Dateline: 10:35 a.m., Friday
Washington, D.C. - Written during an Alcoholics Anonymous coffee break
The grass has grown long at the Field of Dreams. Balls no longer skip merrily through the infield for doubles; suddenly the shortstop (cough, cough) is the most important person on the field. No longer is it only small women and Tim who hit dribblers to the pitcher. The game, my friends, has changed. Gone are the days of double digit slugfests, here are the days of small ball.
Recent weeks have seen the Oracles win or lose (once) by the tightest of margins. This week was no exception. Since I actually looked at the scorecard this week, I know for a fact that the final score was 6-2, and that after "piling" on 4 runs in the first two innings, the Oracles' bats were stifled by the Minnesota 5lb Bass. As a side note, are we supposed to think they ACTUALLY have 5lb "Bats" or a large, 5lb "Ass"? Or is there no joke, and I'm just trying to hard?
But back to the game (before I get dragged back into AA, more on that later). Except for one inning of horrors, the Oracles played a flawless defensive game, and have, I just learned, been allocated three of the 10 spots on ESPN's Web Gems recap tonight on Sportscenter. Check it out. Jason was playing like a human Dirt Devil at shortstop and third, including turning the game's only double play; diving into the basepath to tag out a runner near the end of the game; and in general creating a Florio/Chase-sized black hole in the infield. Luckily, we caught one of his plays on video, though the announcer keeps referring to him as "Ramirez".
Just as the Oracles' machine seemed to be chugging along to an easy win, Dana "Gold Glove? I don't want no steenkin' Gold Glove" MacDonald suffered what can only be described as a "complete loss of fielding skills" for one inning. While her pitching was no different than usual, she suddenly ... just ... couldn't ... field. After one particularly close play, Christy "Where my cops at?" Weisner, began trotting in, assuming the inning was over. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Dana had temporarily lost her mojo. Luckily for the Oracles, even when Dana is wearing a lead glove, she is still almost Scrooge-like about giving up runs. The Bass, despite loading the bases twice in the inning, only got one run in, and the threat was over.
The inning had so frustrated Dana, though, that she felt a need to lie down and smoke till it was coming out of her ears. So Adam "Not quite as funny as Tracy" Morgan stepped up to fill her shoes, pitching admirably to close down the Bass in the 5th inning. Around that time, the Oracles suffered a small scare, when John "Still too sexy for his clothes" Florio collapsed to the dirt, writhing in pain, after twisting his ankle "on the edge of the grass" while legging out a foul ball. Gasps were audible from the dugout, from the street, and from the streets of Philadelphia (good song). About 10 members of the Oracles all rushed to Florio with no idea of why they all needed to help him, but as soon as they saw that he was able to stand, they all slowly drifted back to their beers. As Florio limped, stumbled, and then, inexorably, began to walk in a normal manner, the crowd began a slow clap, bursting into thunderous applause for the Oracles' own Paul Pierce wannabe.
In the sixth inning, Brian "Can't come up with good nicknames for himself" Wagner took over pitching duties from Dana and Adam, warming up as Tim heckled "Are you sure you can do this? I repeat, are you sure you can do this?" For Tim, it was like waking up in a house filled with people who aren't your family but claim to be; it just felt wrong to have Wagner on the mound. With confidence oozing from his pores, Brian began to toss pitches to warmup. From the outfield Christy "You look like an illegal immigrant, can I see some ID?" Weisner (Christy, do something notable so I can find new jokes about you), took it upon herself to point out to Brian that he was stepping forward with the wrong leg. Brian huffed and harrumphed, but eventually chose to listen to his own personal Yoda. After surrendering a single to the first batter, Brian was advised by Adam to "float the ball", which Brian proceeded to do to great effect, ringing up the next three batters in short order (hey, if the advice worked for Henry Rowengartner in the classic movie "Rookie of the Year", it can work for the Oracles. Of course, that has Adam playing the role of my mother ...).
The Oracles proceeded to clean the game up with Dana back on the mound, winning in respectable fashion 6-2.
Following the game, the hardier souls traipsed over to Pour House to celebrate July 25, a special day in Oracles' lore, the day when Michael "Keep your shirt on" Pierce was born 26 years before. Down, the Oracles went, down, down, down into the basement of Pour House, where we proceeded to grab a table and begin ordering a steady stream of Bud Lights and nachos. Beers were passed around, emptied, and cleared. Then we repeated. Someone suggested a drinking game, but that suggestion was overrode by the suggestion that people should just shut up and drink to Mike. And drink we did, indulging in copious amounts of suds, and then, when the appropriate time came, switching to shots. First, it was the Irish Car Bombs, quaffed with aplomb. Then, just to show off what an classy guy he is, Adam suggested switching to Colonials, which he said were "warm whiskey shots." Having never heard of cold whiskey shots, everyone else just smiled and nodded. As this writer, this intrepid soul, wandered off into the night to escort a lady to the "Metro", Adam and Mike were still going at it. No one knows, at this moment, whether they are still alive ...
