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.

Happy Pride.

Rookies vrs Barbarians: How to Look Good During an Ass Whoopin'

Look. Generally, I like to get spanked a little. Hell, I liked to get spanked a lot. I am sure there is some sort of Oedipus, PTSD, childhood trauma root cause of me liking to get that ass torn up now and again, but I prefer it in the bedroom (or on the kitchen table), bent over, with The Rock doing the disciplining...I, however, do not enjoy getting my ass beaten on the softball field.

Well, if the Rock was doing the beating, I would lay down ass up on the pitchers mound and chalk it up to taking one for the team.

This week...my beloved Rookies and I played softball on Randall's Island amongst the Little Leaguers. God help the things those poor children hear and learn when they play ball interspersed with homosexicals swinging long phallic objects big enough to give the most devout size queen the vapors. I can just hear little Timmy asking Tia Juanita, "Mira, Tia, what is a auto-fellatio while getting a rim job by a midget?"

"Ay dios mio!" I can hear it now.

So we played a double header against the Barbarians. The Blue (that's Umpire for you civilians) was our favorite blue. This dude is pretty amazing. He's a straight Latin guy that LOVES umping (and humping I am sure) the gay softball league. He is RIDICULOUSLY supportive. Hell, when I was on the mound throwing the ball everywhere BUT in the strike zone, he was like a self-esteem coach from 20 yards. And when I switched to playing catcher (it's rare...but it happens...heyyyyyy!), he was cracking jokes, and I almost peed on myself. Really. I almost peed. At home plate. While squatting. Scottie taught me that.

So our first game had little to recommend itself in terms of reporting. No one, and I mean no one was living life like it was golden. Thank God Mason showed up in the third inning...cuz between my inability to pitch and the rest of the teams inability to catch, we were stuck in an inning that felt like Groundhog's Day up in that piece.

The second game was much more exciting.

Reggie put me in at catcher, which, for the first time I really enjoyed. (Shut up faggots...I know what you are thinking). There were some AWESOME plays by Vinnie, who was pitching (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Sorry...sexual visual there---love you Vin), and Joe proved once again that he is 50 and LOVING it. Shit, by the time I'm 50, with all the drugs I've done, I will be happy to be able to run a Rascal through a blow tube, and Joe was running to and fro snatching balls out of the air.

For the first couple of innings, we were down, but not as much as in the first game, which, incidentally was called for time and for pure humiliation. Then, by the grace of God and Cher, we tied the friggin' game. For two innings we held 'em, and then this hot ass mo'fo from their team steps up to the plate, smacks the ball way out to Jesus, and the Barbarians scored five runs.

Now, a long time ago in a galaxy far far away, I pretended that we came from behind, tied the game, and then I had a nasty public sexual escapade that starred The Rock, Dan's new boyfriend, a couple members of the Rookies whose names I shan't reveal, and Bozo the Clown (don't judge), but, in reality, we never made it back, the games ended, and off we went to drown our sorrows in Eric the Bartender's pecs at Gym Bar.

God I love gay softball.

In the end, our team was prettier. And really, in America, we know the pretty people always win. GOD BLESS THE US of A!

Rookies versus Diablitos: Attack of Captain Prison Porn

Last weekend marked the official start of Summer. Don't look at me crossed eye bitches. Summer starts when the first softball is pitched in the opening game of the queer Summer softball season. Mother Nature is a drag queen, and she will not be denied.

On a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon, the Ladies of the Rookies (and assorted cheer-wives) gathered at the newly renovated, highly sparkling, goose shit covered softball fields of Randall's Island. With hope in our hearts, we started off with a little practice on a field which amounted to a giant Port-a-Potty for the Canadian Water Fowl nation.

This year we are joined by two Nookies and on sNookie. Only two of the three were there, and I have not yet met our new Gaysian. I super duper heart both Scottie and Roy...and they both bring Super Secret Special Powers to our team. Roy has the power to mesmerize any man within two yards of his Shimmy Shake and Scottie has magic booty shorts that cause spontaneous orgasms when he rubs his stark albino white (yet firm and shapely) thighs together.

With these new magics added to our team, you would think we couldn't lose.

But we did. Twice.

This week we played the Diablitos (for those of you that are Spanishly challenged that translates to "Little Devils"). Los Diablitos had been in a lower division last year, but after he was discovered that they recruited half of their team from Yankees that had been suspended due to steroid use, they dropped out of the season last year and moved up a division this year. The game started off with a bang, and the Rookies scored a number of runs. At first, I thought we had the game in the bag. The opposing teams defense was about as firm as a roofied sorority girls at a sex offender special invitation taping of Girls Gone Wild.

Then we met their secret weapons: Latino the Hun and Captain Prison Porn. These two got up to bat and acted like they were offspring of Superman and the Bionic Woman. I bet they could both shoot lasers from their dicks and shit radioactive turds.

