kind of embarrassed about it -- could write something like that. A loser simply couldn't. There's a difference.

Anyway, yeah: the Ones were stacked. The Twos, to be honest, were probably a little less stacked. But the game itself was pretty well-played -- despite the mysterious lack of official bases, which I'm pretty sure is my fault -- and remarkably close throughout. While the whole thing hinged on what nearly wound up being what Kelsey termed "The SCIAC Inning" -- a term from the collegiate athletic conference that includes both our alma maters, referring to an inning in which one team scores more runs than the other team scores in the entire game -- the Twos hung around thanks to solid defense, timely hitting and...hold up, let me be real with you for a minute.

Ramin was with the Twos and hit two home runs. They were both bombs. They were both to right field and were hit deep enough that there was a better chance of them injuring one of the random Hasidic dudes lounging with their gigantic families out in right field than of Ramin getting thrown out at home plate. He could've taken a 25-second Mel Hall home run trot on the second one -- and dropped the one flap like Jeff Leonard -- and still arrived at the plate long before the rightfielder tracked down the ball. The reason the Twos stayed in the game was that ol' boy hit two homers. He had fan-dudes printing up t-shirts in his honor after the second blast (see left). So, you know, hats off to the guy who's almost certainly the best softball player ever to own the last name "Hedayati." It may not sound like much, but there's this doof standing between me and being the best Roth ever to play the game. Well, Braggo and my sister.

The Ones were keyed by a powerful lineup that included Kelsey, My Sister The Doctor (there you go, Mom and Dad), Jeff Ciprioni (who, like your author, seems to have belatedly found his stroke), returning B-Milk supa-legend Joel Meyer, '07 alum Jay, promising newcomer Carlton C. Ward (who also has a Pomeranian that can do tricks, which is more than your author or His Sister The Doctor or Jeff or Joel or anyone else in the game can say, frankly) and a pair of powerful Bens, one of whom I know has the last name Tausig. The other boldly paired a Thundercats t-shirt with New Jersey State Trooper mesh shorts and made several excellent plays in the outfield; that he also authored one of the best outfield throws in Buttermilk history, and that said throw nearly murdered my (admittedly not-totally-paying-attention) girlfriend is worth mentioning only after a semicolon. At any rate, I know he felt terrible about it, and I wish I knew his last name, but I know I'd shake his hand for those sartorial decisions. I'll hopefully do it in a few days.

Theirs was a good team, and after a few innings it seemed as if the scrappy Twos might be well and truly pants-ed by the Ones. Still, we hung around thanks to the fact that many of the remarkably sharply hit line drives I yielded found the gloves of ace centerfielder Dave The Tattooed, the aforementioned Greatest Sports Hedayati Ever at shortstop, and exceptionally game third base-people Erika Friday (who stood up well to an unseemly onslaught of potentially weekend-ruining shots) and a late-arriving Dan May. All of the aforementioned owe debts to sweet-picking first basemen Jordan and Greg, who performed ably at the less-hot corner. On offense, the twos got timely hits from...pretty much everybody, as I remember it. Linda Moucha and Colleen Hooper both drove in runs (I think), and I also managed to score and drive in a run despite being robbed not once but twice by a strangely vengeful Jay at third base. I'd like to talk to Jay for a minute.

I guess it's not cool when a bloggy-recapper guy hits a ball hard, apparently. Let alone does so once, but apparently twice is beyond the pale. You could've just told me, man. I'm really sorry I pissed you off so much by daring to, like, try to be good at softball. I didn't know it was so wrong. Underneath the good looks and easy charm and nerve-jangling sensuality, I'm just an ordinary dude (who happens to be the prose voice of his generation) who's trying to keep my front shoulder closed and swing through the ball. I'm sorry I made you so mad that you thought I needed to be punished for that. Twice. Anyway, if you were wondering: you have to keep your front shoulder closed, so you're hitting with something other than your arms. Do that, and you might be able to, like me, reach base twice on errors and get one hit in four trips to the plate. I know it sounds like bragging, but I totally did that. (Also, my glove died: by pour some out, please)

While the Twos had a chance at a dramatic comeback in the bottom of the whateverth (this was a fast-moving game; it could easily have been the 9th, or 10th, or 15th), the Ones overcame an intimidating "Ral-LY CAP" chant and locked down a win when Jeff C coaxed Ramin into a game-ending groundout. Ciprioni was immediately designated for assignment (the Ones needed to make room for Ruddy Lugo), but the end result stands: Ones win, 8-7, and...everyone goes to the bar and kind of immediately forgets some stuff.

Post-game highlights include Jeff Ciprioni earning both he and I free beers through a feat of keg-related strength, Jordan's introduction of the pepperoni roll into the softball culinary lexicon, and a declined invitation to play softball from our new bartender (who has, in her tattooed and exuberant kindness, rendered Zombie Jeff Tweedy little more than a brain-noshing memory) that was briefly controversial because some peoples (what up, Linda) misheard some things.

A good time was had by all, as far as I could tell. Although possibly Joel (because he didn't have to give time, traffic and weather info every 30 minutes), Jordan (c.f., pepperoni roll), and me, Joel and Jeff (because we got to talk about the old, soon-to-be-revived, "Around the Horn" feature) (see here for my and Jeff's contribution to it) had a better time than anyone else. But, really, probably not.

After all, everyone's beers cost the same amount at the bar. And in that way -- and in terms of impending soreness and possibly in terms of hung-overness -- we were all equal. We were all, in our way, wrapped in the same embrace: the warm, slightly clammy, slightly whiskey-smelling enclaspment of half-serious athletic endeavor, done among friends and with the best of intentions. I am a perpetual risk to wax too emo about this stuff -- and also to make up words (does it surprise you that "enclaspment" isn't a word? Because it ought not) -- but I'll just say that this was another good one. Last year's One-Eyed/Old Cat-necessitating personnel issues aside, we're back (baby), and shit is more or less the same as it ever was. We play softball on Sundays and enjoy it. Then, later, we drink the beers up. It's simple, but it works; at least, it sure works for me. I'll see you all this Sunday, I hope. I'm going to start stretching in an hour or so, just to be sure I don't hurt myself too badly.

Week Three Recap: Better Late Than Never

2008-08-04T08:52:00.003-04:00

[Editor's Note: Due to contractual issues, Kelsey's recap of our June 20 game was previously only available in e-mail format. However, these issues have been resolved thanks to intervention by the Commissioner's Office, the Environmental Protection Agency, and well-known actor Danny DeVito. Please enjoy this outstanding summary of Game 3.]

Heat. Hotness. Warmth. High Temperatures.

All these words could describe Sunday's climate at Prospect Park for the weekly rivalry that has become Ones versus Twos. But instead, these terrifying adjectives could just have easily applied to the goodness that was exhibited on the ballfields yesterday.

The Ones just wanted it more. Anyone could tell. By the way they counted off in an organized One-two-One-two fashion at the beginning of the contest- effectively filtering their team of any potential Twoness.

Because of some discrepancies with the official Buttermilk roster, some of the names might be a little off but this is basically how it went down on Field 5, Stadium 2:

Atlee Hammaker started the game for Ones.

Hammaker faced Brett Butler to start the game. Butler, brandishing a bat, sunglasses and lit Winston cigarette lived up to his name by promptly laying down a swinging-drag-bunt down the third baseline.

Butler, exhibiting the athletic ability and coordination of a Tanzanian gazelle reached first safely and with the smooth, sweet flavor and aroma you can expect from Winston. That's Winston cigarettes. The official smoke of the Twos leadoff speedster.

Then some other stuff happened. Danny Tartabull got out, followed by Von Hayes and Alan Wiggins.

This brought the Ones up to bat. The Twos started Bobby Ojeda on the hill.

Ojeda made short work of Rob Deer, Danny Heep and Dickie Thon.

Ojeda and Hammaker proceeded to make it a pitching duel for the next few innings and, after 3 and a half innings, the score remained 0-0.

But Steve Lombardozzi would have none of that.

Following a pitching change for the Twos, Oil-Can Boyd took over for a slightly dehydrated Ojeda.

Boyd promptly gave a up a two run jack to Lombardozzi over the right field plastic baggy in Prospect Parkdome right field, sending the Ones to a 2-0 lead.

Hammaker continued to hold the Twos scoreless into the fifth, when discussion in the press box led to rampant speculation that this could very well become the first documented Buttermilk shutout in recorded history of ever.

But Tom Brunansky would have none of that. As if on cue, Brunansky hit a solo shot to right center giving the Twos their first run.

As the pitching duel wore on, the players remarked they enjoyed hearing the nearby park concert's energetic soundtrack, featuring such hits like Informer by Snow.

Described by The Internet as possibly the Best recorded song of all-time, Informer no doubt gave the Ones the needed motivation to blow the game open by taking advantage of several defensive miscues by the Twos.

Twos pitcher Dave Dravecky couldn't handle a two-out comebacker from Chet Lemon and the next batter, Lombardozzi took advantage of the miscue by parking the next pitch way over the centerfielder's head.

That smash landed in the middle of the nearby Cambodia-Versus-Laos Softball extravaganza and without missing a beat, the third baseman for the Laosian team spun around, bare-handed the drive and fired it all the way back into the Buttermilk field of play- thus limiting Lombardozzi to a triple.

Holding a firm 7-2 lead, the Ones led the way clear through the sanctioned 8 innings of Buttermilk action. But with the game moving along at such as swimming pace, play continued into an extra(?) ninth inning.

This allowed the Twos Steve Balboni to nail a homer off of Ones closer, Rob Dibble.

The homer wasn't without it's own hijinx, as rightfielder Tim Teufel fielded the ball and threw it to a Random Passing By School Kid Who Volunteered To Play Second Base For The Ones Despite Being Lefthanded And Not Realizing It Until He Had The Ball And Tried To Throw it With His Glove. It was random, it was eccentric, it was Buttermilky.

The 9th ended with the Rance Mulliniks grounding out and the final score settled at either 7-4ish.

2Pacalypse Now

2008-07-27T14:58:00.003-04:00

Parental advisory: weather is wack. Also: the album to the left is also wack.

On the off-chance that this is where you're getting all your softball news -- as opposed to from your email or facebook or the oral tradition or what have you -- I thought I should mention that we're not playing this Sunday. According to highly placed sources within the weather establishment, it "looks like the end of the world" out there. Also, I got sent a link to the radar scene over Brooklyn at the moment -- no, really, I did, and it's right here -- and it looks like a Rothko painting in pinks and reds. Those indicate "heavy rain." So, yeah, I bow to the weather. Reluctantly. With misgivings. But I do so nonetheless, because I'm not trying to get nickel-sized hail all up in my face. My face is my meal ticket. If I lose my looks, I have nothing. I'd be left with just a tendency to write overlong blog posts and abs that resemble poppin-fresh dough...that's been covered in tempered steel!

What a waste of dough. What a waste in general. See you guys in a week.

Week Two Mini-Recap: I'm Throwed

2008-07-14T11:08:00.006-04:00

The coaching staff has shut your correspondent down for a week due to overwork on my pitching arm and blogging fingaz -- my unorthodox form, depicted at left, probably doesn't help; ditto for all those diamonds on my teeth (diama-diamonds on my grill) -- but before I head off to Maine on vacation, I wanted to thank all involved for another week of big-balling goodness.

There were debuts -- Paul Kahn, Erika's friend ZZ, Scott Snelling's friend Katherine (or possibly Catherine). There were returning heroes from seasons past: Jeff Ciprioni; Chris Martin, forever fresh mode in his official Buttermilk Softball color-scheme socks; the aforementioned Mr. Snelling, the old Ghost of Leo Durocher guy (who was only discussed at the bar, but still). There were great plays and moments of good cheer; there were errors (by me, presumably some by others). There was effective station to station softball. There was me trying to score from second on a single, missing third base, and then being tagged out at home because I almost stopped out of remorse. Don't worry, I've already forgotten it and am certainly, certainly, not blushing and tearing up while thinking about it now. Wait, you can't see me through your screen, right? Ah, shit.

And once again the game was close: 7-5, I think, was the final, with me picking up my second win of the season as pitcher and Gregg Ciprioni -- by his reckoning -- picking up the first losing experience of his entire buttermilk softball career. That can't possibly be true, but I have the Elias Sosa Sports Bureau working up the numbers.

Okay: the equipment bag is safe with Dave the Tattooed (as opposed to me, Dave the Awkward), and will return to the field -- hopefully with your delicious selves -- come next Sunday. I'll be in Maine with my girlfriend at that time, eating lobster rolls. I'd like to think I won't be thinking of my nightmarish drop-the-ball/hurl-the-ball combination in the sixth inning yesterday, but...I don't know. I just can't know. Enjoy the next game, and the rest of your week. I apologize for the shorter than average recap. But I'm on a strict word count per the training staff. And I also have to drive like six fucking hours right now. Anyway: cheers again. Remember to stretch.

Season Five, Week One: After The Fireworks, The Fireworks

2008-07-09T15:29:00.016-04:00

What is a patriot, really? Let me jump in here and say that I'd really prefer if the Democrats among you didn't attempt to answer this question. No offense intended, I just think it's kind of unfair to the troops, you know? Anyway, the fellow to your left has an idea about what patriotism is. That jaunty chap is Pat Patriot, and he's the erstwhile logo of the New England Patriots, the Official Team of Champions Everywhere. Pat Patriot thinks a patriot is a snarling vest aficionado prone to, uh, compromising stances and tricorn hats. He thinks it's him.

And I'm not saying Project Pat's wrong, but I have a different definition. To me, a true patriot -- someone who loves the best of America, and embodies its true spirit -- is someone who can go out and do whatever it was you did on July 4 (if you don't remember, I'm sure not going to tell you) and then was willing to get out there and softball on July 6. And also is in the military. But the softball part is what really matters. I'm not saying that those of you who didn't play aren't patriots. But I am. Apparently that's a privilege True Patriots are allowed. (Peace, John "Change We Can Believe In" McCain)

Anyway, sorry for the impugning. That's...that's not really me. I'm not about that. I'm about 1) freedom and 2) market-based solutions to the problems you deal with every day. And softball recaps, I guess, since that's what this was supposed to be. But I don't know, there's something about the weekend of the 4th that always gets me kind of jazzed on America, and it's tough to shake that off. But I know you're not here for my McCain imitation (it's even more wince-inducing in person). You're here to see how poorly I remember Sunday's game three days after the fact, and in that you will not be disappointed, I assure you. So I'll just let you watch this video -- which pretty much sums up what I was getting at above -- and then get to the softball part.

/wipes single tear.

So: Season Five. That's a long time. But what I find inspiring about the league (and I'm being for real, now) is that even as longtime players and friends have moved away -- and five years is a long time, and New York isn't an easy place to live, and there are hangovers and hamstring pulls and jobs and heavy brunches and a myriad of other reasons not to play, weekly, for all of us -- the league has proven protean enough to change to suit those who remain and welcoming enough to attract cool new people.

This might be a tribute to all of us and how unfathomably awesome and good we all are, or it might just be that playing softball when the weather's nice is a pretty awesome thing to do, and people will kind of always want to do it. But when I came down the hill into the softball basin a few minutes before 4pm, I couldn't have been happier to see the dozen or so people who'd beaten me to the field.

Well, there's one way I could've been happier: if we'd had a ball or a bat. Triumphant returnee Gregg Ciprioni -- who rescued the equipment bag from Jeff and Beth Ann's apartment after they'd left for a work-related sojourn in Spain -- brought the bats, balls, bases, nuanced understanding of the phrase "flavor profile" and knife skills to the party a few minutes later, and we were good to go. More players kept arriving, and even though I'd seen roughly 50% of them at some point during the previous 72 hours, I'll admit to being pretty sentimental by the time we circled up to start choosing teams. I wanted to say all kinds of emotional things, start breaking everybody off with Iron John bro-grabs and professions of gratitude and effusive compliments on how fly everyone looked, but instead I just said "two," when it was my turn to count off, and took to the dugout.

