Rough Night

It is 4:25am, and I am sitting at my desk working on not crying and chatting with a friend from junior high and high school on Facebook about the royally screwed up discrimination her daughter is experiencing in her Minneapolis suburb school district.

I believe everything happens for a reason.

For example, I believe that it is not coincidental that La and my good friend and ex Chris were both online dealing with their own emotional issues when I logged in with my own baggage in tow.

Nothing like someone else's life problems to give you some perspective on your own.

I also logged in to Facebook to find that a reader of TheBody.com, recently diagnosed as HIV positive, read my story there and sent me a very kind and caring email. That is exactly why I took the step of writing openly about my life and struggles and celebrations as an HIV positive man, including allowing TheBody.com to post my recent blogs concerning my failure to disclose and the possible outcome of that.

For that express reason, I am writing this blog, tonight, just a couple of hours before the summer sun makes its extremely early morning appearance.

This evening, I was devouring a Domino's pizza around Midnight (don't judge). I had put in the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and I was having a text war with my partner David. I closed down my computer and settled into bed with David and my gorgeous Jack Russell Mimzy, when I fired up the old cell and was going to entertain myself with a good game of Scrabble. I noticed I had an email from one of my softball teammates. He had left a comment on one of my blogs recapping a recent game. The blog started shitty and ended with "fuck you."

Excusez-moi?

Being who I am, a gay Virgo, I shot him an email and a text message asking him if he had indeed made that comment and, if he did, why. I also explained that if anything in my blog offended him, it was all written with an eye towards humor, and I would gladly remove anything that he found personally offensive that referenced or included him or his loved ones.

He wrote back and told me that he thinks I am a "piece of shit."

Laissez les bontemps rouler!

I don't know this guy. Really. We've played on the same softball team for one full season. He is one of the guys that never goes out with the team afterwards, and he rarely participates (if ever) in our email discussions. So I don't know much about him except that he is a lawyer that works in the public interest. So, when I got his message tonight, I was, needless to say, completely and totally floored.

Now, though I play a blonde in everyday life, I have a genius level IQ, which means I am pretty much stupid and useless most of the time, but my powers of deductive reasoning are generally dead on. I know, for example, that this guy does the AIDS Ride each year. In fact, I pledged $100 towards his ride this fall. I know that I have posted on TheBody.com and on my blog about my recent failure to disclose and some of the emotional fallout from that experience. So, my conclusion was that either he knows the person involved in the story or that he read my blogs and decided that I am, indeed, a piece of shit.

And, of course, being a recovering addict living with PTSD and the survivor of abuse and sexual assault, the negative tapes kicked into high gear, I accepted that I am a piece of shit, and now I am writing a blog at nearly 5am. Hell, the birds just started chirping outside, which means that the sun is about to wake up, and I have not even gone to bed yet. Against all that I know to be true about humanity and myself personally, I still believe that I am shitty human being. I believe that I am worthless because those are the lessons that were beat into me as a child. In group therapy tonight, we talked about this subject. Our counselor asked me and another client why we felt the way that we felt...and I was clear...that which is beaten into you (literally) from age 3-12 and then verbally past that into young adulthood is what you learn to be true about yourself. And no one teaches you, unless you have the resources for psychotherapy that those internal messages aren't true. And, that being ones own (aka my) truth, one does some fucked up and stupid shit.

I am really tired. Not just physically, but spiritually.

Since my failure to disclose and my subsequent confrontation about that and the emotional fallout, I have felt relatively good about my life and how I have taken steps to ensure that I do not repeat the experience in anyway. I have spent 5 and a half hours a week in therapy. I have gotten to a place of acceptance if not comfort of what went down. And then, in one fell swoop, I let one person rip all that down.

And the fun fact is that though I surmise the cause of his emotional aggression, I don't actually know.

I am supposed to play softball in the morning. But I sent a note to my team telling them that I won't be there along with a very frank and very raw explanation of why. Some of them already know the story as they read my blog. Others have/had no idea until they read the email of what has passed recently. But, I learned that when there is bochinche (gossip) potential, it is better to lay it all out there and hope for acceptance than to let someone else spin the story and have to play damage control.

In the end, whether judgment is rendered against me or him or neither or both...I can't say. But, at least now, everything is out in the open to everyone, and, moving forward, I will know if I am wanted or rejected based on the truth rather than a lie. Of course, relying on my team to approve or disapprove of what I have done or the way I have handled the fall out is still part of the problem. I should be able to say, "I've done what I've done. I've tried to heal what I can heal. I have owned what I could own. And each person can live, respond, and react in the way that best represents their feelings without it enhancing or diminishing my spirit."

Unfortunately, I am so not that evolved or there.

That is an apt lesson for life as a whole.