The worst was Captain Prison Porn. He was like 8 feet tall, probably had a 5 foot dick, go go gadget legs, was tatted to hell, and literally every time he hit the ball it landed on the far side of the neighboring softball field.

For those of you that are sports challenged, you are not allowed to position your outfielders on the pitching mound of the field behind you as that would be rude to the team playing on that field.

And we are all about manners.

Frankly, and I ain't afraid to say it, the other team should be ashamed of themselves. For real. Those two dudes could easily play in the highest division of our league, and we are smack dab in the middle. If I wanted to play with a Yankee, I would drape myself in needles full of anabolic steroids and have Roy teach me how to do the Man Shimmy.

In the end, we had fun, and we did mighty well considering the genetically engineered opposition. We had some awesome plays (and some not so awesome plays), and I learned to never listen to Reggie when he is coaching third base.

I can't wait until this weekend's games.

P.S. A special thank you to our cheer section which included two of my besties from Minnesota that were visiting us, Rodrigo and Nubia, as well as Scottie's Hotty Boyfriend Brendan (wife swap anyone?), my very own love David (pictures by him), the ever sexy Rich, and also a surprise visit from Dan's Mom, sister, and nephew!

Rookies versus Demons

I finally figured out how to pitch a damn softball. Which, is hilarious, since I am one of the pitchers for my beloved team, the Rookies. Before yesterday, I thought I had it down. I had this habit of starting off a game throwing more balls than strikes. My old team used to call me, lovingly, one in five...meaning one strike for every five balls. Not a good average. Usually, around the second inning, I work it out so that I throw enough strikes that the opposing team can't risk not swinging. But, it was more luck and prayer than actually knowing what the hell I was doing (plus umpires that felt sorry for me out there...all alone...walkin' folks like they were in a parade).

Well, yesterday I discovered that if you actually hold on to the damn ball, firmly, and then release it...instead of letting it roll off your finger tips, the ball tends to go where the hell you want it to go.

I am a genius.

Yesterday, we played the Demons. The Demons (at least in attitude) lived up to their name. The first game was not a shining moment for our team. First of all, I was too terrified to pitch against the damn team. I chickened out right before we began, which put Scott on the pitcher's mound and me at 2nd base.

I had never played any base...let alone 2nd base...(outside of the bedroom) in my entire life. The first game was hilarious as both the umpire in the in-field and Mason, playing shortstop, coached me between almost every pitch. Mason, who I just adore, would tell me where I should throw the ball when it came to me. And come to me it did...a couple of times I did what I was supposed to do...a couple of times I sure as hell didn't. At one point, Dan made a minor error in calling time, and Mason, aka Miss Softball Rules 2009, let him know that he hadn't done it quite right..at which time the very loving “Blue” out next to me exclaimed...”See...it's a learning experience for everyone.”

Lord have mercy.

During the first game, we were the home team, which meant that we were entitled to the last at bat. By the time the 7th inning came around, it was 15-0. The Demons were shovin' their pitchforks in our collective culos.

At one point, I was on first, and Mason was the 1st base coach. He gave me the usual coaching around when to run and when to stay put and when to put my booty up in it and get on to 2nd base. Whoever was batting after me smacked the ball, and I sprinted to 2nd base...only to have the ball go foul...and I waltzed back...at which point Mason declared, "That's ok honey...they all wanted to see your ass when you run anyway."

Mason knows just what to say to make a gay's day. (David snapped a couple of shots of me bent over on base...and I can say with some pride that the lunges and squats are working their magic).

At the end of the 1st game, it was my last at bat, and I saw the pitcher beckon to the outfielders to move in closer. That, of course, pissed me off, and I whacked the ball away out into left field.

That'll show 'em.

And then, I believe it was Joe...though I can't quite remember... came to bat, whacked the ball good, and we ended the game 15-2. Someone from our team exclaimed...”Ha! So much for a shut out.”

And the Demons were pissed.

I mean come on people...you were beating our booginas into poontang dust, and you are going to get all uppity because we finally managed to score in the last inning of the game. It's only GAY softball people.

Oh yeah, that's right, more than half of their team was straight.

Well, at least we were playing gay softball. We have our token straight, Antony, but, you know, he's sensitive, so that doesn't really count.

The second game was much better. First of all, I was pitching...which was better for the infield since Mason, Dan, the Umpire, and the Lord Jesus Christ didn't have to spend half their time coaching me and the other half praying I would be where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.

My first couple innings pitching sucked, then I had the revelation of which I wrote earlier, and from that point on, I believe I walked one or two people for the last six innings of the game. How about that!