Due to the fact that I was off trying to be commissionerish -- I don't remember just how I was doing that, but if I had to guess I think I was making sure everyone on the other team understood just how much I loved them or whatever -- I found myself batting 10th upon returning to the bench. Ramin, another welcome returnee, claimed to have constructed the batting order at random, but the order seemed pretty savvy almost immediately, as we -- I'll call us the Blue Jeans; the ones will be The Bodegas, at least this week -- jumped out to an early lead. The Bodegas battled back in innings two and three, which set the tone for the game: close throughout, surprisingly well-played on defense, and remarkably, blessedly free of any serious injuries.

The Jeans held on to win 9-8 (I think) in 8 innings (I know), with the win going to your junkballing author and player of the game honors going either to Ramin or Mark, who was one of three skilled and good-natured randoms who joined the game after Kelsey and Amber discovered them -- poignantly, I think, in a sort of Felix Pie showing up for his big league tryout without shoes way -- hitting a ball with a stick on the field when they arrived. The former drove the ball in every plate appearance; the latter played amazing defense at third and hit a game-changing two-run homer in the sixth (or so) inning that wound up being the difference in the game. On the Blue Jeans bench, we discussed whether it was the longest home run in Buttermilk history, finally agreeing that -- regardless of the damaging allegations of physical fitness that have been leveled against these two in the sporting press -- Scott Snelling and Seth Nelson probably have hit balls further. But not by much. Dan May, showing the sort of all-field pop that led the scouts in attendance to term him the next Todd Hollandsworth, also went deep to right center.

(Incidentally, unless you want to be sad, do not scroll down to see how much money Hollandsworth made over his career)

A few stalwart Buttermilkers were MIA -- Joel Meyer was on the air at WNYC, making like Cousin Brucie, except bringing you news and weather instead of, like, "Silhouettes on the Shade"; Jeff and BA were in Spain, eating types of ham for which there are not even words in English; Scott Snelling was either working or climbing a mountain; Jasper (now 12: time flies!) was MIA and may have belatedly realized how old and corny we are; Molly Bielinski, who joined us at the bar, was apparently sidelined by flu-like symptoms after watching the appallingly shitty "Interview with the Vampire."

Their absence was offset -- on the field, if not in our hearts -- by a crew of returning heroes, visitors, newbies and randoms. Among the notable debuts was Kate "Bird" Garroway, a Buttermilk spectator of long standing making a much-awaited debut (both in the league and in...ever, as a player) who took her nickname from former Tigers phenom Mark Fidrych and her advice on how to play softball from my father and me just a few hours earlier; Steve Patnode's buddy Jordan, who's the first West Virginian to grace field five; Dave, who picked the league's info up on a bulletin board at Buttermilk and played brilliantly; Erika Friday, whose 15-year absence from the softball field in favor of getting some reading done was not at all evident; and Seth's sister Jessie, who played with all the excellence we've come to associate with the surname Nelson. To wit:

That's some excellence, right there. Also: strong, shiny hair.

What followed at the bar -- beers, conversation, tacos, a frank discussion between me and Gregg of this guy, a creeping realization that we were making the bar smell kinda funny -- was no less lovely for having been, you know, the same thing we've done most Sundays for five summers. The same can be said of the whole experience, I think. See you in a week. Stay beautiful. You're all so beautiful.

Game On

2008-05-28T19:22:00.003-04:00

Oh, Doctor. Our first game -- shown at left, quite literally sitting on 22s -- is still almost six weeks away, but this season has already had its share of drama, at least on my end. As much drama as The Game's 12-minute remix of "One Blood?" I don't know, honestly. I can't listen to that remix all the way through to its conclusion, and the message board action underneath that link kind of makes me feel sad. But yes, some drama.

Even beyond the part where I thought we weren't going to have a league anymore. People are getting married, getting important-seeming jobs that require them to be out of town on weekends, moving out of the 'hood, losing interest in injuring themselves running out grounders...and as The Game says, "it's okay." I'm still keeping it real in the just-this-side-of-food-stamps tax bracket with my freelancy antics, but I understand why people want to grow up, do things, etc. But after finally deciding that there was a critical mass of people who wanted to play softball, things got rolling.

It was during this period that things got complicated. It was raining, I wasn't sure the league was going forward, and so I passed on going to a meeting at the Park Ranger Haus in Prospect Park for potential permit-holders. I called Lynda Hernandez, the Boss Lady of This Prospect Park Shit, and told her I wasn't sure we'd have a league this year. I called her back a couple of weeks later to tell her that we were going to, and asked that they call me back and let me know what I could do to move things forward. I was, of course, not called back, naturally -- as it turned out, that first phone call was obviously a memorable experience for Ms. Hernandez. Finally I went in and filled out an application, gave it to some nice lady, and left. And that, too, somehow turned out to be a mistake.

I heard nothing for a long time. I called and left a voicemail on Lynda Hernandez's phone again -- Lynda Hernandez, if you were curious, is a generously apportioned lass who was wearing sweatpants and a large polo shirt whilst screaming at some guy over the phone when I was filling out my application -- and was called back, in what seems like an unrelated incident, by a park volunteer named Eric Johnson. He said that someone in the office -- hint: sweats, rage, does not return phone calls -- believed that I was not interested in holding a permit this year, but that he'd TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF DRAWING ONE UP ANYWAY. I told him I'd filled out an application back in April. He mentioned that it had been, ah, misplaced. But the important part is that this unpaid dude totally saved our bacon. He even suggested that we dump our final date of the season to save money (it'd save $16 of Buttermilk's money, so I thought we should keep it), because no one's usually around on Labor Day anyway.

Anyway, I thanked him so many times that I think he became uncomfortable, before finally allowing, "well, we try our hardest to get people onto the fields." He certainly did. Eric Johnson, you are a true hero of Buttermilk Softball. If I ever find out what you look like (I assume it's not this person), I'm going to commission a plaque of you for the Buttermilk Softball Monument Garden in centerfield, alongside D. Original Buttermilk Squad and Zombie Jeff Tweedy and Francisco Dinosaurio.

Labor Day Softball: Si Se Puede

2007-08-27T00:35:00.000-04:00

This Labor Day, you only need to remember one thing (one thing). And one other thing.

First of all: remember the dude to the left and think about where your grapes came from. Dudes are hustling for those little green joints, and that's worth keeping in mind.

Secondly: it looks like softball is going to go off. The eminently trustworthy Kelsey and Amber have been entrusted with the equipment bag for next week, and it looks like we'll have a Labor Day quorum for the first time in our five-year history as a league. If you're going to be around, come on around. I won't be there, but many others will be. We had another well-played and hugely enjoyable game today -- it's too late, and I'm too post-fantasy-draft tipsy to recap it, but it involved asthmatic heroics from Jasper, a commanding complete game win from Alf, a cameo by a North Carolinian named Kwame, and some very-good-at-softball randoms of the female persuasion who will hopefully return. Other highlights: Californian Matt Abrams and hardcore Brooklyn softballer Steve Patnode making Buttermilk debuts in black jeans (always a good call) and sleeveless shirts, respectively; amazing picks from Amber at first base and some fantastic infield defense from Jasper at short; Kelsey hitting a ball harder and further than anyone else this year; a ringing RBI double from your author (everyone has their own highlights); supreme-team oatmeal-theme cookies from Darren Guyer; postgame black-sock purchases at Commonwealth (Shame on a Buttermilk for not being open at 6). It also looks like next week could be just as good. Even without my chatter in the outfield. Look, I don't believe it, either, but people are going to show up. For real, though.

Also, on t-shirts: orders are coming in, and should continue to do so. I'd like to do a postseason get-together so we can distribute shirts and share sweet sweet softball memories with one another. I'll be away for much of the next week, but email your size and number preferences on the t-shirts and I'll place the orders just as soon as I get back. You can CC Jeff (Ciprionj@gmail.com) and Joel (joel@joelmeyer.com), as at least one of those will probably be around next week and can provide the leadership you...probably don't really need. But you might as well CC them anyway.

It has been, and remains, a pleasure. I'm glad today worked out, and hope next week goes well for you, too. I'll think of you while I'm driving back from Maine. Probably with great envy in my heart.

Your Buttermilk Softball '07 T-Shirt Design

2007-08-25T19:34:00.000-04:00

Time is of the essence, so there will be no voting on t-shirts this year, sadly. Luckily, though, our own Jeff Ciprioni has done so well by our design that there is no need to vote. We've got a winner, here, below. Jeff explains in text lifted from an email he sent me (sorry, JC Softballpants) below the image, but this one is the truth. We can quibble about whether we want to do red or blue ringers, and we will need to sort out numbers. But there can be no argument on this: the t-shirt is dope. Tomorrow, we'll talk about numbers and work out sizes and such. It looks like we're going to have a decent-ish squad out there, but if we don't get 18 we can 1) start drinking early or 2) get to work on round two of One-Eyed Cat. So, the t-shirt:

Jeff wrote: Develop a little perspective, you're not Charlie fuckin' Samuels. This is how I talk to myself. Okay, here's a mockup. Basically, we're looking at an American Apparel ringer t-shirt with a two-color design. The design should be as big as they should make it so that it goes all the way across the chest. And numbers should be on the back. What do you think?

You know what I think. You can say what you think in the comments -- if they're actually enabled -- or tomorrow at Prospect Park/the bar. I'll start: way to be, JC.

See Anything You Like?

2007-08-20T14:59:00.000-04:00

I was thinking of a variation on the middle one, with the word "Milk," or possibly "BMilk" replacing the "Sox." The one on the left is pretty fly, too. Other designs are in the works, but these two -- both based on never-worn Chicago White Sox demo uniforms from the 1970s -- are probably my favorites. If anyone else has any ideas on uniforms we could repurpose, holler at me. Vote for preferences or whatever in the comments, or email me.

We're In UR Rainstorms, Playin UR Variant On Softball: Softball Week 7

2007-08-20T10:18:00.000-04:00

Oh, hai. Your Softball Week 6.5 Update is in UR internets.

I'll explain the lumpy, furry gentleman to the left -- I'm highly allergic even to the picture, and am wacked to the gills on Claritin as I write this -- in just a moment. First, though, let me set this Sunday's scene for you: it was cloudy and kind of cold and right around 4pm the glowering sky delivered a little bit of drizzle. Not enough to soak anyone, but enough to keep those who'd been on the fence in their homes. And those who had not been in their homes -- a long list of regulars were on vacation or otherwise indisposed -- represented further attrition. I got to the park, just a few steps behind Joel and Linda expecting to find no one waiting at all. Instead, we found Kelsey and Amber and Ted and Greg under a tree, watching the all-weather Feist Squad from last year playing on our field. They'd turned out a full 18-plus. We barely had enough for 3-on-3 hoops. The arrival of Jasper and Scott Snelling helped, but even this talent-rich assemblage wasn't nearly enough to play a game (of softball) (you need to pay attention). Unwilling to bum rush Da Feist Squad so the five of us could stand in the field and complain about how wet we were, we headed to another field (the site of last year's inaugural away game).

There, we took infield and batting practice in the rain, which didn't seem terribly smart even then, but we all had gloves and what else are you going to do when it rains, go home and get high and watch a movie? (A: Yes) Everyone hit, some of us fielded, Jasper received his usual tutorial from Kelsey and managed to get catchable throws to first base from shortstop with much greater regularity than I was able to from the same position. Harold, a former random who starred last week and is hopefully on his way to becoming a regular, arrived slightly later. Gabe London and his friend Mike some time after that. But even when you consider that I have the wit and charm of six men, that's not enough for a game. For a game of softball. Which you'd know is what I was talking about if you were...forget it. Anyway here's where it gets interesting.

I know, finally, right? It turns out that Kelsey, previously known for his associations with Larry King (right) and the University of Redlands, actually grew up in Oregon. Where it rains a lot, forcing hardy Oregonian baseballers indoors to play a variation on baseball Kelsey called "One-Eyed Cat." Linda called it "One-Eyed Monkey" as a joke. I called it "One-Eyed Jack" apparently in earnest, thus displaying the same Roth-family knack with names that led my father to conflate Dead Man Walking (one of the few movies I went to on a date in high school; holla at a true playa) and 12 Monkeys (which I saw with a bunch of high school dude friends) into "12 Men Walking." Anyway, while Kelsey thought the game was indigenous to the Evergreen State, it turns out that what we were playing was a much older game than we'd thought. Once known as "Old Cat," it was a predecessor to baseball played mostly in the rain by people too stupid to stay at home and watch a movie when that was obviously what...anyway, here are the rules:

There is one base. Second base. There is also home plate. There is a pitcher (pace Wikipedia, this position was originally known in Old Cat as "The Giver"...peace, Lois Lowry), there are fielders, there is a hitter (or "Striker" back in the Andrew Jackson administration). The Striker hits and runs -- past the Giver -- to second base. Once the Striker reaches the base, he or she can choose either to run back home (for a run) or stay there; this makes possible numerous witticisms of "the base is loaded" or "play at only base" variety. One-Eyed/Old Cat is a pretty simple game (not nearly as sophisticated as the two-eyed cat above), but it's a lot simpler when Kelsey explains it. I use too many adjectives.

Due to the wet conditions on the field, there were a lot of hits and a lot of runs, and very little scorekeeping. Highlights included Scott Snelling homering in his first two at-bats, me hitting a homer and wiping out really badly (I think everyone knew that was going to happen), Linda registering an RBI on perhaps the littlest hit of the season, gnarly wipeouts by Amber and Scott, late-game cameos by Gabriel "Santiago" London and his friend Mike, and one of the most amazing home runs in league history by Harold. You may remember Harold from last week as the Yankee-fan newbie who had a nasty collision with Elliot (in the Jermaine O'Neal throwback jersey) at first base. He was back this week, dropping Mackey Sasser jokes with a panache that recalled a young Jeff Ciprioni and doing his hard-working thing in the field. On one long drive he rounded second (that is to say, got there and turned around) and headed (directly) for home as a perfect relay arrived via (I think) Ted. The throw beat him to the plate. Kelsey caught it in perfect position. And Harold leapt over the tag and landed directly on the plate. It wasn't a particularly high jump. It wasn't a particularly graceful one. But it was one of the most amazing plays I've seen in my entire One-Eyed Cat career. I may never see its like again. The game ended with Amber making a leaping grab on a liner I authored. Then we went to the bar, where the nice new rockabilly bartender guy almost made us forget the horror of Zombie Ryan Adams. Did you know that guy complimented my girlfriend on her skirt one day? Can you believe that? And then he chased a dude while mumbling "braaaains." What a jerk.

Anyway: I'm going to try to work up a recap for last week's classic. I feel badly about not having done one, and that game -- a 14-13 barn-burner played as well and as joyously as any contest this year -- deserves better than my shabby memory can probably provide. But I'm going to give it a shot, and I'm also going to post an image that includes a couple of speculative t-shirt ideas for this season, to see if we can't get someone to work up a demo on a shirt. Ted opined that after his efforts yesterday -- that is to say, getting soaked and then making audible squishing sounds en route to the bar -- he deserved a shirt. People, we all deserve shirts. Every last one of us. Ted deserves two, maybe.

Sunday Cloudy Sunday

2007-08-19T12:21:00.000-04:00

It looks like a hangover out there. And I have yet to recap last week's contest, which was probably the most competitive and enjoyable game we've had yet this season. I can't imagine how that second point would affect turnout this week, but the first part might. So if you're looking here for information on whether we'll be ballin', look no further: I'm going, and hopefully you will, too. The dog days are hard days in which to turn out full sides, but let's do this thing anyway. It's softball. It's fun. And you'll be much less sweaty than usual at the bar.

See you soon, peoples.

Carry The Wait

2007-08-17T01:15:00.000-04:00

Long story. But your recap is going to be here eventually, you animals. You're like animals.

Anyway, I've been sleeping a lot. Something by tomorrow PM for sure. T-shirt designs will not be here this week, apparently. And Jeff is going to be in Toronto this weekend. But we will make shirts happen, that's my word. If you don't believe me, ask the weird owl (above).