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 vrs Diablitlos and Renegades: Booty Shorts and Titty Twisters

Holy softBALLS it was cold today, and the wind was blowing directly out of the Cold Miser's asshole. The patch of skin below my bottom lip is chapped, and I am still chewing grit six hours after the last game ended. Steve Herrick showed up in shorts, and I thought we were going to have to rub Scottie's legs together to get a fire going to stave off hypothermia.

Despite playing in near arctic conditions with siroccos wheeling across the field as if we were in Iraq instead of Red Hook, the games were a blast.

The first gay(me) was against the Diablitos (please refer to my previous blog post about our match up against them and Captain Prison Porn). Today...the Diablitos got their ASSES handed to them. While Captain Prison Porn was still smacking balls this way and that, by the end of the third inning, the lead was 11-4 Rookies. On the way to the field, I'd found an old kung-fu grip GI Joe in the tall grass. I set up this little butch dude as our mascot by attaching him to the fence in our dug out. I attribute his mystical powers with sapping the Diablitos of their strength. That and they only had nine players and were missing at least one of their super stars.

That didn't stop Captain Prison Porn from sliding on his side across half of the outfield to catch a fly ball, which he did, and which caused Scottie's booty to vibrate, and Noah's shaved head turned bright red sort of like one of those blue nosed baboons butt's when its horny.

Later, in the second game, Roy decided to try to pull the same maneuver but since his legs had frozen into ice blocks, he just fell over. Noah's head turned as green as Joe's 1982 windbreaker that he obviously stole from the costume closet from the set of Breakin' Two: Electric Boogaloo.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The first game saw two amazing double plays starring Mason and Vinnie, but the true star of the show was Antony the Straight who, in the first game, and his first time ever pitching, struck out four, count 'em, four people on his own. There is a Rookie's tradition that when you strike someone out, you get a titty twister from someone in the infield. By the end of the first game Antony's name had been changed to Purple Nurple, and Reggie was screaming, "KEENEY WHO?" (for you lay people, Scott Keeney is our regular pitcher who happens to be sunning it up on the island of Elba for the next three weeks...I'd like to wish him safe travels, but I am too bitter and jealous to do that).

What? What?

The final score of the first game was something like 16 to 8 or around that mark. The Diablitos got the butt whoopin' they deserved for having half their team being fresh from the Mets training camp.

Werq!!!

The second game was not as pretty. And by not pretty, reverse the score I just mentioned, then halve our runs and double theirs and you will have something around what the final score was.

The highlight of the second game was when dear Scottie, who, when there isn't an Ice Age forming above the fields, wears some booty shorts that gets my bait and tackle doing a little samba in my britches. During the first game, he was a demure princess and kept his sweat pants on (though strategically hiked up to show a little ankle), but since we were playing the number one ranked team for the second game, we had to pull out the secret weapon: Scottie's pert little boogina.

One of the many reasons that I adore Scottie is that he knows how to work his ASSets and is proud of it. First he strips down to his black boxer briefs that leave little to imagination and let's everyone know the exact shape and shade of his religion. Then he puts on his poom poom shorts, followed by the "bend and snap," and then tops it off with a ho stroll.

Then someone has the brilliant idea to have Scottie trot out and fetch the bat from whomever had just run to first base. I didn't notice who it was since I was too busy oogling the team goodies. Not only did Scottie get the bat, but also he got a NINE bat salute from the opposing team, if you know what I mean. The pitcher's jaw dropped so hard and fast that it left a crater in the dirt, and I doubled over laughing so hard that I farted.

It was AWWWWWEESSSOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEE!

In the end, though we lost our second game in points, we won it in style and sass. At one point Reggie was channeling Suzanne Sugarbaker and was twirling a bat like she was in the Miss Georgia pageant, and though the lights stayed on in Georgia, the spirits were way up in Red Hook.

Thanks for an AWESOME round of games Rookies. See you next week.

Rookies vrs. Dish(Chargers): The Garden State

Last Sunday, I stepped out of my apartment and broke out into a sweat so thick and greasy I thought my scalp had started producing afro-sheen. At about 1:15pm it felt like I had left my building and walked directly into Satan's asshole in a steam room in Hell.

By the time I reached Scott Keeney's palatial building a short four blocks away, after bumping into my teammate Vinnie's Forest on the street, my socks were wet, my mouth was dry, and I was wondering if I could fake a stroke on the car ride to Jersey.

Yes, I said Jersey. As in New Jersey. As in the armpit of America, called the Garden State because some wise ass in the legislature had been an English teacher and got off on permanent and legislated irony.

When we reached the fields, though, I had to downgrade my dislike of New Jersey to mild loathing from outright disgust...as the park and the surrounding neighborhood looked homey...and, frankly the fields were better than anything we have in the city. Hell, the bathrooms had air conditioning and a pleasant old Italian man refilling the lavender air spritz while his palls were playing boccie ball outside.


