Sunday, April 26, 2009

Rookies versus Dish

So today marked the first game in the Big Apple Softball League. Where the girls are guys and the guys are ladies and they all have tramp tendencies. Except me...I am a straight up slut.

But I today's adventure begin at 6:30 this morning when I was sure that the alarm going off was some sort of karmic retribution for sins I must have committed in a past killing Jesus or shooting Abraham Lincoln. Nothing short of murdering a religious icon or civil rights leader could possibly justify me having to wake up before the sparrows on a Sunday morning.

David was a gem. He made breakfast, packed snacks, made sure we had bandanas to wipe the sweat from my brow, and filled a water jug covered in silverbacks for our journey to Red Hook Park in Brooklyn. Now only in America could an Ikea co-opt a pier and set up their own ferry service across the East River to shop. The ferry goes from the Upper West Side in Manhattan to Brooklyn. It takes about a half an hour...making the trip quick and painless. It also doesn't run at 7am on Sunday morning.

So David and I took a train to a bus to Ikea...and then had to walk across a giant park of baseball fields until we reached a much more humble softball field, where my game was already in session. I thought, for a moment, we were going to have to hire a camel, a pack mule, and a porter to finish our trip. Instead, turns out, I just needed a port-a-potty. I know peeing in public is a liveability crime and should not be done. But peeing in my pants is a crime against humanity, and that is worse.

The first game was fun. I was an extra hitter, and I managed to smack the ball. I think I even had an RBI. The Lord was with us, and we trounced the Dish thoroughly...something like a katrillion to four. David and Rich...the softball wives...were seated on the benches cheering us on...and the team was in good spirits.

Then we took a break between games

When we came back for game two versus the Dish, we were a little bit like Aretha Franklin....fabulous...but we let ourselves go a little. To start off with...I was now pitching. Ooops. A combination of nerves, rising temperatures, and, well, good old fashion shitty luck and not having pitched in two years brought back the days of yore when I was as surprised as the batter if I pitched a strike. After walking about two dozen people (or four)...I begged Reggie to take me out. He obliged. My team, all the while, was very supportive. That was very awesome actually.

In the meantime...back at Dish Headquarters...the Dish coach must have been handing out spinach and steroids cuz the bitches came back with a vengeance. All of a sudden, every ball they hit smacked the ferry driver three blocks over.

And then Mason got really upset. He was playing third base, and one of those steroid enhance spinach eatin' gaysians stepped up to the plate and hit a line drive directly at him. Mason spun around circles, burst into flames, and now in a red thong snatched the ball out of the sky with a look on his face that said, "Now what. Bitches."

I love her.

Later in the game, I did have one shining moment. One of the Mega-Hitters decided that cuz I couldn't pitch...and cuz coach put me out in right field...that I couldn't catch either. If I see her at the bar I am going to punch that one in his pate. So he smacks one away out to right field...and I caught the spirit...and the ball. Redemption is a sweet sweet liqour.

And karma is a cold dose of water.

My next at bat...I bounced the ball into center field. My old coach Titi told us that once we hit that ball you run to first base like you was a slave in the Old South heading towards freedom. What he didn't tell us was that in the New York league they don't tie down the damn bases, so not only am I out, but I hit first base, trip on it, and end up flying through the air like one of those crazy ducks in Duck Hunt. I hit the ground, roll, end up with a scratched knee, leg, and about half the grit from the field in my boxers.

I am butch as hell.

In the end the Dish won by something like a googleplex to six, but our team was way prettier.


  1. Welcome to the Rookies, Brandon... hope cleaning the grit out of your kitty didn't take too long. Reggie can give you pointers on post-game grooming if you need it.

  2. Thanks Scott ;-). When I took off my shorts and boxers when I got home, I felt like I had just walked in from the beach. I was deeply impressed at the amount of grit that had made it into my shorts. If I have grit in my crack, I want it to be because I was doing something inappropriate, butt naked, on a beach somewhere ;-).

  3. Brandon Gritty-Lacy-Shorts!
    You were terrific on Sunday. Thanks for joining the team. And sincere appreciation to David for
    9 a.m. cheerleading.
    xoxo Joe

  4. Thanks Joe!

    You are hilarious.

    In Middle School kids used to call me Brandon Lacy Underwear.

    I was traumatized.

    Thanks for bringing that back up ;-).

    Thanks for saving my butt up there on the pitchers mound.

    See ya'll soon. Yay!


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