Week Five: Paging Keith Moon

2007-08-06T22:05:00.000-04:00

Buttermilk Softball is a lot like being a session drummer. When you walk into that studio we call Field Five, you have to be prepared to play with any kind of musician, in any style. You accept that you’ll never know what you’re going to play in advance.

And, you’ll never know what kind of equipment you’ll get to play on. For example, you might be asked to play a kit that looks like this:

Dozens of toms. Ten crash cymbals. Four snares. Four kick drums. The sheer wealth of drummable objects offers an endless number of options. You become the Neal Peart of softball, engaging in flashy and complicated play … simply because you can.

And sometimes, you have to play on this drum kit:

On those weeks at Field Five, you have no choice. You’re Buddy Rich. Here’s how week five went down:

A women’s pickup game was in full swing when we arrived. We told them there was no way we’d be able to field a team before 4:30, but our permit was deeply respected, as if I flashed a Masonic ring or something. They moved to an adjacent field to continue an exciting game that I, frankly, didn’t want to stop watching.

We had a small crew – Scott Snelling, Colleen, Andrew, Sanj, Amanda, Linda, and of course, Jasper (who has perfect attendance this season). We needed to find bodies for our own game.

It should be said straight away: In his first game of the season, Scott did a yeoman’s job. He was the only person who arrived before four. He brought friends. And when it looked like we were going to be short, he got on the horn and started calling more friends. Then, he started asking passersby.

Jasper asked a group of four guys playing catch nearby if they wanted to play. They may not have taken Jasper seriously, unaware of the fierce Jose Reyes-like heart that beats inside that young man. But they declined, preferring instead to play a totally sissy game of whiffleball.

We nominated Colleen to go over to proposition a couple playing catch on the “nice” field just beyond our left field. After she took a few steps, it became obvious that Colleen wasn’t kidding about the heat stroke she’d taken home from a Yankees game yesterday. Yes, maybe she was maybe a little out of it today, so I trotted over and welcomed a handsome couple named Chee and, oh, I’m forgetting her name now.

Upon arrival, Chee immediately recognized Jasper, called him “little man,” and inquired as to his whereabouts for the past four weeks. A precocious 12 years of age, Jasper sort of dodged the question and answered in a way that didn’t necessarily bind him to us. We understood.

Eventually, we were able to cobble together a five-on-five game, using rules that were very fresh and flexible. Right field was foul. Three fouls were an out. Balls have to be hit past the pitcher or they’re foul. Baserunners passing third must sing the chorus of Peter Cetera’s “The Glory of Love” before touching home, etc. (Karate Kid II fans: this Miyagi-Danielson-Cetera portrait can be yours.)

Right field was briefly reopened when a group of three women from another game joined, but they left after two innings because our rules proved too intellectual, complex, asinine, etc.

Three of Chee’s friends turned up to fill their spots, including, I swear, the actor Ving Rhames (left, with Zombie Bat). Except I think a dog at the real Ving Rhames’ estate mauled someone to death over the weekend and I don’t think Ving had time for a quick game of “You Provide Pitchers and Catchers and One Team Can’t Have a Third Baseman.” But the doppelVinger pitched the whole game left-handed, wearing a righty glove – Jim Abbott-style.

Despite her heat stroke, Colleen was a trouper and made the catch of the game in left field. Amanda and Jasper played it smart and played a lot of catch to kill time while the braintrust tried to remember the rules at the top of every inning.

Scott’s friend Sanj proved to be one of the game’s biggest surprise. The second British citizen to play the game this year, Sanj called upon his cricket experience. He also probably benefited in some way from his experience as an officer in the British military, where he commands tanks in places like Iraq. Where he’s going again this fall. So, undaunted by our fearsome game, Sanj doubled in his first at-bat and then hit a homerun (although he nearly forgot to touch home plate).

(Sanj’s nerves of steel do have a limit. Later that afternoon at the bar, Scott and I explained the American health care system to him. He went fairly green.)

All in all, a classic Buttermilk game. Confusing. The score was lost to history. Some weird old guy took me away from first base to ask me where all the 17-year-olds were. But we played with a bunch of new people, had fun, and beers were consumed later.

As if yesterday didn’t provide drama enough: Andrew is stage-managing a production of “The Tempest” somewhere in the East Village. At 9th and Avenue C, I think. More details when I get them.

Fun Things To Do: Rainout Edition

2007-07-29T14:25:00.000-04:00

We'll it's official: The Commissioner sent an email a few moments ago saying that we're rained out today. It's a shame, too. Week Four looked really promising, with some new faces and a batch of chocolate pastries whipped up by man-of-many-talents Darren. But if you've ever tried to play on Field Five within 72 hours of a light drizzle, you know it can be miserable.

Now what? For the past three Sundays, we've all had plans after 4 p.m. That's the best part of the Buttermilk Softball league: just when the weekend's over ... it's not over! There are fly balls to muff, hammies to stretch, exotic white sangrias to swill. But not today.

Here is a short activity book to keep you occupied on a rainy day. These are suggestions only. Feel free to make your own fun. My wife is out shopping for a wedding dress with a friend (it's the friend that's getting married), so I've got nothing but time to make these kind of suggestions.

Option No. 1: Music Videos

Bat for Lashes, "What's a Girl to Do?": My favorite music video at the moment. If you haven't seen it, I won't spoil it with any details, except to say this: It's like E.T. meets Donnie Darko with a soundtrack by a Bjork-Cat Power cloned hybrid.

Fionn Reagan, "Be Good or Be Gone": No relation to the former president, this Irish singer shot what might be one of the cheapest "clever" videos ever. What's more important? The song, or the ambient audio where he's playing?

If you are a Nick Cave fan, check out Brooklyn Vegan's compilation of Grinderman interviews and videos.

Dizzee Rascal, "Sirens": DR pushes the "chase video" into new territory, yet leaves many questions unanswered. Like, what's with the ending?

Option No. 2: Blog for ButtermilkSoftball.com

The Commissioner and I are looking for fresh new smartasses to blog here. If you want to post on ButtermilkSoftball.com, just start a free account at Blogger.com and then send me an email at joel-at-joelmeyer.com. I'll set you up.

Option No. 3 (Nerds Only): Watch the New 'Batman' Trailer

It won't be out until next summer, but promotion for "The Dark Knight" has already started. More details here.

Option No. 4: Talk About Last Night's Sonic Youth Show

Or, watch this awesome clip from the 1983 film Vigilante, which features a chase through McCarren Park Pool -- which was dilapidated even back then.

Rain Cancels Softball Week IV

2007-07-29T14:20:00.000-04:00

Who loves the sun? Who cares that it makes flowers? Who else thinks that those are among the doofiest lines Lou Reed ever wrote?

Except the first one. It makes sense. Sun is far preferable to today's hazy, fugazy something-more-than-drizzly meteorological situation, and after consulting with the Buttermilk Softball League's leading meteorological figures, I have gathered that we can't play today. Everyone who lives near the park says it looks super shitty to the max and that there is, as they say, no end in sight. So game's off. Sorry.

You could always read a book or something (or order the anthology I'm in, you could do that: you won't get it today and not all the essays are that good, but what could be more satisfying than spending money on Amazon while it's raining?). And Comedy Central is probably showing a heavily edited version of Van Wilder or Scary Movie 2 or something. But you'd probably be better off killing yourself, honestly. Or buying my anthology. Do the second one first.

Okay: sorry about this week's crappy outcome, and I hope you'll all turn out next week. I won't be there, but this is one of those do-as-I-hope-not-as-I-will-do situations. Have a good week, playaz, and I'll see you in a fortnight.

The Other Buttermilk

2007-07-28T12:04:00.000-04:00

It was bound to happen, right? I received an email from a relative of someone who played on a Buttermilk Softball team in Comanche County, Kansas sometime around 1950. He thought our site might somehow be related. Because, you know, how many Buttermilk Softball teams can there be in the world?

Well, apparently there are at least two. You can read more about the team -- and check out the design of their so-spartan-they're-cool uniforms -- on this geneology site. FYI: The most recent U.S. Census data puts Comanche County's population at 1,884 -- equal to the number of high-end strollers trolling through Prospect Park at any point in time.

The team apparently took its name from the unincorporated town of Buttermilk, Kansas, home of the Big Gyp Cave Pictograph Site. The name refers to the presence of gypsum in the cave, not to its quality as a tourist destination or to a common epithet leveled at the Roma people. Big Gyp Cave is even listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

The entrance to the cave, one of Kansas' largest, is pictured at right. Here's how a Witchita Eagle reporter described an expedition a couple of years ago [emphasis added]:

He gets out, then leads a group of students from West Texas A&M University down a steep hill and into what seems to be another world.

It looks like Colorado, or maybe the Ozarks in Missouri. A stream babbles over a small waterfall. Dense cedar trees create a canopy from the outside world.

And upstream: the entrance to Big Gyp Cave, one of the largest caves in Kansas.

It's home to some of the bats that Roth has grown to love over more than four decades.
Roth? "Bats?" Weird.

Who Wants A Body Massage? Softball Week 3 Recap

2007-07-27T00:28:00.001-04:00

Better late than never, right? Softball Week Three: Let's Launch Over It.

So, again, yeah, busy week. Because I'm so talented at writing, see, and know so much about so many things, people are clamoring all over themselves to give me work. They're all "please, please, write 1,800 words for $400" and I'm like, "I don't usually work for less than 25 cents a word, but sure, let's do it, I don't want to get my cable shut off." And it's basically that awesome every week! I'm sorry: I'm bragging. Ugly trait.

Anyway, I'm late with the recap, but Joel came through with the ill memoir and bailed me out, and I appreciate that. But I know you all care about seeing your performance praised to the skies and misremembered five or so days after it happens, so here goes, as I remember it. Again, corrections are welcome. Apparently Ted Pitts got neither the win nor the save in week one, for instance, but both the blown save and the loss. That somehow seems more like something an Indians fan would have happen to him, but there are probably mistakes like that all over the first mega-recap post. Scour it! Correct me! Be mocked in turn. It's not really worth it.

So, this last week: again, it was hot. Sooner or later I'm going to stop mentioning that, and we'll all just assume that it's hot as fuck on Sunday afternoons in July and August. But it's still kind of novel to me, because I am still used to getting big money on some Tom Vu shit, in a climate controlled environment or on a boat with fly honeys. To wit:

Anyway, hot. Crowded. With familiar faces that were not, as it turned out, those of my friends. Again, we were a little late in arriving, for the most part. This time, though, we -- meaning I -- had to play the permit card and boot a bunch of dudes (the baseball pants'ed hotshots mentioned in this post from last year) off the scene so we could do our softball thing. This is the sort of Brooklyn social clash that absolutely perplexes me, if I can be real for a moment: these guys are not our friends. They're younger dudes who play a different brand of softball, drop n-bombs with the quickness, and generally act a lot more rowdy and NSFW. Originally, there were like five dudes there and I thought they could work in with the still thin Buttermilk Squad. Then more showed up. Then those guys' cousins. And our people were there, too, all of a sudden and then basically there were going to be two 40-man rosters, September MLB-ball style, and there was dissension in both clubhouses and some of the guys were wearing baseball pants and...I wound up booting them. They were cool about it, and retired to the nearby field at which we played a memorable away game last year. By that time, Buttermilk had assembled a full team again -- it only takes like 30 minutes -- and we were good to go. Softball was on.

And, almost immediately, softball players were on the disabled list. Before nine outs were recorded, Darren Guyer had pulled a quad (peace, Moises Alou) and Beth Ann Coulton, fresh off her best week as a Buttermilkmaid, did the same. With only one ice pack to go around, things could've gotten ugly -- although Linda's first-aid kit with hair bands in it came in handy (in the abstract) -- but didn't. For this, we have to thank our two valiant pack-sharing warriors and official Buttermilk Superfan -- and Jeremy Holmes special lady -- Abby. Not only has this unsung hero been coming through with cut-up fruit and fresh berries the last three weeks, but she also supplied the ice pack (I think). If she didn't...anyway, thanks for the fruit and good vibes, Abby. It's cool if you read during the game, I don't mind.

Injuries continued to pile up throughout the game, although Jorge was able to play through his dings, as Amber did the week before after taking a hot Dan May shot off the hand. The presence of two doctors -- my sister and her colleague/homegirl Jasmine -- also helped, in a way, although their discussion of whether or not BA should go to the emergency room quickly devolved into a public health debate in which the only winners were interested spectators who care to know how f'ed up our emergency rooms are. Also, Darren and BA were winners, because they got ace medical care and -- not to give away the ending -- still made it to the bar.

The game was, once again, well-played, with my Blue Jeans being held scoreless by pitchers Amber and Dan (maybe) for the first three innings and posting only one run through the first few turns through the order -- scored by Jeremy, powered by...probably not me, and possibly Jasmine. Definitely someone in the lower half of our order. I need to write these earlier in the week. The Bodegas, on the other hand, put together a couple of big innings -- a series of doubles seemingly without end, with some big blasts off the bat of newcomer Dan Duggan and '06 stalwart Ben Tausig. There were some defensive miscues on the Blue Jean side, and they were matched with stellar defense from Kelsey, Dan May (who turned a nice double play) and Colleen Hooper (who robbed me of what would've been my biggest hit of the year in left field) on the Bodega end. A furious Blue Jeans comeback in the final inning wound up falling short, although (as I remember it) Jorge, Jeremy, Jasper, Jasmine, Jeff Ciprioni and possibly several people whose names did not begin with "J" -- well, at least my sister and possibly newcomer Greg Ferguson and maybe some others -- delivered hits as well. Ultimately, pitching and defense beat...faintly hungover weird-feeling people (good idea on brunch, Reen!).

Also, for the second week in a row, we were blessed with the sweet sounds of the Celebrate Brooklyn Unbearable Music Festival, as a series of children's musicians (example not at left) came through and did their thing-things to the delectation of Park Slope parents/expensive stroller-consumers and their tow-headed, exotically named kids. Were there songs about pizza and fun and being youself and how sometimes when you have bad feelings you should talk to somebody? Definitely in the running banter between Joel at first base and me at second (I talk when I'm not catching pop-ups), and definitely onstage. And anti-war songs for the 3-7 year-old "Out of Iraq/Into Darfur" contingent, too. I fall in that contingent myself, of course, but I'm older and, like the kids, was too busy grooving on the songs about pizza -- it's so gooey! -- to think much about war. And then all of a sudden we were at the bar and my back hurt and I had beers and there was a bulldog in an AC/DC t-shirt walking around. Seriously, it's weird how those things happen.

Next week: perhaps more music for kids, or Jews, or Jewish kids, or maybe Modest Mouse again. But probably not. That was years ago. You can hear their songs in outlet malls now, I know because I heard one when I was at one in Hilton Head with my family. It wasn't "Shit Luck." Anyway, and if I may be frank with you: Frankly, I'd settle for a hungover and not-into-it Reverend Horton Heat playing childrens songs in Yiddish or whatever. Just...no more songs about pizza. They make me so hungry.

In a few days, we'll play again. A few days after that, I'll try to remember it. I'll see you all then. Not shown: Jasper's pleasant parents, watching their son and making sure we weren't, you know, creeps; injured-quad buckhunter action; Ryan Adams comparisons confirmed; long-ass bus rides. Until Sunday, then.

Where the Children Are All Above the Mendoza Line

2007-07-23T22:00:00.001-04:00

By now many of you know the truth: I was not playing in Japan last season. I was not working out with Roger Clemens in Texas. I did not spend a year spreading the baseball gospel throughout Brazil. I did not get a Crash Davis-like offer to manage a team in a neighboring town. There was no Padres scout watching me during our 2005 season, and Marge Schott never called to ask if I wanted to be the Reds sliding coach. Marge Schott is dead, I am now told, and teams don't allot a special management position dedicated to sliding. Although they should.

I told most of you at least one of these stories. Several of you, I told two or more of the above. Dave, I told you the Marge Schott story, which was really stupid, and I also told you the Padres-scout tale and also the Crash Davis whopper. I need to stop here, Dave, to clarify that time at the Buttermilk I told you that I had $25,000 in diamonds in my equipment bag but just didn't feel like showing them to you. That was a lie. And you probably know that.