There were actually two fields...one that was basically the Versailles of softball and the other one that was more like the Bastille of softball. We excitedly set up our stuff at the Versailles, at the insistence of Dr. Scott "Mouse Balls" Kenney, only to have our hopes smashed to pieces when an Ancient Umpire (from the Roman Empire, I think) slithered through the grass to tell us that we were, indeed, on the wrong damn field.

This week we were facing off with the Dish (Chargers). To begin with, there team is largely queer. They have one straight guy that our fearless leader (and a number of other Rookies) want to take for a spin around the boogina track, but other than that piece of man meat the rest are largely mouthy queens that are sometimes amusing and other teams could test the patience of a rock.


The games were awesome. Both games were nail biters. In the end it game down to the 7th inning in both games with the home team scoring the runs needed to win during their last up. The Rookies won the first game, and the Dish took us in the second game.

There were some awesome plays by Noah, Scottie, Bowman, and Herrick. Antony and Scott kept snatching line drives out of the air. Everyone played very well, even when the Dish really knocked up the obnoxious juice by trying to "intimidate" us...including me. Big Mike almost got a Big Bat in the back of the throat at one point. But Mama taught them mean old queens to back the hell up when she gets up to bat. And when they thought that they would single out Herrick in right field as a weak link, he snatched the ball up out of the air, and showed them how a REAL lady acts by not showing her coochie or opening her mouth. That's a real woman!

In the end, despite the fact that we were stank ass funky by the end, and with the loving support of Rich, Frank, special guest Gary Eggers, and Rich's parents (Bowman spent both games showing out for the parents in law)...we had a great time...and....well...there was air conditioning in the bathroom.

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!

The Homerun That Almost Wasn't: Rookies vrs Renegades

So, this past weekend, we played our last games of the regular softball season. Let me tell you, this summer has seemed to sprint by. It has been as if Lady Summer got up on some methamphetamine, smoked some crack, and shoved some speed up her butt while riding the Energizer Bunny across the last few months. It's seems only the day before the day before the day before yesterday that I was on a cold Astroturf field in Chelsea, in 55 degree weather, freezing my ass off, trying to pitch a ball with frozen fingers (and testicles) during softball try outs. Now, it's hotter and wetter than Carnie Wilson's coochie up in here, the softball season is over, and we are staring down the sweaty throat of the playoffs.

We ended the season with a whimper...then a KABOOOOOOOM!

The first game was about as special needs as it could get. First of all, my arm seemed to have decided that it didn't give a fuck what my brain was telling it to do. It was going to throw the damn ball wherever the hell it wanted to throw the damn ball. I tried chanting on the pitcher's mound, I called up my ancestors, I invoked the Spirit of God, and my hand flipped me the bird and pitched the ball to center field. Thank GOD Reggie pulled my ass off the mound. After doing a great infield shuffle, I ended up spending the rest of the first inning at first base (foolishness).

Fairly quickly Reggie realized his mistake by putting me on first. I was then banished to right field. The Renegades saw a weakness..and to their credit I did miss two balls that they smacked out my way. The third ball, however, and I caught and they learned some respect (though it was temporary).

The Renegades are a very good team, and they are a sweet team. They don't give attitude, they smile when they are beating us, and have almost as much fun as we do. I like them.

After one particularly terrible inning, we found ourselves down by seven runs. Thank GOD Mason showed up. I like when Mason gets real angry (but not at me....ooooooooooooo not at me)...and after they tried pullin' some shenanigans...all of a sudden Mason was flipping and rolling on the ground, catching balls like they were flying at him off the Rock (God Bless Dwayne Johnson's fine ass).

It was during the first game, that I hit the home run that almost wasn't. I got up to bat, and I smacked the ball all extra hard. I was sure one of the bionic bitches in the outfield was going to catch it...but they pulled a me...it hit the tip of some one's glove and kept going...and so did I. I ran right up to and OVER first base without touching it. I realized my mistake and tried to run back, but Mason started screaming for me to run. Now, Mason is possible the God of Softball, and he knows all the rules, so I thought...damn maybe there is some special rule that you don't actually have to touch 1st base, so I kept on running. I got to third and started to slow down, and Reggie almost punched me in the face. I kept going and basically danced around the catcher to make it home. Thank GOD no one from the Renegades saw that I had missed first. The next pitch went and it was a moot point. The run stood, and I was a lucky mo fo.

The second game was magical. Everyone on our team was doing their thing. Mason was killing it in the outfield. Lenny pulled some magic in the in field. Scott was pitching fire and struck out MULTIPLE people. And Steve Herrick was doing some Go Go Gadget bullshit in the outfield and was making my penis get mightily erect. Of course, every one's favorite heterosexual ANThony...was doing it to it too. And....lo and behold by the Grace of Softball God (Mason), we BEAT THE RENEGADES!