My most shining moments came in the second or third inning of the second game when two line drives were hit directly to me. I snatched both of them up and managed to get them to 1st base without overthrowing it or takin' out any wildlife. My team, as always, was loving...and Reggie was catching and kept smiling even when I was throwing balls directly at the damn batters.

But, even more impressive than my bachata-ing while pitching, was the fact that we were giving just as damn good as the Demons. They were the 1st place team, and for almost the entire game we were never more than one or two points behind them. Going into our last at bat, we were three runs down and, thanks to some crazy shennanigans by Dan aka Speed Racer and Mason aka Mama's Boy...we scored two runs. The Demons looked mighty mighty pissed.

I repeat...it's only gay softball.

The day had some amazing plays, particularly by our returning Rookie Tom Ward...who kept running with Mason basically waving a stop sign in his face....just missed being tagged out...and politely hopped onto home plate. He scored...and I had to use the defibrillator on Mason.

Did I mention that I also caused several team members a minor heart palpitation when my third base coach waved me in...and I kept right on running...almost right into the catcher...who was holding the damn ball. I made it back to third, but I think I permanently damaged one of Scott's aorta.

In the end, we lost the second game 8-7, but we had a good time...and with only 10 people actually showing up to play....a bitch was real tired by the time we left.

Much love to Rich aka Pom-Pom McCooties and David aka Tight Booty Berube for cheering us on...and much love to the boys for the ride back into the city.

PS Steve Bowman also made some power plays...and once revealed his mean face over the Demons anti-social autistic antics...I love Steve.

Rookies vrs. Renegade

Another week has gone by, which means more softball shennanigans. For the previous two weeks, we played at Red Hook fields in Brooklyn...just past the Ikea. This week, we were at new fields on Randall's Island. For those of you kiddies that have not lived or spent oodles of time in New York, there are several islands in between Manhattan and the outer boroughs.Most folks know of Roosevelt Island...but...much to my suprise...there are three or four other islands out there.

Today we happened to be playing on Randall's Island...which...is largely covered by sports fields, a soccer arena, Cirque du Soleil, and a giant mental hospital. Fun!It's nice to know that if anyone on the team has a break with reality during a game on Randall's Island, help is just a bus stop away.

...David and I managed to get slightly lost on the way to the fields today. The fields were tucked away on one end of the island between a tributary to the East River and under the Triboro bridge (more or less). But, thanks to quick action by the team, Josh found David and I walking under a bridge and drove us to the field.

So, to summarize our games today...we got lightly spanked the first game. The second game we got our asses cut off, deep fried, sprinkled in powdered sugar, and handed back to us with a nice honey glaze.
Here's what happened.

So, to begin with, I pitched 14 innings today. I am proud to say that not only did I walk only 3 people (should have been a couple more...but the Renegades were swinging at some crappy stuff...but I thank them for their generosity). I also managed to strike out the pitcher from the other team. I often target the pitcher from the opposing team, as I feel that I should have a rivalry with that person. If this were 1765, I would have walked up to him, slapped him with my glove, and then had a duel with sabers. But, since running the opposin' teams pitcher through the heart is illegal in the state of New York, I was satisfied with when I struck him out. Of course, I walked the next batter up at bat...but we are going to focus on the positive.

I also managed to whack the ball well one time, which earned us two runs...and...at one point...I was supposed to run from 2nd to 3rd...got halfway to 3rd...turned around and ran back to 2nd...only to see Dan comin' into 2nd...at which point I ran back to 3rd...which totally freaked out the 3rd baseman from the Renegades, who was so discombobulated that he tossed the ball to 2nd...Dan was safe, I made it to 3rd, and I ultimately scored. Talk about dumb ass luck.

Of course, Her Softball Majesty, Mason Regina, First of her Name, pulled the play of the day when he caught the ball while falling down...and ended up on his rear (which we all saw later on as he was changing his pants...and...from the rest of us to you...NICE BUTTOCKS!).

Vinny did some great outfield magic, and, of course Noahngelina and "Dan not David" also pulled some magic out of their hats for us. I won't mention out loud the fact that in the first inning of the second game the Renegades went through their line up two and a half times before we got our first at bat...as if I mentioned that in my blog Reggie threatened to do unnatural things to me.

The real highlight of the day came when Mr. Big Daddy Hot Crotch came marching up the road behind our field. Our entire dugout got whiplash checking the man out. He was well over six foot, had broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed beard, a bubble butt, and he walked like he had a big thick juicy veiny 11" penis. I heard the anal lips of half the team smacking and clapping through their shorts.

David was the only softball spouse with us today, but he was faithful again...making sure the Icy Hot and snacks were at the ready. And he is responsible for the fabulous pictures on this blog.
I will end this posting by saying that Mason told me that I did a good job today, which is like the Pope telling you that you are a good Catholic. Thanks Mason ;-). Until next week!