I spent the 2006 season on ice in Minnesota, working for a radio show. I got married to my wonderful Linda. I didn't touch a bat once.

OK, that's another lie. I went to a batting cage twice in St. Paul. But it was indoors, and the batting helmet liners were soft and rotten, and the Juggs machines were so poorly calibrated that I actually got beaned.

To fill the Buttermilk Softball void in my life, I purchased a Twins season ticket. A crappy one. In the crappiest stadium in the majors (not counting RFK). I attended about 50-60 home games and witnessed a truly incredible regular season. Walkoff homeruns. Grand slams in high drama. No-name players absorbing what should have been devastating injuries to star players. Batting title. MVP. Gardenhire getting tossed all the fucking time. Everyone had fire in the belly. After the last game of the regular season, I sat in the Metrodome with about 40,000 other fans and watched the Tigers implode. The division title was ours. Twins players rushed out of the dugout and dove into the outfield seats. I stoicly wept next to the childhood pal in the season ticket next to mine. It was just meant to be: Another half-page-tall Star Tribune headline ... Magic!

But a humiliating post-season defeat at the hands of an accounting firm (Oakland) put an end to all that. And my job in Minneapolis ended. Another one surfaced in New York.
Linda and I loaded a big Penske truck with all our belongings, and I went down to the DMV to get my very first driver's license so I could drive the thing. (OK, OK, she did the tricky driving.) Soon enough, we were back in the borough of Kings, living among the Polish people.

My negotiations with the Buttermilk Commissioner's Office were not easy. Not for me. Not for my family. The first game was also not easy for me. The crowd booed and they all put on fake glasses that look like the prescription ones I wear off-the-field. So cruel. I almost couldn't take it, but Commissioner Dave came over to me on the field and put his arm around my shoulder. Just like Pee Wee Reese did for Jackie Robinson. Also, I went spikes-first, hard, into second base later in the game and I felt way better.

So that's the real story of where I was last year and how I worked my way back onto the team. Well, mostly it's real.

Here My Dog's At

2007-07-22T23:50:00.000-04:00

And that is why we go to the bar. That and alcoholic drinks and free songs and the thrill of the zombie chase.

For some reason my camera wasn't focusing very well today, which means that a couple of coulda-been baseball card-style photos came out really artistical, and that Joel had to pose with bubble tape one (or two) more times than was necessary. This photo, while not perfect, is exactly what it looks like. A dog in an AC/DC t-shirt. Drew, you better tell your dog to get his game together, because there is now some mascot competition on the block. And I'm not even going to talk about this guy:

Dog, you're slipping. Call Jet Li.

Recap to come sometime this week, for sure. Pretty sure. Also hopefully TK: my camera, functioning; injury updates; Joel Meyer and Linda Moucha's guide detailing how not to ride a bus to Prospect Park.

Getting Kind of Hectic: Weeks One and Two, More Or Less

2007-07-18T19:30:00.000-04:00

Having "the power" is not all about taking it easy and buying new Raiders hats and getting the high-top fade touched up when necessary and rapping from a podium. There are downsides to all that responsibility. Uneasy rests the be-faded head that has a lot of writing to do on short deadlines (click here to see some of it). Last year, when I was working at Topps, I could do my 1,600-word recap thing on the company clock. That might've had something to do with how long they were, looking back. Now, though, the freelance lifestyle has attacked...and trust me, you don't want that.

And so we find ourselves once again behind the times on the Buttermilk Blog. I mean, things are happening, games are being played, t-shirt ideas are being bandied idly about, all that good stuff -- but I hear you: where are the recaps? How can you prove to those who might care that you had an RBI groundout last weekend? Where is the reminder that an older dude with a wife and kid came, got two hits and five RBI, and then decided to leave? The answer is: it would be in this space. If, that is, it were still well-ensconced in my head.

It's not, totally. It's not totally not, either. So this will be rushed, maybe skimp on some details, maybe ignore an RBI or two of yours. It's nothing personal. Just mention it in the comments section -- "actually, I had two doubles and four RBI in that game" -- that'll make you look really cool, Jeff.

So: Week One dawned bakingly hot but clear in New York City, and some hours after that dawn Buttermilk's Finest raised their bedheaded heads, ready to put heads to bed. The Bodegas were open and the Blue Jeans ablaze. And when four o'clock rolled around...we took batting practice for a long-ass time. A quorum was not obtained for some time, but by 4:35 or so, a regulation-size softball game was ready to bump. Fan favorites Joel Meyer and Linda Moucha returned from a brief exile in Minnesota -- where they'd gotten married and co-founded The Brad Radke Institute For The Advancement of Poise -- and the familiar faces attached to the names Ciprioni, Coulton, Pitts, Bielinski, King, Nelson, Hooper and, yes, Roth were all ready to roll. Newcomers expected -- Jeremy Holmes, a highly touted Ohioan; Patrick Boniface Resing, an emerging video artist and versatile defender who came to one game in '05; Daniel May, longtime homeperson back in NYC; Andrew Bell, big-swinging, classy-staying San Diego-an -- and unexpected showed. The unexpected were, as ever, amazing: an extremely new to New York couple named Kelsey and Amber, who brought a sunny California outlook and impressive skill sets to the table were joined by Jasper, a very young dude who would have a hard-ish time seeing over this metaphorical table. Young Jasp rocked batting gloves, fundamentals, and a dedication to fitness that extended to him nailing a bunch of sit-ups between innings. He's awesome and we all love him. The cast was set, and the game was on.

And, surprisingly, it was pretty on point. Big hits came from the bats of Seth Nelson, Kelsey (got to get a last name, there) and Joel Meyer, stunning defensive plays came from Amber in the outfield and from...that one guy. You know him. Handsome one, writes too much? That guy made a play in the infield that was pretty much the high point of his life, period. Period. I'm going to put it like this: Dan May hit a grounder that bounced off Jeremy's leg and into the air. From which I plucked it bare-handed and threw to first base in time to retire the batter, thanks in large part to a great stretch by Seth. I could find a way to make SUVs run on hugs and positive thoughts and I think that will still be my finest hour. The game was a shootout, with a walk-off win coming for the Blue Jeans (I think? It was my team) on a Jeff Ciprioni infield single that plated Andrew Bell, I think. Ted Pitts somehow recorded both the win and the save for the Blue Jeans. Statisticians will puzzle over it for years to come. The final was 13-12. The player of the game was I AM AN AWESOME DEFENSIVE PLAYER. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

And thence to the bar, where good conversation was plentiful, one-dollar High Lifes were off the menu, and bartender Zombie Jeff Tweedy (right) continued to perplex. He gives us a bunch of songs: awesome. He's also weird and unfriendly and definitely was scheming on how to eat our brains: less awesome.

And then week two. Which dawned clammily hot and clear...in Philadelphia, for me. Our regulars were scattered across the nation: The Meyer/Mouchas in Blowing Rock, NC; Colleen in Delaware; Scott Snelling climbing K2 or some such thing. Rumors of rain in NYC proved just that, and by the time I stepped into the park it was, once again, hot as hell. The game once again kicked off late, but extensive practice once again made for a pretty well-played matchup.

My first turn on the mound was...anyway, based on those numbers, I'm probably challenging this guy for Worst Jewish Starting Pitcher Ever. Once your humble former Plesac Award Winner yielded the mound, though, the Blue Jeans (that's just going to be the team I'm on, going forward) began to cut into the 7-run deficit they'd been handed. To call the game a shootout is an injustice -- while there were again north of 20 runs scored, there was also stellar defense from Jorge (a friend of Jeremy's who made a couple of dazzling plays in left field), Kelsey (who at one point retired something like five straight batters himself), Jasper (thanks to a lot of coaching from Kelsey) and, in her first unassisted putout, Beth Ann. RBIs came from everyone but me, basically. Newcomer shouts go to The Family Man, who showed up, let his wife and kid watch him pwn us, and then bounced. Also Gabe London, a Pomona Sagehen from way back, and Darren Guyer, probably the second-best baker in our league and a long-awaited debut. This is going to be more detailed and shorter next week. I'll try to do it while I still remember what happened.

As ever: next Sunday. Guest stars (my sister, for real)! T-shirt talks! Postgame Gatorade purchases at the reasonably priced deli! Your suggestions on how I might edit these better! Catch that shit. It's softball season, and we play softball.

Double Up...Probably Tomorrow

2007-07-16T11:02:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I'm behind. Slipping. Falling, even. But getting back up again, covered in orange dirt, ready to ground out. You know how I do.

Two game recaps are owed, and I also need to transcribe the set list from yesterday's Klezmer Sunsplash blowout in the bandshell. I know that one lady played "Yeidel Deidel," "I'm Trill," and "Gefilte Fish (East Coast Remix)," but the rest of my notes got all sweaty. Give me time, people.

Seriously, though, I just got an article assignment, which is good because now I can afford to buy a Metrocard next month. The bad news is that it's due tomorrow, so I kind of have to get on that. If I get it done today, you'll get an update today. If not, then not. Do not stare at that picture of The World's Only Living Sexosaurus (above, left) for too long, and I'll see you in a few.

Beasting On The Game

2007-06-29T15:03:00.000-04:00

I don't mean to brag, but it's obvious that I (left) am adjusting well to my newfound power as quasi-commish. My goal as commissioner is to win your trust and earn your hearts, to buy your respect with the only currency this world understands: a willingness to pitch in slow-pitch softball, when necessary.

My initial move as leader was, obviously, the racoon-skin duster you see in the photo above (you can't see it under the fur, but it has my name embroidered on the left breast, too). Second was the big email I sent out alerting people to the July 8 Opening Day. Future emails will detail exciting new developments to come in The Buttermilk Softball League, such as Francisco Dinosaurio Bobblehead Day and a scheduled away game against D. Original Buttermilk Softball League All-Stars. For now, though, I'm just going to keep that Cris pouring (onto the floor? why, Diddy?) and repost the info in the email:

OPENING DAY: July 8, 2007, and each Sunday thereafter until Labor Day
4-6pm
Field Five (same as ever)
Postgame Activities at Buttermilk Bar

Let's. Do. This.

Week Nine: Looking Great!

2006-08-27T10:30:00.000-04:00

Ah yeah. I hope this happens.

Home Field Advantage: Buttermilk Softball Week Seven

2006-08-15T19:46:00.000-04:00

Why do we do this? Why do we run around in the sun, wearing outfits that are -- for the most part, with Carlos and Greg Ciprioni excluded -- not our most flattering? Why do we do things like slide into third base, get an authentic baseball "strawberry" and bleed through our jeans (welcome aboard, Ted!) or let my sister hit line drives off our shins (be careful, Seth Nelson!)? Is it because we don't get the chance to clap enough in our everyday lives? Is it because there aren't enough weekday opportunities to swing a bat? A shortage of rhetorical questions in the blogs we read regularly?

I think it's because of days like Sunday. And I'm not saying this because I played well -- I spent most of my day chasing softballs that had been hit far over my head, and managed to nail myself on the back of the head with the follow-through of my swing not once but twice. I'm saying it because Sunday's game was pretty close to the way softball is supposed to be.

Due to work obligations the next day -- if talking to NBA rookies for seven hours can be considered an obligation (the answer: yes, it can) -- I drove my car in from New Jersey, where it lives. Due to my customary time-management issues, I cut things kind of close in getting to the field. Had there been a parking spot right by the park's entrance, batmobile-stizz, I would've been there around 4:05. As it worked out, I gave the equipment bag to Colleen (pay attention: this will become important) and went looking for a spot. I had no idea what to expect when I got to the field. Well, I was expecting Team Vehemence to be playing its customary 16-inning split squad game while a few of my hungover softball paisans chilled out in the shade, grousing. But when I finally arrived at the field -- around 4:20 (dude) -- I was met with a glorious sight. Not only were the softball regulars out in force (even without Scott Snelling, Chris Martin and either of the Ciprioni Bros., seen above at left), but rising stars Anna and Molly showed up, brought with them their friends Kate (who'd been working towards her softball debut for weeks, to be fair) and Sam, and a large group of the team we dispatched in Week Five turned out ready to rock. Team Vehemence, it turns out, had been turned out -- willingly, pleasantly, and apparently in a transaction wholly devoid of rancor (I say apparently because I was trying to parallel park while this was happening) -- by Colleen, brandishing the permit with a cool forcefulness that I think it's fair to say I've never displayed in my life. We had our field back, and enough people to play a full game. The sun was shining, the temperature gently pushing 80 degrees. Green grass and dirt and softballs and bats.

So that was pretty awesome.

For me, it would wind up being one of the high points of the day. See, the thing with counting off is that it doesn't work sometimes. Like when one team has the formed-like-Voltron combo of my sister, myself, Ben Taussig, able randoms Kim, Jeff and Angelo (from The Week Five All-Stars), Molly and newcomer Sam, Ben's friend Ted (in a smashing debut that involved the aforementioned jeans-compromising strawberry) and, in her long awaited debut, modern dance dynamo/softball backstop Erika Hansen-Nelson-Nordicssen. And the other team has a bunch of varsity college baseball players on it (Emerson College, but still) and skilled players at every position. They scored early, and scored often. A partial list of sluggers who went deep includes Random Henry (from Emerson? Transcendent!), Random D.J., fresh-off-the-plane Random Crandall (spelled phonetically, because you made me run, dude), Drew, Drew's Dog Buster and Seth. Multi-hit games came from Colleen, Michigan alum Katie and Anna -- whose multiple hits included getting pelted by a thrown ball while pulling into second base. Except for one rocky inning from Seth -- throwing some reverse-spin ball that everyone hit very hard, including your slightly concussed author, delivering his only RBIs of the day on a triple -- their defense was game tight. The game was not tight: final score was something like 15-6.

Highlights on the losing side: Ted's authoratative first-inning triple, culminating with a knee-shredding slide that was officially on some Jody Gerut 2003 ROY shit; Ben handling first base with the grace, skill and mustache of a young Keith Hernandez; brilliant diving defense by Angelo, a standard-setting lefthanded 3B; continued accomplishment at the shortstop position from Kim; Molly "Boomerang" Bielaski (that is a joke only for my sister) nearly catching a scorching line drive and then displaying remarkable hustle by crawling after a ball later in the same inning. And I finally caught a ball in the outfield in the seventh and final inning after spending much of the game in center, breaking in on 475-foot line drives.

Anyway, good times. Alex is done for the season as B-Milk bartender, as he's heading off to Argentina and Uruguay to take photos and eat fried food for two weeks. I'm gone for a week to scout talent in rural Maine. My sister and Ben T. are out for a week to attend a wedding of redneck Jews in Michigan (seriously). Sam and Ben are out because they now live in Minneapolis, but I spoke to them in a happy coincedence on Monday night and they send their love to all. I'll see you all on August 27. Hopefully Jeff, or somebody else (Joel, I never did get that email about how to open up the blog to other posters), will cover next week's game. If he/she can do it in a more long-winded and needlessly allusive way than me, I'll buy him/her a High Life.

We're in the home stretch with this season, we've got our field back, got our games as tight as they get, and have hungry eyes on some P-Swayz shit. Here's to continued excellence. And maybe batting helmets. My brain hurtz.

Oh, also, the Not Mentioned: The Worst Day Ever To Be A Baby Near Buttermilk Softball And Seth's Attendant $100 Debt; The Molly-Sam parallel cutoff; The Randoms' New Bats (feel great bouncing the fuck off my head!); An Extended Discussion of Phillip Kauffman's super-shitty (and not family-safe) Rising Sun. Yeah, that's a good note to end on.

The Scott Snelling Travelling All-Stars: Buttermilk Softball Week Six

2006-08-10T16:14:00.000-04:00

Several days late, several dollars short: it's your week six recap of what was and wasn't in softball, several days ago. It's going to look something like the recap from the week before, but probably without another photo of David Foster Wallace.