Miss Reggie walks over and lets us know that we, by winning, kept the Renegades out of 1st place in our division. For about the time it takes for a neutrino to burst into and out of existence I felt badly...between the Renegades the the D!cks...I mean Demons, I would much rather the Renegades win. Of course...I would much rather US win most of all, and I take the win with a smile and a giggle.

In the end we had a blast, we played well, and it was so hot that soul got a sunburn (and so did Vinnie cuz the punk wouldn't put on sunscreen when I told him to do so).

I sure do hope we play fall ball.

Rookies versus Saints: Parking Ramp Softball

Yesterday morning, before the cock crowed, and before my morning wood had time to fall…I was already up, showered, slathered up in Icy Hot, and on a train heading down to Hudson Park to play some gay softball.

I followed the directions from the softball league’s website, which led me first to the Spring Street stop off of the C/E. Let me tell you, the far western edge of Manhattan, at the northern border of the West Village and the Southern limit of Chelsea on a Saturday morning is as dead as Walter Kronkite. God rest his soul.

Walking a block off the West Side highway and it being quiet enough to hear the voices in my head scream at one another was damned spooky.

Now, I have to begin this by saying thank you to Rookie Joe who had the foresight (I almost typed foreskin) to warn the Nookies on our team (aka me and Vinnie)…that the fields we would be playing on this week…were on the piers…meaning actually sitting above the river…and indoors.

Huh?

Sure enough, as I turned down Houston, I caught sight of what looked like a giant parking garage that had Pier 40 emblazoned across the top. I asked the bored looking female guard in the security station where I might find a gaggle of softball players, and you could see the visible strain and summoning of energy it took for her to thumb over her shoulder deeper into the parking garage.

I thought she might be high, which, considering she was on security detail, would have been very irresponsible of her.

But, sure enough, when I looked down what I had thought was a parking ramp but turned out to be a broad pedestrian tunnel, I saw that the parking ramp was hollow in the middle and contained a massive chemical green Astroturf multi-use field. One of those rubberized numbers, with the fake grass growing up out of the Dupont dirt that had all kinds of lines crisscrossing it so that it could be any number of sporting surfaces. Like me, it was very very versatile.

Only a tiny bit tardy, I showed up (before the coach I might add), and immediately fell in love with Rynnie…Scott’s adorable niece visiting her uncle. Rynnie was a softball player, a cutie patootie, a fierce Southern Baptist that had a wicked giggle and loved her big old gay uncle. How could one not fall in love with her instantly?

Immediately, folks asked me where oh where was Vinnie. To which I said…am I my neighbors keeper?

The bitches said yes.

It was then that I checked my phone and discovered that Vinnie hadn’t woken up until around 8:30 am (the games started at 9)…he said something about an unfortunate wax accident involving the dining room table, some candles, and lots and lots of Grey Goose.

Vinnie should have brought the candles to light a fire under our asses cuz we could not wake up for that first game.

We were playing the Saints, and, bless their hearts, they are the last place team in our division. They have solid fundamentals, but they just don’t have much power. Well…Saturday morning they were the motherfucking Electric Company and shocked our asses by pulling out a win in the first game.

Alas, they had no idea that once the sun truly passed over the Prime Meridian that all their earlier victories would come to naught. Once the sunlight cleared the horizon…the Rookies were on that ball like Reggie on…well…balls.

First of all, Noah had returned from exile in New Jacked Up Unemployment Rate City aka Detroit. And you know Miss Noah may wear a corset, but instead of the vapors she channels her antebellum feminine oppression into her bat. Combining that with Tom Ward, who was once again acting like Derek Jeter was a bitch compared to his batting, and with some 50 and loving it acrobatics by Joe…we were feisty and swinging our low hangers way out into the field.

In one inning we scored 10 runs. I almost peed on myself with joy. As a matter of fact, I did. But I blamed it on Noah’s dog Ludo. Them’s the breaks when one person can talk and the other one can only bark and look guilty.

In the end, we had a blast. Rookie-in-Absentia Eddie Buggie was with us, cheering us on, and base coaching. And everyone acquitted himself mighty well. Great games Rookies. Heyyyyyyyyyyyy.

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 Versus Barbarians: East River Park

This Saturday, the ladies and I gathered for our first weekend of softball since the end of the Mesozoic era. For what feels like the last 200 years, it has rained every weekend. So, though this weekend past was Gay Christmas (aka Pride)…the Rookies sucked it up, sobered up, and showed up at the East River Park to play a double header versus the Barbarians.

When David and I arrived in the hot June son, my eyes were greeted by two Little League teams playing on our fields. Immediately, I had a PTSD flashback to Roosevelt Island. For a moment, I saw the ghosts of angry parents, public safety officers, and drama queens overlaying the Astroturf.

