Friday, July 2, 2010
It's Just A Little Orange Crush
Last Saturday, I left my house at 7:30am and hustled on up to the Upper West Side to meet my dear co-Rookie Joe. Joe and I had signed up for the first annual Pride Classic Friendship Softball Tournament (PCFST for short), which was hosted by the Big Apple Softball league. At 7:30am the Sun had already decided to be a big orange bitch and lay a solar flare smack down on this big blue and green ball we call Earth.
Joe and I hailed a cab at 72nd and Broadway, we climbed in and informed the cabbie that we were going to Randall's Island. After a couple of minutes when we realized that we were heading down island towards Roosevelt Island, we re-iterated to the driver that we were heading to Randall's Island, and he nodded sagely and kept driving. Now, sometimes cabbies know things that we mortals do not know, so we sat back, chitchatted, I ate my breakfast bagel, and we let the cabdriver do his thing.
Error number one. New York cabdrivers work for the Devil.
As we began driving over the Queensboro Bridge, I remarked to Joe that Roosevelt Island was just below us, so, for the third time, we informed the driver that we were going to Randall's Island. At that point he said, "I thought you said Roosevelt Island!" If it hadn't been so damn early, I would have dislocated my jaw, chewed through the Plexiglass shield, and ate his soul.
We finally made it to Randall's Island, and though I despised the cab driver, I missed the air conditioning, and for the gift of air conditioning, I forgave him the $25 cab ride, which should have cost $12.
Then the day got fun. So, the premise of the Friendship tournament was that folks signed up individually and then someone at the league headquarters (sort of like the Bat Cave) mixed up all the players making sure to evenly divide folks from the various divisions.
Joe and I arrived at about 8:15am, and the Sun was already shining down on us with all the force of a grand old ass-whooping. I was having flashbacks to cuttin' switches out of the tree in the yard...and genetic recall of my ancestor's days in bondage...as a matter of fact, I started walkin' and talkin' like a slave, singing Negro spirituals, and saying, "Lawd, Lawd!"
Joe left me for Team Lavender (which was a running joke as the gaggle of queers debated hotly whether or not it was lavender, lilac, or some other gay shade of purple). And I skedaddled and went to find my fellow Orangies.
It is no coincidence that I happened to land on the team with the cutest shirts, the color that looked best with my skin, and the coolest cats in the ball yard. Team Orange Crush kicked ass! First of all my friend Melissa Sklarz rolled up, and it was so fun to get to play ball with her. She was a demon in left field.
From the gate, Orange Crush dominated. As the sun got hotter, we got better, and in a double elimination tournament...we never lost. HIYYYAAAA!
At one point, however, we all got to see what happens when God reminds sinners of their offenses to the Throne of Heaven. On the field behind us, little leaguers were playing in some sort of championship tournament. I was in the outfield, when I noticed the wind pick up on the field behind us. It was a little odd as the wind wasn't blowing at all on our field some 100 yards away. At first I was jealous of that mighty wind that was blowing, until I saw it pick up a giant sun umbrella and launch it directly up into the air like a bullet. Then a straight up giant dust devil blew up on the field. It looked just like a miniature sand tornado, and for a second I thought maybe one of the X-Men villains was about to lay a smack down on the Little Leaguers of Randall's Island.
For a moment, as the sirocco twisted into the sky and the sun umbrella hovered above the field, everyone stared in awe at natures minor fury...then twenty little boys shrieked and ran as the umbrella shot down to ground level and then burst in a straight line across the field directly at the ball playing little people. The sand started blowing as if a giant herd of camels had farted in the Sahara, and I dropped and covered my face while shouting out to Allah to forgive us for our sins (I figured since we were in the desert, I should call on the appropriate deity).
In the end, the children survived, and we continued playing ball. The entire team was friggin' awesome and whether it was a spiritual connection amongst the teammates that led us to victory or the fact that we were determined to get out of the Devil sun, we pushed through and remained undefeated to win the first Pride Class tournament.
And I went home sunburned like a Icelandic white woman that walked for three days, butt naked, in the Gobi Desert without a lick of sunscreen on.