The reason it's going to look like last week is that, once again, we arrived at the field to find forty-plus dudes going at it in a softball game of astonishing vehemence. As Colleen, Greg and I watched and waited, more of our less-vehement crew made their way to Field 5. By 4:30 there were eight of us sprawled in the shade of the right field tree in foul territory, just west of the rightfield power alley commonly known as Seth Nelson Cove. And when I say sprawled, I mean sprawled: everyone was lying down, Greg and I were still working off a hangover that had been born in the same seemingly innocuous bottle of Jim Beam, and Colleen was recovering from a day of devastatingly small-bore commerce at the stoop sale she and Kate (and me: I sold my VHS copy of Deep Blue Sea!) had held earlier in the day. Frankly I found it a little tiring watching the hundreds of players on our field getting after it. One dude, with a poofy ponytail and honest-to-God baseball pants, spiked his glove after every hit by the opposing team. His counterpart on the other team had to deal with the fact that Poofy P-Tail and Some Other Feisty Dude ran onto the field, and after him, after every ball he played. "Kick that nigga," they yelled, after he dropped a foul pop-up. (Reminder: he was not on their team) They proceeded to do so. I sat there and sweated bitterness. Softball?

Yes, eventually. We notified whoever listened on the squatters that we had a permit and were going to ask them to move once we got enough people to get out there and do our business. But we never did get enough people for our own game. We did, however, wind up doing our business when, after some rejections and vexations on our search for a spare field, we squared off with a group that had already been playing for some hours on a full-size (baseball) diamond on the other side of the basin. Once again, our opponents were a kind of bizarro version of Da Buttermilk Crew: people who knew each other and were comfortable mocking each other (in Carlos' case, during the previous game, very comfortable) and yet played hard and seemed to be around our skill level.

That field created some weird hops, offered a dusty shallow outfield, and a second base nestled in the green, green grass roughly 75 feet from home plate. But it was good enough, and since it was by then after 5 -- and since our opponents were very generous about sharing their Molson Canadian -- it was more than good enough.

But were we? Our personnel was limited to 9 (Drew's dog Buster, above, was physically unable to perform, lacking opposable thumbs) and, sadly, captain-less. I had been appointed acting field general, and was, as mentioned earlier, brutally hungover and not that fiery. Some comments were made on my lack of fiery-ness by Scott Snelling. They were ignored. Anyway, Jeff had jetted off to Memphis to collaborate with Three 6 Mafia after a triumphant and solo-tacular Metric Mile show at Union Hall (if you didn't make it, this random British blogger knows how you feel and would like to tell you about another band you might like). BA had been sea breezed away to the land where hangovers frolic gingerly. My sister and Ben were paying a $10 food minimum to watch Will Oldham get all Superwolf at 4pm. Our randoms were MIA, some of our regulars and semi-regulars were indisposed, depriving us of the depth that had carried us to our easy and inspiring victory a week earlier -- in short, the usual Dog Days of August attrition was in e-f-f-e-c-t. Those smooth operators left -- a triumphantly returning Chris Martin, Greg, Drew, Scott, myself, Colleen, newcomers and Naidre's of Carroll Gardens royalty Suvi and Jeanette -- did indeed operate correctly in the early going. Suvi, in particular, acquitted herself well considering that she is 1) from a Scandinavian country where softball is less prioritized and 2) hadn't ever played the game before. Timely hitting on our part and the other team's early inability get the ball out of the infield against my (if I may say) hellacious stuff lifted us to an 8-6 lead going into the bottom of the fifth inning. That was when the wheels came off, to the tune of a 6-run inning that featured me botching two plays at home (yeah, I was pitching, and yeah I was covering home unnecessarily -- I'm fucking sorry), Scott Snelling catching a throw at first base five feet shy of first base, Chris booting a few at third and some balls that either fell in or flew way the hell over everyone's heads. And then our bats went dead -- we pushed across only one run in the last two frames, and ended up losing 12-10. I think they put something in our Molson. Like...I don't know, alcohol. And failure.

Anyway, we'll be back this week. Hopefully on our field, but if not, we'll do what we do: grab the bag with the bases and softballs in it, and find some chumps to chump. This may be my last game of the season, so even if you just want to share a shot of Absolut Peppar with me and a similarly soon-to-depart Greg Ciprioni, you owe it to yourself to make it out.

Not mentioned: Mexican Wedding Dances; The return of Drake "Shirtless" Beefcake in the multitudinous game; unsupervised young kids throwing stuff at Drew's dog and being chastised by Colleen; Squeaking purple chew toys; the guy on the other team who batted and fielded with his hands-free phone set in; Colleen being nicknamed "Gorgeous" by the other team's catcher; The New York Nitros softball club, sponsored by HBO (apparently); The fact that I woke up smelling like a bar towel. There is always more. This Sunday, there will be.

It's Coming

2006-07-31T23:56:00.000-04:00

No one gets called out in this interstitial post. All apologies to Anna, who came through like whoa this week and who gave a very good explanation for her absence the week before (because all who are absent must explain their absence to me) and didn't deserve to get called onto the proverbial carpet. That said, Scott Snelling must explain this week's absence via a photograph of some sort.

Anyway, there will be more here tomorrow or the day after. Actual, overwritten and overwrought substance. Until then, here's a little bit of history to look at. I'm the guy holding the bat.

Our House, Baby, Our House: Buttermilk Softball Week Five

2006-07-31T23:34:00.000-04:00

Longer and more time-wasting than Christopher Hitchens discoursing boozily on Mel Gibson's boozy discourse -- the Week Five recap is in the place.

Or maybe not longer. See, while it's nice that Captain Jeff saw my previous recap as "the Infinite Jest" of softball recaps, it's also worth mentioning that Infinite Jest is, by even the most charitable estimations, some hundred pages too long, and comprised in many parts of footnotes. I cannot do footnotes here -- hyperlinks to Scott Stahoviak's baseball reference page notwithstanding -- and I wouldn't if I could. My job is to tell you what happened, with as much extraneous profanity and unnecessary detail (and, if possible, alliteration) as possible. I (above) will, however, probably run long again, here. Even by our usual high standard of pulse pounding, smoking-in-the-outfield action, this Sunday was fairly interesting.

At first it was not interesting in a good way. It was interesting -- in an academic sense, mostly -- in more of a "how did all these random feisty Latin dudes (and one woman) wind up on our field, and how long are they going to keep playing for" way. I'll answer the second part of that question first: forever. Forever ever. They were playing when Jeff arrived at the field around 3:40pm, they were there when B-Milk season debuts Seth Nelson and Colleen Hooper arrived with me around 4. And they were still there -- talking junk, popping up, taking an extended, both-sides break to comb deep right field for either a softball or a contact lens -- when we left after 6. I checked back on Tuesday and they were still playing, slightly hoarser, perhaps a bit exhausted, but showing every indication of being there again this Sunday.

So the eight or so of us who were there by 4:15ish just warmed up. And kept on warming up. Finally our gaze shifted to the other field. You know the one -- it's in right field, got lots of trees, is sometimes home to profanity-laden boyfriend/girlfriend arguments? Yeah. So we went over there, only to find Jonathan -- a random no more and now officially a Buttermilk member in good stead -- along with his girlfriend and brother, taking BP alongside another lonely mini-team. The stage was set for the Buttermilk Softball annual extramural contest, and what Jesse correctly termed our first ever away game.

Luckily for us, we had a good squad -- balanced, deep, generally not-too-badly-hungover -- and were playing what amounted to a bizarro version of ourselves. The skill levels were comparable, but it was clear from the first pitch -- a piece of flaming cheese from your not-humble-when-comparing-pitches-to-fondue correspondent -- that Buttermilk was going to carry the day. Why? Talent, stupid. That's a stupid question. Seriously. Fucking embarrassing.

What kind of talent? Oh, good one, good question. Talent like an infield that read, at game's end: Ciprioni, J. at 3B, Ciprioni, G. at SS, Chehak, J. at 2B and Jonathan's brother Jason at 1B. Talent like a strong-armed OF featuring Seth, Colleen, Jonathan, former Oakland farmhand and resident baditude-farmer Carlos Salazar and ace flychaser/bartender Alex from Buttermilk. The pitching staff was a study in contrasting styles, with me eventually giving way to Jonathan for an inning, then to Anna (who also had a productive turn as my personal catcher, making the gutsy call for the slider that got the last out in an early inning), and then back to Jonathan for the save. In a comparatively low-scoring affair, Buttermilk prevailed 8-3. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the sterling defense in the last inning -- a Ciprioni to Ciprioni 6-5 putout that involved Jeff hanging in on a sliding player from the other team followed by a magnificent 6-4-3 Greg-to-Jesse-to-Jason double play that drew a totally unironic fist pump and "yes!" from your correspondent. Who has seen a few double plays in his day.

Not shown in this recap: the fact that the other team's best player was a girl, and probably as good as anyone who's ever played with us; me getting a line drive off my shin while pitching and not saying "ouch" (almost) until reaching the dugout; Carlos' shorts; unmotivated ragging of Jeff from his own bench on his batting stance and pale calves; me not running hard/well on another play and contributing to my personal blooper reel. Eh. I'll get 'em next week, when we take on D. Original Buttermilk Softball Team. Nice uniforms, but they look a little old. Yeah, I called you old, Ostwalt Huck, Jr.

Shirts, Gloves, Sneakers: Buttermilk Softball Week Four

2006-07-27T18:04:00.000-04:00

After several days of heavy rain, I'll admit to doubting that Sunday's softball tilt was going to go off. After Sundays past in which good defense meant proper puddle management and smart hitting meant driving a ball towards the quicksand bog between short and third, I kind of expected a game defined mostly by people ruining their sneakers. But the rain yielded Saturday late afternoon, and by game time on Sunday the sun was up, the field was impressively playable and...you know, some other stuff was fucked up, but nothing bad.

Good fucked up? Randoms. Still more, ever more randoms. Returning randoms from the previous week, new randoms probably unique to this week, and even the always enjoyable and seldom seen species of random known to connoisseurs as Older Man Stopping To Watch Until He Gets Depressed By The Quality of Play And Continues Walking Around The Park. What those in the know call OMSTWUHGDBTQOPACWATP. It looks awkward, but it's actually pronounced "Chesh-Law Mi-Loash."

(Bad fucked up? Jeff's 72-hour subway oddysey on his way to the game -- he somehow caught an H train, which I was pretty sure didn't exist; the group going without a bat until after 4:30; the continued irk of hangover attrition; me not running hard enough on a ball hit to center and being forced out at second base, then getting tagged as being a little too "Manny Being Manny" for Cap'N Jeff's tastes)

Anyway, we'll start with the Randoms, Long-Haul Division. Scott's pickups from Week Three returned in force, and were among the stronger performers on the day. Chris, the George Harrison-looking dude who had the Larry Walker moment in game one, returned mashing, fielding his position with panache and continuing to give every indication of being a guy we'll see again this season. He was joined by his buddy Jonathan, who homered twice and was the first Buttermilkman/Buttermilkmaid to reach the far field in right center. He'll receive The Scott Stahoviak Award at our annual awards banquet for the feat, joining such elite company as Scott Snelling, Seth Nelson, possibly Kevlar and Randy Milligan, who accomplished the feat a record 17 times. The Other Randoms were an interesting group -- one, David, left early after taking some gutsy turns as one of the sport's few left-handed third basemen; another, Max, stayed and fearlessly rocked thigh-high purple socks throughout the game. Max was by far the stronger (and, how to put this, significantly more butch) player, but he still got carried away by an admittedly pretty funny Dip Set joke and wound up in a baserunning snafu with my sister. Also participating were two girls who (I think) were there with these two: Lisa joined your correspondent (above, left) on Los Bodegas and pitched several strong innings despite being hindered by flip-flops and just the slightest hint of baditude. Her friend was on the other team; I didn't catch her name, but she handled some chances at first base expertly (and some less expertly) and generally seemed to enjoy herself. Notable in their absence were any father-son combos, shirtless beefcake-ass dudes who ruin my noble attempts at extra base hits, and bigoted Latin drifters.

But as may or may not be coming clear, some of the Randoms fared better than the others on Sunday. As did some of the regulars -- Jesse and Greg were uncharacteristically stifled, my sister's usually electric stuff was not at its best; Jeff and Scott and Chris Martin (and, you know, me) were slightly better than usual. New addition Amanda showed up and was immediately comfortable beating the holy hell out of the softball; another new addition, whose name I think was Garret and who is a friend of Scott's, showed skills but had a game-long run of bad luck. Good plays abounded, and were seen on both sides of the ball -- Greg Ciprioni played an acrobatic shortstop for the Blue Jeans, Ben Tausig cruised the outfield like a bearded, less attitudinous and considerably better-educated Andruw Jones for the Bodegas and Scott Snelling played the best shortstop imaginable considering that he was basically wearing an old (and small) pot roast for a mitt. But mostly the Blue Jeans just scored more runs and hit the ball better. As it turned out, the good days were all on one team and the bad days on another. The result was an ugly final score -- somewhere along the lines of 13-1. These things happen. And they will, thankfully, be happening again, this Sunday, around 4pm.

Please Wait...Buffering...7%

2006-07-26T00:51:00.000-04:00

I've been busy working and blogging tirelessly (elsewhere) on the world's big questions. And thus haven't yet posted a recap of this Sunday's game. And, also, have not addressed the other great questions of our time -- is the totally anarchic shambles formerly known as Iraq going to blow shit with Turkey as well?; how did George Washington manage to fill his pocket with horses?; what the hell happened with Anna and Molly, whom I saw on Brooklyn's 5th Avenue mere hours before the game and who implied strongly they'd be joining us on Field Five? And what actually happened in the game, I guess. If anyone cared about that. Although I don't know why you'd be coming here to get a recap on Sunday's Buttermilk Softball game, honestly.

Good questions all. My only answer at present is: hold your horses, motherfuckerz. More to come tomorrow or Thursday.

amanda about to crush the ball

2006-07-23T22:57:00.000-04:00

amanda about to crush the ball
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

There were many newcomers at this week's buttermilk softball game. Amanda turned out to be a ringer. She is shown here preparing to crush the ball into the outfield. On defense she single handedly turned a double play. And she's got an arm on her too!

Around The Horn: Jeff Ciprioni

2006-07-17T16:42:00.000-04:00

That was quick. The Commish -- fuck Michael Chiklis, I mean the real deal -- has graced us with an Around The Horn. Here are Our Chief Boot-Knocka In Chief's responses to the Around The Horn queries. At the bottom: a link to all previous Around The Horns, so you can get to know your teammates. Jeff? You were saying?

What Position Do You Like To Play (in softball)?
In my heart, I will always consider myself a second baseman. Due to the paucity of fielding chances at that position in our mostly right-handed little Buttermilk universe, I have also experimented with shortstop on occasion. However, much like I came to realize toward the end of my baseball playing days, my true value to the team seems to be in center field. People hit fly balls, you see, and sometimes I can catch them. Other times I just try to run real fast and stop them from rolling all the way into Field 6. Sometimes I look for four leaf clovers on the ground. It's nice out there in center.

Who Is Your Softball Role Model (in softball)?
Goat Townsend, obviously. Expert game strategist, batting practice pitcher, hitter of fungoes, speaker of non-sequitors, both the Casey Stengel and Billy Martin of Whitehall Little League. I would someday aspire to lead the Buttermilk squad in the execution of the official St. James pre-game batting practice exercise. Then we will all feel like winners. The hitting will come.

What Is The Thing You Like Most About Buttermilk Softball?
There's so much to love. The fluid team names and final scores, the rotating cast of thousands, the fashion, the commentary, the beers. And getting to see my little brother swing the bat, which is as impressive now as when he was six. And that one glorious day each year when I prance about in white baseball pants.

What Is The Thing You Like Least About Buttermilk Softball?
Getting back to Williamsburg/Greenpoint afterwards, during periods when I have lived in Williamsburg/Greenpoint. Also, when Brooklyn Industries steals our logo, which I stole fair and square from the Philadelphia Phillies.