As the boys began trickling in, we set up camp behind a bench full of cheering parents to smack our gums. Surrounded by children, Reggie began talking about his early morning sexual adventures.

“Girl, this morning I was surrounded by cock…”

As Reggie’s voice trailed off as he realized that he had just taught several 1st graders a new word, Joe came to his rescue with an artfully placed…”-aroaches.”

With only a slight pause between the cock and the aroaches…we all breathed a sigh of relief that we had perhaps, this time, escaped creating a mob of parents angry not only that the faggotry were taking over their fields but also teaching their little ones the finer language points of power bottoms.

much fanfare, the Little Leaguers exited the field, and we took over. Now, I am one of the team’s pitchers (take that how you will). Before each game, I pray that Reggie will name me an extra hitter or that he will put me off somewhere in right field…preferably in Brooklyn. No such luck this week. As the game started, I took the pitcher’s mound, and started off with a bang.

If by bang you were to infer that I walked several people.

After a terrible first inning (neither the pitcher nor the fielders shone during the first 10 minutes or so), we all seemed to get our stride a little bit. At the end of the first inning, we had managed to bring the 10 run lead of the Barbarians into a 2 run lead.

My first at bat, I shocked the Hell out of myself and everyone else. I hit a home run.

When I say I hit a home run, I smacked that ball to the other side of the rainbow. I was so surprised that I almost didn’t run…considering that there were two other folks on bases, that would have really sucked. But, I managed to shoot around the bases, although I almost stopped and punched the shit out of the Barbarians’ 2nd baseman who said, as I passed, “Wow. I didn’t expect that from you.”

I contemplated running past home plate, grab a bat, swing by first and take out the 2nd baseman's knees.

I ran home to the cheers of my teammates, wish I tried to return, but I couldn’t breath.
As the game progressed, not only did we catch up to the Barbarians, we overtook them. My pitching improved slightly (very slightly), but the Rookies are a shit-talkin’ but loveable bunch and they cheered me through the process.

And I have to say the team was an offensive power house…Herrick, Joe, Scott, Tom Poteat, and Vinnie were pinging balls way oh way out yonder. Scott and Vinnie also hit homeruns! Almost every person up ended up on base, and the first game ended with a win for the Rookies: 16-15.

The game also ended with some drama. The catcher from the Barbarians decided, after we took the lead, to throw his glove. The Ump tossed him from the game, and then decided to both give lip to Blue and tell his own team that they should be ashamed of themselves.

He should have been ashamed to come out of the birth canal with that face.

In the end, the drama was resolved, the Rookies won, and we moved on to Game Two. But not before I reminded myself that damn....it ain't life or death...it's just gay softball.

Game two was much less eventful…there were some great hits…and both teams were fighting their asses off…so much so that we found each other to a stand still. The second game ended with a tie (12-12), and we ended our second best weekend of softball of the season.

Thank you to my teammates for the love and support out on the mound. The pitcher stands at the loneliest place on the field…and if I had been pitching for the Barbarians…the would probably have skinned me, built a raft, and sailed my fleshy carcass across the East River.

One Liner of the Week Award: Mason Scherzer

Today happens to be the birthday of my Rookies teammate Joe. Joe is a delightful chap with a razor sharp wit, and he has been known to smack a ball so hard that it may be considered ball torture. I like that.

The Rookies' email list was filled with delightful birthday wishes for Lady Joseph today, but the best, hands down was from Wonder Mason of red thong fame. He said:

"Happy birthday ye olde thang! What was it like when ya'll figured out how to harness fire? I don't want that oral history to die out..."

And that, trannysauruses, is the One Liner of the Week.

Roosevelt Island of the Damned: Rookies versus the Dish

Updates: The issues detailed in this story about the interactions with members of the Roosevelt Island community have been referenced in a number of local media sources from Roosevelt Island: NYC 10044, Roosevelt Islander, and Roosevelt Island 360. This update is from 5 June 2009.


(Please note...there are no photos from the game this week as David was off playing Jets and Sharks with a friend of ours...we are going to have a rumble after I post this blog.

The journey to and from Roosevelt Island was somewhat of an adventure yesterday. I arrived at the subway station at 57th and 6th street to find that the F train was running in only one direction. Of course, being new, I was convinced that the island was down by Brooklyn...and when I saw there were no downtown trains I became dismayed. I approached the glass box habitat of the MTA workers, and I laid my anxiety at their feet.

“Hey, since there are no downtown trains, how do I get to Roosevelt Island.”

“Roosevelt Island is uptown.”

“Oh I am so new.”

At this point the Blatino behind the glass started cracking up and said, “Can you say that again, please.”

“I am so new.”

At that point he fist bumped me...our fists separated by about an inch of Plexiglas.

“How do I get to the island then?”

“Just go down those stairs right there. And, you know, there is a mental hospital on the island...you may wanna check it out.”

I cracked up and went to find my train.

The station should have been a clue as to what I would find on the island. The stop was largely deserted. It was sort of like the opening salvos of a horror movie. The unwitting Manhattanites boarding the Hell Train populated by the souls of the damned.

I emerged onto Roosevelt Island to a magnificent view of the Manhattan East River skyline. The island itself was an idyllic massive public housing project. For an island that was first settled by Dutch settlers in 1659...the island had very little in the way of architecture that predated the 1960s. Notable exceptions were a couple of old disease sanitariums, a church, and a house from the 18th century.

The island was beautiful. It was a sunny day marred only by the intense number of amputees roaming the streets. For the first time I saw a wheelbed. Much like a wheel chair with two large wheels in front and two smaller wheels in the back, but it was wheeled by a gentleman that had nothing below his butt checks.

I surmised there must be a hospital that focused on amputees nearby. I later found out that I was indeed correct.

I arrived at the softball fields a good 15 minutes before any of my teammates. I spent my first ten minutes staring out at the East River, at an industrial site, chanting and sending good juju to the team.

Once some of the other boys arrived, we began chatting with some of the folks there from the other teams already on the field. Turns out Roosevelt Island is a little bit like the Village of the Damned.

The field on which we would be playing was beautiful. A stand of birch trees at one end. A natural outcropping of native rock to the side of the fields. And raging idiotic local residents screaming racial and homophobic epithets out of their apartment windows.

Turns out when the other teams first arrived the locals had decided that despite the fact that our league had purchased permits to play on the fields that we should bow to them and allow their little rug rats to play ball on the field. It got so rowdy that the police came and arrested one of the parents. The families scattered, but mid-way through the second game of the first set of teams playing, we were treated to a whole host of obscenities. The best part ever was that the man screaming these things was sitting in the window with his two little boys standing next to him. That's what I call good parenting.

I wanted to scale the building and bitch slap him.

It also didn't help that a guy from one of the other teams playing was a complete and total drama queen, and was advising us...in the middle of the day...surrounded by amputees and old ladies...to walk in groups and carry our bats in our hands. Responding to idiocy with barely veiled racism is not necessarily the way to go.

That was the bullshit of the day....

The good part of the day started when Clay showed up. He was wearing a few too many clothes for my taste. I would have preferred him to play the entire game in a pair of boxer briefs and a whistle. But, you know, that's just me. We were sitting and chatting and it came around to the...ummm....guess the ethnic mix game. Clay's guess was that I was a Hisblasian. After correcting him, telling him that I am actually a Blatinoindiwhite, he raised his hand in a very pontifical manner and declared “Hisblasian.”

It was great to see the ladies of the Rookies. Noah was crackin' the whip, including at one point when Bowman and I were having a nice chat in the outfield and the Dish had the nerve to smack a ball to Right Center. I mean. Really. Who does that.

My other gem play of the day was when I picked up the ball, the play was at second, and I threw the ball to first. I am so awesome.

We had a great game. I smacked the ball way oh way out to the edge of the field. Reggie, after threatening to pack us all up and ship us to work on a cotton field in Alabama if we didn't play aggressively, took the field to fill in for Jim who was off doing something or another. Bowman, Noah, Herrick, Scott, Clay, and everyone else treated that ball like it was the back of a Mormon missionary's head. Smack! Smack! Smack!

In the end we won 15-8.

I had to leave before the second game, so I am not sure how that one faired. If Clay did remove any more clothing, I am going to be deadly upset. But, the first game was a blast, even with the idiots in the windows and the unclean souls on the train ride over.

(Update...I found out that we lost the second game 12-4. Clay should definitely have taken his clothes off.)

If You Live In Houston, You Are Probably A Bottom

Oh my god. I was sent this today by one of my teammates from the Rookies. I had to repost it on my blog. This is awesome. If you click on the title of the article below, it will take you to the originating site

If You Live In Houston, You're Probably a Bottom

By Richard Lawson

So say statistics, anyway! Gayblog TheSword recently compiled some Craigslist data, and figured out that when men are looking online to do sex with other men, certain cities trend heavily toward the receiving end. Chief among them is Houston—where 70% of folks are looking to fill the void.




Yes of the ten cities surveyed, only three, in fact, had a higher ratio of tops to bottoms, and even then the numbers were almost even. But Miami, Houston, Los Angeles, and (surprise surprise) San Francisco, all seem rife with untended bottoms all reaching out across the cyber tundra, hoping to find some fleeting relief.
New York, of course, had the highest percentage of tops seeking companionship, because it's just that kinda town, I guess.