What Do You Do In The Offseason?
I play music. Like Bronson Arroyo, but kind of the opposite. And I edit nerdy books.

Complete This Sentence: The Highlight Of My Buttermilk Softball Career Was When...
I was named the new Keeper of the Permit? No, not that. When I was nearly knocked cold after being tagged by a 13-year-old girl? Definitely not that. I would have to say seeing the look on David Roth's face every time I pull my Greg Colbrunn arm stretch at the plate, and then right after than when I rope a line drive into right center.

Previous Around The Horn Subjects:

Samantha Anders

Benjamin Polk

Jim Musil

David Roth

Let's Do Sports!

2006-07-17T13:32:00.000-04:00

Blogs are comprised principally of two elements. Three elements, I guess: words, pictures and breakdancing. And possibly DJing depending on your perspective. Anyway, this has been all photos and popping/locking so far this season, so I'm going to do a little recap on yesterday's game and try to get the "Words" portion of the Buttermilk Softblog back on and popping.

Some words were expended on the subject of new recruits last season. And since I couldn't possibly improve on my own peerless prose (and allusive alliteration), I'm not going to try to fit Sunday's game-saving extra five players into the continuum of randoms who have graced Field Five during the Buttermilk Softball Era. There have been so many -- so many barefoot players, so many gloveless wonders and flip-flop rocking power hitters -- that I wouldn't know where to put the shirtless guy in blue jeans (above, left) who effortlessly gloved a big league pop-up off the bat of your author or the gloveless lefthanded right fielder who made a laser of a throw to retire Drew at home. Also I forgot their names. But Scott Snelling's willingness to approach an admirably motley group of wiffle ballaz brought us up to game strength -- and put a merciful end to my self-hitting clinic during "infield practice" -- and helped us get our game on on for one sweltering, clammy, lopsided hour. I'm using a lot of words here, but what I'm saying is: random Brooklynites showing up and playing with us is the lifeblood of Buttermilk Softball (that and Miller High Life); we can only hope that we'll have these players back sometime in the future. And that more shirtless dudes will show up to lay waste to my mightiest drives.

Highlights, then. The game itself was a rout pretty much from the jump, with the Bodegas (I think) posting a 4-spot in the first inning and continuing to stay ahead throughout thanks to some extra-physical defensive play from Greg Ciprioni and Drew and timely hitting from Scott Snelling, whose unique combination of inspirational leadership and all-fields power recalls both George C. Scott and Mariners prospect Chris Snelling. Also worthy of note: Molly's RBI single and my sister's flaming liner back through the box. Not bad for someone who had a breakfast involving three types of smoked fish and six distinct varieties of cheese. We'll tell you about our parents sometime.

On the other side, offensive ineptitude ruled the day. Jeff drove in a couple during a bat-around fourth, and our Randoms performed admirably. All in all, though, a fine debut pitching performance from Anna -- continuing to break barriers in her fledgling softball career -- and some solid outfield defense from Ben Tausig went for naught. Final score, 31-5. Or something. I don't know, I know the Bodegas recorded a safety at the end of the game.

Next week: a more detailed recap, hopefully a larger game and, participants willing, a few Around The Horn features. Details on that -- and on how we can get some more blog poster people up in this piece -- TK in an email.

Post Softball Refreshments

2006-07-16T22:17:00.000-04:00

Post Softball Refreshments
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

This week's hot weather served to make the post-softball refreshments taste extra-refreshing.

softball power food

2006-07-05T07:18:00.000-04:00

softball power food
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

Thanks for sharing drew

softball how-to

2006-07-05T07:17:00.000-04:00

softball how-to
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

Tasmanian Connie incorparated a game of Buttermilk Softball into her year of round-the-world travels.

Ben is seen here explaining to her the intricacies of batting. Connie quickly grasped the concepts and got a hit.

Photos for the Off Season

2005-09-20T19:58:00.000-04:00

Here's a few photos I snapped with my Holga at a game back in July. I can't remember the particulars of that game, but I remember that it was shortly followed by a burrito the size of my head and two Miller Highlifes for which I paid $1 each (Thanks Alex).

Greg Ondeck
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

Colleen Batting
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

Colleen Batting2
Originally uploaded by scottsnelling.

Sam Sums It Up

2005-09-07T17:30:00.000-04:00

Linda and I spent Sunday in Blowing Rock, N.C., a town with the crack-smokingest name I have ever heard. It was the first game I've missed this season, and naturally it was a big one. After all, Steven wore a belt. Also, I received this e-mail from Sam, which made me giggle like the Pillsbury dough boy. (I mean, church softball on Sunday? Isn't that against the Bible?)--Joel

It sounds like you guys had a great time. Awesome. Softball was pretty fun, even though we did not get a great turnout. Basically they took batting practice for an hour before a church group from 5th and Baltic came over and challenged us to a game. There were two really friendly guys, one of whom was an amazing shortstop with a great arm. Unfortunately this guy alone could not off-set the baditude displayed by a 10 year old with an amazing haircut or the 5 or so other kids under 15 who were not totally coordinated. We ended up beating them 15-2 or 4 in 7 innings. Ben and Jesse and maybe Dan Check homered, Jeff got tagged out by a 13 yr old girl and then hit his head on the ground and had to come out for a couple of innings. He got back in there though. All in all, a pretty awesome end to the season.

Mssrs. September

2005-09-07T00:54:00.000-04:00

Well, although hearts are heavy at the prospect of the hastening dusk, turning leaves, and the twilight of another Summer of Buttermilk Softball, we have reason to cheer. After a long and bitter feud, the Brooklyn Bodegas and the Blue Jeans on Fire, NYC were finally reconciled and united against one common enemy: this one church on 5th ave. Yes the forces of God took on the forces of beer in Buttermilk's first ever extramural contest and received a sound 15-2 spanking. It was a stellar effort in all aspects of the game from Team Friendship: mammoth dingers, clutch pitching, and sparkling defense were all the orders of the day, and more than one observer could be overheard commenting that it was Buttermilk's most impressive showing yet. Roll the highlights:
--A courageous two-out rally in the bottom of the first.
--David Roth striking out a 12-year-old boy.
--A consecutive homer-triple-homer combo by Dan, Jesse and myself to seal the deal in the bottom of the sixth. Pat yourselves on the back fellas, the Twins are lucky to do that in a week.
--Young Steven looking sharp in both a hat and belt. Still can't understand a word he's saying.
--Samantha heroically battling crutches, a bum knee and her inner demons to manage the squad from the bench.
--Smoking pot in the infield during batting practice. You gotta work hard, you gotta play hard.

We all held our breath when Jeff, brazenly ignoring his younger brother's sage advice against making the final out at third base, took a nasty spill and lay motionless for a little longer than was comfortable. Things got even more hairy when his only response to his friends' entreaties was to smack his lips together and make some gurgling noises. But when Jeff finally got up the energy to sound exasperated, we knew he'd be ok, and that even my bumbling efforts at medical attention would not hinder his recovery. Don't worry, fans: Jeff later returned to make a fine catch in the outfield, and later still to eat hot dogs and laugh at fart jokes in our backyard.
Dudes, my final thoughts are thusly: though we are losing a founding member in our good friend and benefactor Jim, though we did battle with the heat, sparse-ish attendence, and some sharply dressed and unbelievably angry tackle footballers, though we perhaps did not play enough Big Buck Hunter at the bar, this Buttermilk season totally ruled. We played sounder defense, hit for greater power, and drank for cheaper than ever. This young blogger could not ask for finer companions, either on the diamond or in front of the jukebox. Thanks pals.

Around the Horn: Jim

2005-09-06T08:41:00.000-04:00

This is Jim's last season in the Buttermilk Softball league. We'll all miss him quite a lot.

What position do you like to play?

Shortstop is definitely the most fun, but given that I'm 35, six foot four, and unable to bend down and touch my toes with any grace, I am generally not allowed to play shortstop. But, due to a strange "1-2" no one wanted to play shortstop for the Jeans this past week and I put on the glove and made a play or two. In fact, I think I got through without an error -- which is definitely not true for the other spots I played -- centerfield, first, third -- positions more logically associated to players with the aforementioned shortcomings. I was especially good versus 10 year olds.

And, really, if pressed, I would have to say that my favorite player of all time is Robin Yount, Hall of Fame shortstop from the Milwaukee Brewers.

Your softball role model:

Robin Yount, Hall of Fame shortstop from the Milwaukee Brewers. My gateway to a life in radio was listening to the Brewers' staticky night games on a transistor radio 700 miles west on a hill in Rapid City, South Dakota. They went to the world series when I was 12.

Thing you like most about Buttermilk Softball:

I've always liked how Brent looks kind of like Robin Yount.

Thing you like least about Buttermilk Softball:

Interference from other sports.

What do you do in the off-season?

Sadly, it's all off-season from here on out as Heather, Jasper, Millie and I are all moving out of New York and heading back to Minnesota. There may be other softball games and other softball leagues, but there's only one Buttermilk Softball.

Complete this sentence: The highlight of my Buttermilk Softball career was when ...

... everything was as perfect as perfect could be. There was a Sunday earlier in the summer when it was sunny but not hot, my new young family was cheering me on from their shady spot under a tree, my friends were all there and happy -- it was a beatiful moment and I could have played inning after inning.

Around the Horn: Dave

2005-08-22T20:16:00.000-04:00

What position do you like to play?
Years of watching baseball too closely have curdled my preferences into some weirdly and dorkily specific shapes. I like to pitch -- even though there's no agency in it and even though Seth Nelson almost hit a ball through my torso last year. But I like to pitch middle relief. Part of this is an attempt to reclaim my Dan Plesac Award-winning form of 2003 (and maybe 2004? I don't remember), but most of it is just because I'm frustrated about only having pitched 1.3 innings in my real baseball career. I also enjoy second base. That last sentence would read as a high-five line to sixth graders.

Your softball role model:
My baseball role models are Pat Mahomes and Keith Hernandez. My softball role model is the person from the field directly South of us who ran onto the field a few weeks ago chasing a lost ball. S/he was wearing so much gear -- two knee braces, Sabo-ian (catch) rec specs, headband -- that it was pretty much impossible to ascertain gender. That's good work. (Editor's note: See post below. We may have verified that this person is, in fact, Ingrid.)

Thing you like most about Buttermilk Softball:
The laid-back, easygoing spir... uh, anyway I like playing softball quite a bit. I like high-fiving and hitting and when we execute well enough that plays look like realistic baseball plays. Also I like to drink beers at Buttermilk and put long songs on the jukebox.

Thing you like least about Buttermilk Softball:
Probably the fresh air and exercise.

What do you do in the off-season?
Train hard, take vitamins, write the back of baseball, basketball and football cards to keep my carpal tunnels sharp. Usually I try to spend a month or two down in the Dominican playing winter slow-pitch softball.

Complete this sentence: The highlight of my Buttermilk Softball career was when...
...my sister drove me in from second base with a line drive single to right field last season. Not only did it kind of seem like something that could happen in a real game, but it was probably the closest I've ever felt to Serena. Simply having the same parents and growing up in the same house is nothing compared to the connection shared by teammates acknowledging one another's smart hitting.

With New Faces, Bodegas Defeat Jeans in Steam Cooker

2005-08-22T19:35:00.000-04:00

Many students at the University of Minnesota are resigned to take a course called Introduction to Anthropology. This 500-plus person lecture course kills two curricular birds with one stone, as it satisfies a science credit (thanks to a laboratory component) and a "cultural understanding" requirement.

The latter is justified because students must read a pornographic prehistoric potboiler called Clan of the Cave Bear.

In this Jean M. Auel novel, a prehistoric tribe of Neanderthals discover a young blonde Cro-Magnon girl named Ayla. Though they stubbornly cling to tradition and cultural suspicion, the Neandertals raise Ayla as one of their own.

It soon becomes obvious that the men of the tribe like Ayla for more than her Nordic good looks. In fact, she represents the future of their corrupted, inbred gene pool.

Of course, sometimes this Darwinian take on genetics works in reverse when ten Buttermilkers show up for softball and will play with someone, anyone, to get a game going.

The Bodegas Unidas de Brooklyn defeated the Blue Jeans on Fire 9-7 in six innings of play on Sunday. Thanks to the participation of several players from the Field Four game, a work stoppage was averted and a real game of softball was played.

The game was close for the first three innings, but the the Bodegas blew the contest wide open with a seven-run fourth inning. In the bottom of the sixth, the Jeans pulled within two runs, but their rally could not catch fire.

Much of the scorekeeping, sketchy as it is in the first place, went out the window for this game. Few records of this Sunday's outstanding achievement exist, partly because it was just one more thing to do in the 90-plus degree heat. Jeff homered and so did someone else.

This reporter would like to acknowledge that he has talked a lot of shit about these players in general, including in the pages of this blog ("Place Your Bets," 8/17/05). But Jack, Ingrid, Sean and about three others that played for the Bodegas were pretty cool and also had about 37 sleek softball bats among the six of them. Many of the Buttermilk regulars were like kids in a candy store.

Ingrid also let Jeff use her first aid kit when he skinned a knee. (Note to self: We need a first aid kit.)

Jack did take issue with Joel's decision to put him last in the order.

"I haven't batted last in the order in, what, 20 years," Jack complained, obviously insulted that Joel had not bothered to read the Field Four prospectus. "You can't bat me last."

"It's a pretty casual game," Joel responded. "And you got to the bench last. By the way, we pitch underhand slow-arc."

Respect to another newbie: Patrick, a friend of Dan and Dave who plays in a Saturday bar league in Williamsburg.

Action Snaps

2005-08-18T22:47:00.000-04:00

Sunday's game was an instant classic. And what better way to celebrate the 24 year and 2 month (approximately) anniversary of the longest game in the history of professional baseball, between the Rochester Redwings and the Pawtucket Red Sox? What did the two games have in common? Wade Boggs had chicken before both events. I presume. Somebody send copies of these photos to the Society for American Baseball Research!

Johnny "Carlos" Damon makes a strong throw from left as MVP Gregg looks on. Somebody get urine samples from those two.

Sam has been teaching Ben how to hit to all fields. Carlos had his number on this one, though.

Chris drops a single in front of Jim to bring in the tying run. Gregg gets ready to take the relay. Is this guy everywhere?

Place Your Bets

2005-08-17T23:40:00.000-04:00

I am now taking bets on how soon until our neighbors in the adjacent field erupt into physical violence.

As you may recall, the game next door became quite a spectacle two Sundays ago. After a close call at the plate, a member of the team in the field accused one of his opponents of "verbal interference."

If I remember correctly, the defenseman alleged that his opponent had thrown his voice--like a ventriloquist--to coax a nervous-nelly fielder into needlessly throwing the ball.

At one point, the accuser screamed: "Never in my 10 years of playing has anything like this ever happened!" This gave me pause. Ten years? And they're still screaming at each other every week? Time for a divorce, fellas.

Game Six: You're in the Jungle, Baby. You're Going To Die.

2005-08-17T19:34:00.000-04:00

In one of the grittiest Buttermilk softball contests yet, the Blue Jeans on Fire beat the Bodegas Unidas de Brooklyn, 13-12, in 96-degree heat. The Jeans narrowly dodged a bullet, as Greg hit a game-ending sacrifice fly in the bottom of the ninth.

It was a game few players will soon forget. The league is presently developing an NFL Films-style documentary on Sunday's game. The voiceover narration begins this way:

...Brooklyn. The borough of Kings. Birthplace of rough-and-tumble sporting contests. Hardnose street fights. Race riots. In the center of Brooklyn's Prospect Park on an August day under the sign of Leo, two teams clashed in conditions that rivaled the foulest games in Hades ... Storms threatened for the first few minutes of the game, but no rain was seen--only deadly lightning. The playing conditions were somehow simultaneously scorching, dusty and humid...gunplay was on everyone's mind...

Or something like that.

In typical fashion, the Jeans burst out of the gate--notching eight runs in the first inning.

Tightening their belts, the Bodegas made several key defensive adjustments and began a slow and steady run that put them on course to tie the game. Dave Roth "homered" for the Jeans, while Jeff (this reporter thinks) homered for the Bodegas.

With the bases loaded, Greg hit a fly ball to center field. Sam tagged up and jetted home to score the winning run.

Greg netted MVP honors for the sac fly, as well as his bizarre standing hook-slide at third base. Also, Greg and brother Jeff were the first players to arrive at the diamond on what was easily one of the top three shittiest weather days the league has ever seen.

By all reports, the heat left most players completely exhausted. It was all that Jeans right fielder and pitcher Joel could do to choke down a beer later on at the Buttermilk.

"I was pretty sure I was going to start puking straight-up water there for a minute," Joel said. "That's when my pitching seemed to go to hell. All I could do was roll the ball across the plate. It was super ugly."

Most players were administered Spanish-language Pringles, in cheese and sour cream & onion flavors, at the Buttermilk to replenish lost body fat.

Linda was credited with the victory for buying the Prigles, while Young Steven was given the loss because of his lack of belt and abundance of fielding errors.

An unnamed Buttermilk source suggested that several players were ready to take up the no-belt issue with the commissioner.

"I'm fucking bringing an extra belt for him next time," said the source. "I'm fucking doing it."

The meatheads who play adjacent to the Buttermilk failed to show up, yet some of last week's strangers showed up, including Ryan.

In an impressive display of the infant fan base, Jasper the Baby attended the game with mom Heather.

Game Five: Bodegas Unbutton Jeans

2005-08-09T19:15:00.000-04:00

The Bodegas Unidas de Brooklyn snapped a three-game losing streak after defeating the Jeans on Fire, 13-9, on Sunday at Prospect Park. The Bodegas improved their record to 2-3, pulling within a game of .500.

Turnout for the game was sparse, due to a Minnesota wedding and the all-around void that tends to consume American lives in August. A roster of about 10 Buttermilk regulars were helped by about five newcomers, including Mets fan Jeremy, a woman whose name this reporter did not catch and two mystery men (Ryan and one other) claiming to know Colleen.

Sunday's game was one of the more laborious in league history, with players on both benches suffering various ailments. Ben and Sam were assigned to the weekend in the Washington, D.c.-area Wedding Guest League and arrived for Buttermilk action on short notice after a red-eye flight. Joel, meanwhile, underwent extensive physical therapy at the Hold Steady show on Saturday night and was not yet in peak physical condition. Jesse played permanent shortstop, and few on the field could fall into the rhythm of the pitch-and-catch-for-your-own-team rules.

Though he homered for the Jeans, Scott was in need of a burrito.

Jeff, who also hit a dinger, turned in an outstanding defensive performance in centerfield, catching three fly balls in one inning.

Kevin was a star in center this week, too, as it slowly starts to sink in with team management that talented outfielders--and lots of ground balls--are the secret to this game.

Web Gems

2005-08-03T00:08:00.000-04:00

As for Joel's defensive performance, lets put this thing in historical perspective. The major league record for errors in a game by a second baseman is held by a bumbling fellow named Andy Leonard of the Boston Red Stockings who, on June 14th, 1876, came up big with an impressive nine miscues. Clearly his mind was more on the then-nascent Free Silver Movement or on the dwindling prospects of Congressional Reconstruction than on the ballgame. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that rather than a baseball mitt he was wearing a simple piece of cloth strapped to his glove hand, and that with each passing error his chances of being drawn and quartered by a mob of rabid, drunken Irish dockworkers increased. Bottom line: Joel, before you go getting everyone's hopes up about a new "Major League " film (seriously: not fair), remember that it could be worse. You could be a Red Stocking.

In fashion news, I think its important to recognize perhaps our most consistent styleballer: Samantha Anders. Whether casually dismissing would-be batsmen, pulling balls foul down the third-base line, surreptitiously adding runs to her team's total between innings, or taunting friends and loved ones alike with her mad dances off second base, Sam causes an uproar with her tight, knee-length cutoffs, regulation Buttermilk jersey, and pink Mets visor. She may not show up in a dress made only of patched-together American Quilts hand-sewn by Winona Ryder with matching cleats (but seriously Jessica Roake, lets see you field a grounder in that thing), but week-in and week-out Sam is the picture of casual grace. She could be a Kennedy on a sailboat, that one. Nuts to you, old girl.

Game Four: Jeans Edge Bodegas in Nine

2005-08-02T07:46:00.000-04:00

In one of the most thrilling outings yet this season, the Jeans on Fire outlasted the Bodegas Unidas de Brooklyn, 14-13, in a full nine innings of play.

The Buttermilk joined forces with four free agents from a competing league that had laid a claim to Field Five that afternoon. Three of the newcomers played for the Bodegas, helping the side match the Jeans run for run and keeping everyone interested for a full three innings beyond the usual six played. Angelo was a force behind the plate, while Kim had obviously shined on a college team at Emerson and was perhaps a bit bored played with schlubs like us.

The seventh inning proved to be the key moment of the game, as the Jeans surged ahead with five runs. However, they would post no other runs that afternoon, and the Bodegas battled back--aided in no small part by Jim's towering home run. The round-tripper, blasted in full view of Jim's seven-month-old son, sparked a Bodegas rally in the next two innings, but the team effort fell short.

Defensive kudos go to Kim, who played third base with skill (and more importantly, accuracy) throughout the game. Jesse completed a double play, gloving a frozen rope at short and putting out Kim, who could not make it back to second base to tag up. Expect to cringe at Ben's Baseball Tonight highlight clips. This week's subject of "Around the Horn" made several painful, knee-skinning diving catches on the edge of the infield, perhaps trying to make up for a number of costly errors. Team medical staff verified that Ben is healthy, but taking oxygen on an hourly basis.

Intense media scrutiny has been directed at Joel after Sunday's game, when the veteran turned in a defensive performance that defied explanation. Playing at second, a position at which he exceled as a 12-year-old rookie at Armitage Park in Minneapolis, Joel flubbed at least five throws to first and attempted to tag Eddie (a new guy) without the ball in his glove--a technique that everyone believed was legal for maybe three seconds. Fans outside the park shouted down Joel after the game, accusing him of abandoning his steroid regimen and turning to Eastern religion and yoga. Several local columnists, notably the Daily News' Mike Lupica, speculated that Joel is in fact under the spell of black-widow spider Kim Basinger, who will surely try to convince him to quit the game and let the team tank. (Lupica predicted this story would end the way the book ends, rather than the way the movie ends.) Others believe that Joel is under the spell of comedy svengali Charlie Sheen and spending too much time studying lines for Major League 4.

[The Buttermilk Blog regrets that no photos were available from Sunday's game. It was way too intense.]

Around the Horn: Ben

2005-08-02T07:32:00.000-04:00

What position do you like to play?
In high school I was a catcher, but one day I realized that I was spending my time squatting uncomfortably, wearing hot equipment and getting foul tips in the balls while my teammates were all, like, playing baseball. Screw that. Now my favorite positions are shortstop, left field (because it's fun to while away the hours in the green grass on a Summer's day) and the bleachers at Midway Stadium in St. Paul, Minn., with two beers smuggled into the stadium in my socks.

Your softball role model:
My softball role models are Kent Hrbek and Hrbek the rock band.

Thing you like most about Buttermilk Softball:
I like hanging with the buds, I like drinking the brews, I like the pretty blue sky and the pretty trees. I like fielding grounders, line drives and watching Jesse casually catch fly balls while talking on his phone. I like watching the sun set out the windows of the bar. Those are all my favorite.

Thing you like least about Buttermilk Softball:
I really hate it when I pop out. Seriously, that sucks.

What do you do in the off-season?
In the offseason I ride the subways, feeling cold. Last offseason I taught 12-year-old kids from Bensonhurst how to play guitar and flag football.

Complete this sentence: The highlight of my Buttermilk Softball career was
when...
...I came to bat during my favorite Modest Mouse song. It was like I was playing myself in the movie of my life, directed by me. Then I hit an 8-run homer. When I say "8 run homer", I mean, "groundball".

League Sees Cyclones, Gets Free Stuff

2005-07-31T14:37:00.000-04:00

Team Buttermilk watched the Cyclones rout the Jamestown Jammers on July 23. We sat in the centerfield bleachers, where one bench supposedly accomdates 12 people. The Cyclones celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Brooklyn Dodgers' World Series victory, rolling out a few players from the 1955 team and plenty of threadbare nostalgia. (Speaking before the game, Borough President Marty Markowitz drew the inevitable comparison between the Dodgers and the New Jersey Nets, set to move to Brooklyn in the next couple of years.) Our crew developed an antagonistic relationship with the Jammers' No. 8, who really wasn't bothering anyone to be totally honest.

The best part: We netted a host a free stuff...all of which was shaped like a t-shirt:

Chris became the only person I know who has actually caught one of those t-shirts launched from an on-field cannon. He split the shirt 50-50 with Bill (pictured).

Also, Linda nabbed a free t-shirt shaped bottle coozie. (Note: The coozie has not been used since this photo was taken.) All in all, it was a splendid evening, though virtually no one watched the game.

Attention, potential challengers: Buttermilk players got in some extensive but probably irrelevant batting practice at Coney Island's facility near the boardwalk. In the fast-pitch softball cage, Joel did not put the bat on a single ball, save for a foul tip that went straight backwards. Ben fared better.

Game 3: Veterans Explode for Jeans, Wild Card in Sight

2005-07-26T22:48:00.000-04:00

After a rainout last Sunday, the Blue Jeans on Fire defeated the Bodegas Unidas de Brooklyn 19-9 in eight innings of play. Original Buttermilk League slugger Kevlar swatted three towering home runs and journeyman interleague figure Dewey logged a key defensive play to help the Jeans improve their record to 2-1.

Despite an even distribution of power, speed and brains among this Sunday's teams, the early innings belonged to the Jeans, who drilled 16 of their runs in the first three innings. The Jeans' Sam lobbed two shutout innings before allowing up five runs in the third and three runs in the fourth. The Bodegas continued to scrap for the duration of the game, but could not crawl out from beneath the Jeans' hogpile of runs.

This Sunday marked Kevlar's debut in the Buttermilk's fourth season. A key player in all previous seasons, Kevlar was dogged by personal commitments and apparently, a regimen of steroids and cross-training that helped him hit the shit out three 14 m.p.h. high-arc pitches which landed somewhere near where all the world music bands play in the summertime.

Shortstop Dewey was called up from the New England League to help set a league record for most family connections by playing in a game alongside his daughter while playing against his daughter's boyfriend, his son-in-law and two guys that live in the house owned by his other daughter and son-in-law. Though not part of official game play, Dewey's wife, daughter and grandchild did watch from the bleachers, which just added to the complexity of Dewey's performance.

An unknown variable from the get-go, Dewey turned in an outstanding defensive effort at short and a more than respectable day at the plate. He earned the award for the game's best defensive play for an over-the-shoulder falling catch that looked certain to sideline him for at least the rest of the game, if not the entire ride back to Massachusetts. Instead, Dewey jumped back to his feet and helped start a hotbox that turned a spectacular single out into a double play--at a crucial moment in the game.

Also on retainer: Canadian League firebrand Brent and girlfriend Susan, who turned in a one-day appearance. Like Kevlar, Brent was on the roster during the inaugural Buttermilk season. He later departed for Toronto and graduate school, where he received his Masters of Funk in Knocking Long Balls and Staying True to the Twinkies, Das All That Matters Yo. (Congratulations on earning this degree.) Our Canadian export hit at least one homer, though stats are scarce because the statistician batted behind Brent in the order.

Regardless: On behalf of the team, Brent, it was great to see you. Thanks for coming down.
One self-indulgent note: This reporter would like to congratulate himself for hitting his first Buttermilk League home run. It's been four long years and a lot of anxiety-choked triples.

Field conditions were optimal this week, much like they were in Game Two. The weather was warm and sweaty, but not too humid. The field was bone dry for perhaps the first time this season. In left field, a game of full-contact, no-pads tackle football didn't disrupt our game too much. Those men, however, had filthy mouths and I for one am not going to let Greg hear that kind of language again.

The bar scene was mild, yet still rewarding. Though Dewey did not make an appearance as rumored on this very blog, Alex did have the dollar High Lifes at his side. Colleen, who flew solo at the bar last week when the rain scared off every other player in the league, was joined by about a dozen Buttermilkers who listed as Dave did a marvelous impression of co-workers that is still cracking this reporter up.

Before Apres Softball

2005-07-21T13:19:00.000-04:00

Hey all -

Jeff's show will be a great way to wind down after softball, but first, don't forget to stop by the Buttermilk. Poor Alex already had one Sunday without us and you know he can't feed his cats on just the normal Sunday drunkards' tips. Plus my dad LOVES drinking with my friends in bars (really!), so please stop by on the way to Jeff's show.

Après Softball

2005-07-21T10:04:00.000-04:00

So we lost last week due to rain, or rather most of us did. Carlos and I took our "never say die" attitudes out into the wet grass and played a waterlogged game of catch that put me on the fast track to Tommy John surgery. But I digress. Because of the rainout, I'm thinking everyone should be well rested for a big Sunday. After the game, and a de rigeur Bloody Mary or three at the Buttermilk, all friends of softball should consider riding the F back into Manhattan to see my band, the Metric Mile. We're playing at Cake Shop, which is on Ludlow, and features a coffee shop, a record store and a bar in one convenient package. Doors are at 8:30, and I think we're the third of three bands, so there's plenty of time for travel. Sorry to go all off topic and spammy on here, but I don't know any other way of getting in touch with the Coach, and I am dying to hear how he thinks the Metric Mile compare to the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Here's the information:
The Metric Mile (me and Patrick and our iPod)
In Interview (bouncy, skittery pop with deadpan female vocals)
The Smittens (way too cute pop from Vermont)

Cake Shop
152 Ludlow btw Rivington and Stanton
Doors at 8:30, $6

I Heart Jeff Brantley

2005-07-11T18:18:00.000-04:00

I'm not going to sit here and deny that a slick double-play or two wasn't turned on Sunday afternoon, or that Aris didn't walk off the field with a slugging percentage of just under six blablillion. But the status of this blog as a news service would be a gol-damned sham if we didn't award play-of-the-game to Alex Darcey for his dramatic dollar Hi-Life move from behind the bar. Those who skipped out on the late innings (by that I mean those innings beginning at 6pm on 15th and 6th) not only missed me artfully suckering Jeff C. into a Double-vertical Checker Jammer during our heated Connect Four best-of-three series (not sure if that's the official name for the move), they also missed Alex gracefully serving up chilly brews for a price that even underemployed midwesterners could call remarkably generous. Its not every day that we're treated to such sublime athleticism. I say: Suck it Jeter: Alex Darcey is a true champion.

In fashion news, David Roth showed up in regulation Buttermilk apparel, and it was left to Jeff Ciprioni to throw down the uncomfortable-looking pants gauntlet. He didn't look half-bad neither, in those pretty tight Wranglers, lacing line drives and booting grounders like he was David Wright all gone country.

Longball slugging Aris' piercing blue eyes, Randy Moss ponytail afro and take-charge outfield demeanor had the ladies in a thrall, while Courtney Martin's slayed the fellers with her trash talk and startlingly unpatriotic tank top (Talking Point: does "Bush is WAC" mean that Courtney Martin is with the terrorists? Warning: she may also believe in global warming and/or know a homosexual) but...

...the most daring style move of the day unquestionably belongs to Jasper J. Musil, age 6.5 months, who not only provided astute game commentary in that grizzled Brooklyn accent he so loves to affect when he wants you to know he's being serious, but also stepped onto the scene in a navy-blue onesy and NOTHING ELSE! Audacious, Jasper.

Finally, I know you all have been closely following may mid-game batting stance adjustments. I'll just inform you that after spending some kinda drunk quality time watching "Baseball Tonight" late last night, I've decided to go with a closed stance. Apparently this has done wonders for Jason Giambi. More on this in the coming weeks.

IOC To Drop Softball and Baseball?