Matt Titone and Danny O'Donnell Do It Up in Albany

While I do not believe that Barack Obama should take up the mantle of Captain Queer Marriage Crusader, I absolutely applaud those men and women, on the ground, that are fighting for the right of queer folks to marry if they so choose. Now, many of the queer folk I know would rather drill holes in their skulls and squeeze the juice of live jellyfish into them than join the marriage train, but I don't know anyone in our community (from the radical faeries to the Log Cabin Republicans **barf**) that doesn't get their thongs in a twist when Christian (and Jewish) fundamentalists make the choice FOR us that we shouldn't be able to marry.

Like my Mama used to say, “Tell me that I can't do something and that is the first thing I am going to go right on out and do.”

This week the New York State Assembly voted 89-52 to pass same-sex marriage legislation. The Assembly passed a similar bill back in 2007, and this bill passed with the support of some assemblypersons that voted against the 2007 bill.


Speaking eloquently from the Assembly floor was openly gay Assemblyman Danny O'Donnell, the bill's sponsor(and brother of comedienne Rosie O'Donnell). When confronted by Republican Assemblyman Mike Fitzpatrick about the bill being a vehicle to force religious based civic organizations to accept queer marriage, Mr. O'Donnell replied, "This is not about anybody's religion," O'Donnell continued. "I am entitled to the same paper you have, Michael, whether you want me to or not."

Score one for Assemblyman O'Donnell, who, incidentally, totally flirted with me at the Dugout several weeks ago just after a softball practice. A politician has to work whatever angle they got going. I was flattered. Though we did differ over a recent performance of “And I Am Tellin' You,” where Jennifer Hudson brought Jennifer Holiday onto the stage and Jennifer Holiday lost her damn mind and oversang the song. Mr. O'Donnell didn't agree. We will work out the final resolution in committee.

But, the other hero of the morning was Staten Island (really...who lives there?) Assemblyman Matt Titone—openly gay and the 16 year partner of my friend and co-Rookie (my softball team) Josh Pugliese. Assemblyman Titone spoke passionately about the death of his Mother. As his Mother lay dying, and the family gathered to say their goodbyes, his partner, Josh, had extreme difficulty being with the family in the hospital because of the lack of legal standing of Mr. Titones and his long-term relationship. That, ladies and gentleman, is what I call pure and utter bullshit. Love, not a piece of paper, makes a family. Unfortunately, in America, pieces of paper have more value and importance than a commitment between two people of the same gender.

Mr. Titone shared how his love and his relationship was, on the Assembly floor, compared to bestiality, incest, and pedophilia and other morally bankrupt behavior. That Assemblyman that made the reference, Dov Hikind, an orthodox Jew, said it would take an act of God for him to vote for this legislation. Assemblyman Titone then made a point that every religious wignut in this world needs to eat, chew, swallow and digest: EVERY PERSON ON THIS PLANET IS A GIFT FROM GOD.

The next time a Bible, Torah, or K'oran toting hate monger vomits their self-loathing into a space where I am standing, I am going to snatch up their holy book and beat them in the face with it until they meet their God. And when they get to the other side, I hope He smacks the Hell out of him or her and sends them back to Earth with a clear understanding that the Abrahamic faiths, which command Love, are incompatible with hate. I also hope they wake up with a big old imprint of God's hand on their ass and SHUT THE HELL UP tatooed on their foreheads...oh yeah and missing their tongues.

It's not a hate crime if God does it.

Sorry...I took a turn onto Tangent Road and got off at the Pissed Off Exit. Breathe...1...2....3....

Ok....in the end the legislation passed with more support than it had in the past. With most of New England on the bandwagon, it is obvious that the Clam Chowder States are going to be chock full of married queers...it's just a matter of time (for New York and the rest of the country). The bill now goes to the Senate where passage is in question...so now is the time for you kiddies out there in the Empire State to put in those phone calls to your Senators. While it is hella strategic for Obama to keep his mouth shut on this issue...it is not helpful for you to do the same. Get off the couch, grab that iPhone and give your legislator a ring. I will even help you out, you can find your Senator's contact information right here.

(Some of the information in this article was garnered from an article from the Politicker)

(P.S. New York has four openly queer Assembly Members. In addition to Matt and Danny are Deborah Glick and openly bi-sexual member Micah Kellner).

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!

Rookies versus Barbarians (grrrr)

What do you get when you mix a high femme white girl with black girl tendencies and gay softball? NOAH!

Holy shit...this kid today was taking every pitch as if the Barbarian pitcher were throwing shade instead of a ball. She smacked that softball so hard I heard the ball scream "fuck you biyatch" as it sailed over the East River into the Lower East Side. Noah hit that ball so hard that my panties got all moist and I almost took my boxer briefs off right there and threw them at her when she hit home plate. Whew lord!