2005-07-11T17:28:00.000-04:00

"The International Olympic Committee ... voted yesterday in Singapore to drop softball and baseball from the 2012 Games," reports William Rhoden in a New York Times column.

He continues: "...make no mistake, this vote was aimed at the United States - a backlash against the lopsided dominance of women's softball and the perceived arrogance of the men's baseball."

In short, the American women are too good. And the American men? Well, they don't send their superstars. [Thanks for the link, Miriam!]

Game Two: Jeans Shut Down Bodegas

2005-07-11T07:36:00.000-04:00

Sunday. Bloody Sunday.

The Blue Jeans on Fire beat the Bodegas Unidas de Brooklyn last night 23-5 in a lopsided, humid blowout.

"The runs are just pouring in," remarked Blue Jeans on Fire shortstop Ben, who turned one of the team's two double plays. Third baseman/pitcher Jesse produced the other. (Editor's note: There were two DPs yesterday, right?) New guy Aris was the offensive hero of the game, hammering three homers and collecting an uncounted number of RBI.

The game remained amicable, however, despite the nearly 20-run gap in the box score. Chalk that up to the return of many familiar faces to the Buttermilk Softball on the first non-holiday outing of the season. The league welcomed back such marquee names as Jesse, Nick, Jeff, Lonnie and Tiffany, Seth and Colleen. The franchise also joined the brotherly ranks of the Ripkens and Alomars, with the appearance of Jeff's kin, Greg.

The Prospect Park gods smiled down on the contest. A group playing on the field at Buttermilk's regularly scheduled game time left with only a minor display of dickishness. Also, to the amazement of many, there was not a soccer or ultimate frisbee game anywhere in our outfield. But Mother Nature was not as kind, sending down heavy rains on Friday and Saturday that kept the field muddy and lumpy. Few in the softball community expect our half dozen game balls to hold out much longer.

The mud pit at first base nearly claimed one of its own when Young Steven's throw to first literally became that Old Timey saloon toast, "Here's mud in your eye." First baseman Joel was temporarily blinded and nearly required medical attention to regain vision in his contact lens. After a cortizone shot and the application of a mystery cream on his backside, Joel was good to go. He promptly pulled his quadricep. This morning, he woke up with some kind of head cold, leading many coaches around the league to speculate that the 28-year-old is fucking falling apart.

"Jesus Christmas, I'm going to Toronto," he told the Buttermilk Softball blog in a phone interview. "I'm in a wedding next week. Sam has all the equipment."

Game attendance was 2, including Jasper the Baby and mom Heather.

The Buttermilk Softball blog would like to acknowledge the final game of Wade, an occasional participant who joined the game last season. Wade is moving to the Summit Hill neighborhood of St. Paul, Minn., where he will live with his wife, Heidi. The blog's editor would like to charge Wade with finding out just what the hell is going on inside the Minnesota State Capitol.

Roll Out The Tarp

2005-07-08T18:59:00.000-04:00

One love to Roy "Snowblind" Tarpley, but that's not what I'm referring to. I'm referring to the rain that has now been falling on the city for 24 consecutive hours, and I'm wondering what effect it will have on the game Sunday.

Worst case scenario is that the rainy conditions awaken Francisco Dinosaurio from his beauty sleep, and that he'll hurriedly re-shape his goatee, throw back a cool pint of crazy sauce, and get back out there to show us how it's done ("it," in this case, being "what the queers are doing to the soil"). Failing that, though, we'll probably still be dodging puddles and playing station-to-station softball with a six-pound ball by the time 5:15 rolls around. I am not complaining about this -- it's better than not playing softball by a damn sight, and there's nothing like the tension of a low-scoring slow-pitch softball game. But the foul weather, and Field 5's drainage issues, reminds me of a moment from last year that I think was one of the most beautiful in Buttermilk history. Seriously: it's up there with me hurting myself in Year One, if not quite in the class of Jesse's Motorola-aided outfield play or last year's season-ending Alex/Ben collision in centerfield on the season's final putout.

I have no pictures of this moment -- Joel, if you have them, I think they'd make a great post -- but I'm talking about the day last year when we all spent the first thirty or forty minutes of softball running around with rakes and nasty sump-pumps and shovels like a bunch of hungover kibbutzniks (right down to my sister and me doing insulting Israeli accents) and grounds-kept a field that looked like a pasture of loose Bigfoot poo into semi-playability. The communal spirit of it, the primal joy of working with the soil, comrades of all sizes, shapes, colors and softball abilities laboring side-by-side... I'm kind of humming the "Internationale" right now just thinking about it.

But I'm still hoping it's sunny and hot tomorrow, and that the field will be viable by Sunday 4pm. Playing second base is hard enough without having to worry which side of the puddle you're going to position yourself on.

Classic Pics: The Ambulance Incident

2005-07-06T19:46:00.000-04:00

On a beautiful day back in 2003, Steven suffered a separated shoulder while lunging back to second base in his only Buttermilk Softball game. The incident was a lot like Woodstock in 1969: many people say they attended, but few of them actually did. To put it another way, using another tired line copped straight from a Spencer Gifts key chain: If you remember Steven's separated shoulder, you weren't really there.

For those that couldn't make it that fateful day, there are always the photos.

To be honest, I remember very little about Steven's injury. In fact, just now I had to flex my memory muscle to recall that these pictures are from two years ago. Here's my single memory of that day: running around the park like a maniac with Chris, hoping to flag down an ambulance. On second thought, there's more: I remember the "helpful" park volunteer who squatted down on Steven's chest like a mama goose hatching an egg.

Cups Of Coffee

2005-07-05T23:45:00.000-04:00

Polo shirt, yes. Dark sunglasses that are definitively not my prescription: a thousand times yes (added benefit of these: they turn you into Elana Berkowitz whenever a fly ball is hit to you). But expensive jeans: nah, B. The only thing valuable about those pants -- other than an authentic, league-approved bright yellow paint stain on the crotch -- is the fact that they were given to me by Jonathan Kaminsky. Anyway, after Sunday, I call these my clutch hittin' pants. I will never wear them to softball again.

There's been a lot of talk about Steven The Picked-Up Kid (and a bit of talk about his Metallica t-shirt) and this has led me to do two things. First, I Dub Thee Unforgiven. All of you. Deal with that: you label me, I label you.

Secondly, I have given some thought to our best picked-up Prospect Park randoms and one-off performers. This list does not include Brad -- a stalwart B-Milker who missed all of last season with an injury/starting-to-feel-weird issues, and who will hopefully be back. I have limited it to people I remember. Drop some comments in there if I forgot anyone. Now:

MGR: Old Sparky Anderson Guy who showed up last year and coached third base for one game. I want to say his name was John, but I am pretty sure it was actually Leo Durocher -- possibly his ghost, or possibly his dessicated corpse, armed with all sorts of witty beyond-the-grave barbs about how bad the '04 Mets were. He wore shorts, was old, and had lots of crusty old baseball sayings. I'm fairly certain this man adopted Jeff Ciprioni after the game.

Trainer: Mustachioed Yankees Fan Guy Who Tended To Injured Steven. This guy was wearing gym teacher shorts that revealed just a hint o' balls, and was so authoratative in dealing with Steven's dislocated shoulder that I almost forgot how nauseous said dislocated shoulder made me. I am glad this man arrived, but I am doubly glad that he did not get McGyver on Injured Steven's shoulder. You can't just pop that shit back, no matter how freshly pressed your Yanks t-shirt is. You just can't.

C: Big-Swingin' Q-Train Sam Horn from last year, who came to a game with another pickup whose name I forget. He was a distractable sort who managed to become the only gentleman ever to receive a strikeout in Buttermilk Softball League Play. Eleven slow, meatbally Joel Meyer "circle changes" crossed the plate, and eleven errant Glenn Braggs-y swings followed each about a second after it had crossed the plate. He didn't come back, BUT he did bring a really good bat the one day he was there. I hit well that day. Incidentally, this guy is at catcher because he was so tuned-out in the outfield that he was honestly a risk to his fellow players. Which is important when you look to...

1B: I'm putting Injured Steven here. Good pop at this spot is a necessity, especially when... no, a socket-related "pop" punchline is stupid and also puts me at explicit and grievous karmic risk of dislocating my own shoulder.

2B: Some Random Visiting Boyfriend. There's always one. I can't think of anyone, and anybody can play second base. I do it every week.

3B: Steven. Enough has been said about this kid, I think. He's not Scott Rolen just because he wore skate shoes and outplayed a bunch of rusty MFs in their upper-twenties. And not to be a hater or anything, but there's no way he would've been that good if he had been forced to wear sunglasses he couldn't see through.

SS: Francisco Dinosaurio. This homophobic gadfly showed up during a rain-shortened game last year and promptly made everyone feel really weird. I wasn't there for his elaborate monologue behind the backstop -- I was hitting infield practice to an ten year old who was playing with us while Francisquito was tying in homosexuals, dinosaurs, Freemasons, Anthony Mason and Newsday with some elaborate conspiracy to deprive him of his purity of essence. I was there, though, for his few moments of field generalship in between downpours. I can't say I liked him, but he was more like Carlos Baerga than anyone else who has played with our group. I'd bet any amount of money homeboy wasn't wearing underpants, either.

OF: Three rightfielders? You're goddamn right: all the better for chasing down Scott Snelling's controversial "homers." Playing in foul territory and directly on the foul line are Elana Berkowitz and Kate Reilly, two strikeout victims (I personally shut down Elana, I think) who brought the free-swingin' fuss with no coming-back-for-another-go-round muss. The ladies is champs, seen? Our third and fourth outfield spots are filled by some spunky prospects. Rocking at rover is the really young kid from last year who confessed to Ben that he was really afraid of the ball; holding it down in left (i.e. right-center) is Yung Wun, who was so impressed with my friendliness during the game that he asked me for $5 immediately after the last pitch. That's some hardball, right thurr. You'll notice that Kyle Stirrup-Cleats -- who showed up last season in full hardball regalia (right down to the green stirrups and metal spikes), misplayed a few balls in the outfield like me wearing shades, and then managed to get in a meaty cleating of Joel before fading into the sunset -- is not on the team. Two words on that f-cake: clubhouse poison.

softballz

2005-07-05T18:02:00.000-04:00

Dudes of softball,

Joel's excellent game summary re-introduced to the Buttermilk softball league a conundrum nearly as old as the league itself, and only slightly older than my acquired taste for post-exercise bloody marys: which team was the Brooklyn Bodegas and which team was the Blue Jeans on Fire? I'll leave it to the literary critics to glean the answer from the text of joel's posting, but in terms of settling the dispute of who actually won the game, I'd like to introduce a standard that we might want to consult after every game: whomever Scott Snelling hits the most homers for, wins the game.

On to more important things. Like who wins the first installment of Buttermilk Softball fashion watch!? We might want to call these the Jeff Ciprioni Memorial See-Through Pants Awards. Here we go!:

Best Use of Matching: Obviously it was Jessica Roake. Did she just wake up on Sunday and say to herself "lets see, what could I possibly wear with my incredibly cute shocking yellow, green and red shirt? Hrrrrmmmm....oh maybe these Asics track shoes with the exact same color scheme!" Inspiring, Jessica.

Best Use of a Threadbare Wipers Rock Tee as Softball Jersey: Carlos Salazar.

Least Practical Softball Uniform: David Roth came through big in this category with his polo shirt, expensive jeans and very, very dark aviator sunglasses. He looked so dapper, dignified and unprepared for physical exertion he could've been a member of that late-70's White Sox squad that sported all-black uniforms with lace-up jerseys and (literally) six-inch, white collars. Dave, it doesn't matter if you can't see the ball through those shades, you looked sharp doing it.

Smallest Glove: As per usual, this one goes to Scott "Toe" Snelling who on the day he was discovered by an Orioles scout in the Louisiana bayou at age 17, playing barefoot with a milki-carton for a glove, hit 4 homers left-handed, 4 right handed, and threw a no-hitter. (It would've been a perfect game but someone reached on an error.)

Best Shants: Steven, who barely beat out Yours Truly with his sheer number of zippers and pockets, and inability to keep them from falling down. Color me humbled.

Any comments, corrections, or additional categories are welcome. We wait on the debut of the slick-fielding, polyester clad Ciprioni brothers with bated breath.

Around the Horn: Sam

2005-07-04T13:45:00.000-04:00

Occupation:
Contract coordinator and organizer of social events

What position do you like to play?
Pitcher (for serving up sweet and hittable balls) and 2nd Base (for trying to get over my fear of the ball hitting my shins)

Your softball role model:
Jeff Reardon, Bert Blyleven, Rick Aguilera -- basically any mid-late ’80s Twins pitchers because they made me wave my Homer Hanky so hard. And my dad, because he was always making me play catch in the backyard when I didn't want to and had awesome scars and scabs on his knees from his softball playing.

Thing you like most about Buttermilk Softball: Hanging out with friends in the park every week, hitting left-field foul balls for 15 minutes every time I am up; Alex's delicious drinks; the Buttermilk jukebox

Thing you like least about Buttermilk Softball:
Hitting left field foul balls for 15 minutes every time I am up

What do you do in the off-season?
I rigorously train for the next season by drinking at the Buttermilk, playing the jukebox and watching lots of NBA basketball playoffs.

Complete this sentence: The highlight of my Buttermilk Softball career was when...
…The surly little league coach who was fighting us for the field called Gene "Bruce Lee" and then "Soy Sauce." I use those all the time now.

Game One: Bodegas Defeat Jeans

2005-07-04T12:15:00.000-04:00

On opening day of the 2005 season, the Bodega Unidas de Brooklyn defeated the Jeans on Fire 11-10 in six innings.

The Jeans jumped out to a five-run lead in the first inning, but the Bodegas later pulled ahead, thanks to a key mid-game player trade. Scott left the Bodegas to produce, I think, three home runs as a Jean on Fire.

My recollection of the game might be a little fuzzy. I asked Linda whether the game was actually a tie, since the Jeans gave the Bodegas an extra inning to try to make up a one-run defecit. As I recall, the Jeans scored a run in that inning to tie the game but could not pull ahead. Rather than call the game a tie, we might as well give it to the Bodegas for being good sports.

The game was a classic Buttermilk Softball outing, with the league's two teams playing under fair skies and optimal weather conditions. The field was almost completely drained, though two mud puddles near first base were like two old, drunk friends: they just wouldn't leave the party, even though we had no desire to go out to breakfast with them the following day. Also, game hazards were kept to a minimum: the soccer game in right field was almost undetectable.

Game highlights include: the debut of Steven, a 15-ish local kid with large pants and a good arm; the on-field debut of former bystander Jessica; Linda's miraculous catch in right field (pictured); Linda's attempt to force out a runner in a close play at the plate; an outfielder from a nearby softball game screaming aggressive (yet...romantic) threats into a cell phone; and last but certainly not least, the friendly face of our Sunday afternoon bartender, Alex, welcoming us to our fourth year of post-game analysis at the Buttermilk.

Chime in with a comment if your recollection of the game is different. Man, maybe I should start keeping stats again: It would make this Monday morning recap a helluva lot easier.

2005 Season Begins This Weekend!

2005-07-02T16:28:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the Buttermilk Softball blog!

This Independence Day weekend, the Brooklyn Bodegas and the Jeans on Fire will ring in the fourth season of weekly grudge matches in the park. Our league has neither a consistent roster of players nor a coherent set of rules. No one in league history has ever struck out. Well, maybe this one guy, but we never saw him again.

I, for one, am ready to add a new volume to the Buttermilk Softball mythology. And there are many questions that remain from last season: Will the field drain properly this year? Will anyone suffer an injury more gruesome than Steven's separated shoulder? Can any single defense play top the flyness of Jesse's absentminded cell-phone catch in the outfield? And...will I continue my remarkable losing streak from last season? (My selection to a team meant almost certain defeat for that side.)

Keep checking ButtermilkSoftball.com for more team-related news. I plan to post game recaps here every weekend, but other Buttermilkians should post their clever ideas as well. (Send me an e-mail, and I'll share my special powers with you.)