I had a mixed game today...I smacked the ball really well a couple of times...but...once...I listened to Reggie a little bit too late...and ran to third when I should have stayed on second...I was tagged out. And then, the next time I smacked the ball, I managed to pull muscles in BOTH of my quads on my way to first base. But a bitch was a safe. I got a leg cramp halfway there and ran through it. I then became close personal friends with Ben Gay. I am now, officially, my Grandmother. Did I mention that I tried to blame my tag out at third on Reggie and Miss Mason let me have it with a ferocity matched only by the late, great, Nell Carter on a cheescake.

Of course, the absolute best play of the day came when the pitcher from the opposing team was running into home. Someone from the Rookies got the ball to Clay who then tagged home plate. Clay (I originally had Dan in this blog but Scott corrected me) then stood there facing the pitcher while Mason is screaming "TAG HIM! TAG HIM!" Both Clay (not Dan/not David) and the aforementioned pitcher realized at the same time that the pitcher was not actually out. And then, the pitcher, did the fucking splits shoving his foot between Clay's legs at the same time that Clay tagged him. The pitcher was called out...and even though I am on the Rookies and cheered at the call...I secretly thought that anyone that could do a full split on demand to try and score a point should get the damn point. I am all about delivery and form.

I swear, at one point, Joe was surrounded by the spirit of Bea Arthur and snatched a ball up out of the air and then Estelle Getty appeared in the clouds and gave her blessing on our entire team.

There were some shady calls made by the ump, including a fantastic play by Dan when he tagged out the Goliath Big Girl Who Smacked the Ball To Jupiter Every At Bat (that's his native name)...but the Goliath Big Girl Who Smacked the Ball To Jupiter Every At Bat was so damn big that even though Dan totally tagged his big ass out the ump, who was on the far side of Jupiter...called him safe...even though he was not. Reggie...our fearless queer leader...could not call on his powers as commissioner as he was busy checking out an outfielder during the play. She will be punished later.

And, of course, my very own David was fiercely supportive again...taking pictures...and making snacks...and he has promised to put out tonight...which...in the end...makes him today's MVP.

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 digress...so 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 life...like 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.

Goodbye Slammers, Hello Rookies!

This morning, after a night spent in deep battle with my explosive colon, I woke up at 9:30, look at David, kissed him, and started to panic. This morning was the second and final draft for the Big Apple Softball League. I was supposed to get a softball glove last night on my way to chanting, but, due to marital strife, I was unable to do so.

So, this morning, not only did I have to be in Chelsea by 11am, I also had to get to City Sports (in the opposite direction of the park), get a glove, and then get to Chelsea.

We did it.

I walked up to an astro turf field on West 27th, that was slowly being filled by queers of multiple genders, wearing numbers stuck to their backs, and eyeballing each other as they warmed up with some ball throwing. I met a kid named Memo, and we managed to throw the ball to each other (well I threw it to him and he threw it to the fence about 100 feet behind me) exactly twice before the Comish (Reggie) called us all together.

All roughly 60 of us pooled together, huddling like the Daddy Emperor Penguins in March of the Penguins, cussing at NY One which had promised us a 60 degree day and we got 49 with -2000 wind chill.

Then the exercises started.

We chose positions on the field and begin a series of drills. Surrounding us were the managers from the teams looking to draft players. I felt like the fat kid with thick glasses and and an afro in gym class. I just knew I would be last picked.

first turn to field a ball came up and the woman hitting the ball hit it to short instead of 2nd base. I decided to be a superhero and ran across the field, jumped to grab the ball, missed, tucked, and rolled across the astro turf. Titi would have been pissed cuz I never did shit like that on the Slammers.

Then came batting, which is when the called for the pitchers. Now, I was the backup pitcher for the Slammers. Sometimes I was on fire and other times I was fired and pulled off the field. So, I was a bit nervous to get up and have to lip sync, I mean pitch, for my life. I stepped to the mound and low and behold, I pitched a strike. As a matter of fact out of roughly 15 pitches perhaps three or four were outside of the strike zone. Not only that, I was catching pop flys that were hit by the batters. Miracles do happen.

After about 2.5 hours, everyone had been put through their paces, and then came the selection process. One of the other pitchers was first pick. My little heart fell. Then, all of a sudden, the commissioner pointed at me and said "Come here." He informed me that I would be pitching for his team. And a guy standing next to him smiled and said, "I told him to pick you."

I was a first round draft pick. Selected before the other managers began meeting to dole out the remaining 58 players. I felt like I was walking on air! I felt so good I let loose with a TRIM SPA BABY! You like my body? (that's for you Slammers out there).

So there you have it. I tried out for the Big Apple Softball League. I wasn't picked last. And I will be back on the softball field this summer. Feeling a little bit like Sporty Spice (and lookin' like Scary Spice). Rock on! And thank you to my beloved man for standing in the freezing as cold with me, snapping pictures, and cheering me on.