That is all.
Asshole of the Game: Brian, for getting Brianne in trouble with the other team's ornery third baseman/coach/triple strikeout threat. Joanie loves Chachi, Luke Skywalker is Leah's brother, Brianne hates Brian ... its kinda obvious at this point.
MVP: I've been told that I will get in trouble if I name anyone other than Tim the MVP for finally getting out the other team's ornery third baseman/coach/triple strikeout threat. So ... yay Tim. Thanks to Tim also for his kind words of encouragement after I made a play at shortstop, something along the lines of "I didn't think you were capable of making that kind of play".
MVP Part Deux: So Tim is the official MVP, so sayeth the team, but it's important to recognize Jason's absurd fielding skillz, especially since he probably is going to have to ice his entire body today (which is going to be VERY awkward when a hungover Mike opens the door to Jason's office and finds him naked save for bags of ice. Mike will wish he drank enough to play hooky).
MVP Part Trois: Mike. For those of you who did not make it to Pour House, well, you may never see Mike again.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Oracles Beat the Nationals, Make History
It was a special night for the Oracles on July 17, 2008, two weeks and 232 years since our great team declared independence from the oppressive House Softball League, aka “The Brits”. In honor of the special occasion, Brianne “Brakes for Little Kids, Gets Out of Her Car, and Gives Them Her Car” Nadeau pulled out all the stops and arranged for the Washington Nationals, one of the worst teams in Major League Baseball (but numero uno in our hearts, right?), to travel to the Field of Dreams for a knock-down, drag-out softball game.
Missing only their shortstop, the All-Star Cristian Guzman, the Nationals arrived at the field in their official team short bus. Unbeknownst to them, the scruffy chauffeur, Adam “I’m still on this team, right?” had not been sent to pick them up by the management. And those drinks he served them in the short bus? Well, let’s just say that its hard to play a good game of softball after downing Ex-Lax.
At 7:01 p.m., jets from Andrews Air Force Base flew over the field, shattering every window in the neighborhood and causing Tim “First Base Coaches Should Not Coach From the Dugout” O’Neill to lose his hearing. For the rest of the game, he wandered around shouting “SINGLES SCORE RUNS” at everyone who crossed his line of sight.
The Nationals took the field first, and despite their short bus experience (in the Major League, every other team views the Nationals as being “special”), proceeded to knock the first three pitches they saw over the fence. Were it not for the aforementioned jets, the Nats would have shattered a few windows.
But just when Ian and Roy began to cry, when Nelson gnashed his teeth and Amy began to throw softballs at her sister, Brianne took one step out of the dugout, then another, then another, and another, and so on, until she was standing in front of the Nationals’ dugout. Pointing to the fence, she reminded the team that, under our rules, they were out of home runs. Oh, how the Nationals howled. Elijah Dukes tore first base from the ground and chucked it at Chase, who of course, caught it barehanded with his eyes closed while making a long-distance call using only a can and some string to Guatemala. It was truly inspiring to see the Oracles’ own MacGyver at work. Despite the Nats’ attempts to challenge the rules, Brianne “Still braking for little kids, and giving them our field” Nadeau was solid as a rock, and budged not one inch. In fact, by the time she returned to our side of the field, she had convinced the Nationals to contribute to the education of her first-born child. She’s VERY persuasive.
At that point, with the Nats unsure of how to hit singles in such a tiny park (Tim’s hearing was not back yet, so his chants of “singles score runs” were cruel reminders of the Nats inability to play small ball), the Oracles began to surge forward. With the local police standing on the sidelines mocking the Nats (“Nice stadium you guys got this year? When are we getting a team to go with it?”), the Oracles began scattering ugly but effective bloopers all over the field.
In the third inning, with the Nats leading 4-3, Dana “Everything’s Better with Nicotine” MacDonald, came to the plate with the bases loaded and 1 out. After watching, one, two, three balls go by, she coiled up and let loose at the unfortunate 4th pitching, spanking it like a naughty child back in the days when spanking wouldn’t get you five years in the clink. Up the ball sailed, high in the air, drifting lazily towards left field. The Nats’ fielder, Wily Mo Pena, settled underneath the ball. It began, inexorably, to drop towards his awaiting glove. Then, out of nowhere, two pigeons came rocketing across the field, engaged in a high speed mating dance. The lead pigeon, unaware of its surroundings, rammed straight into the ball, pushing it several feet closer to the fence and away from Pena. The ball hit the ground, the pigeon hit the ground, and the ball rolled slowly towards, and then under, the outfield fence, for a ground rule double. Two runs came in, and Dana was standing up at second base. Also standing up was the unfortunate pigeon, who flapped its wings a few times before taking off again. Pena just scratched his head.
The next batter up, Ian “The Outfield is for Conference Calls” Grant, picked up one of Adam’s wooden bats—this one dubbed “Rent Collector” in homage to Adam’s horrible sense of humor and also his chosen profession—swung it a few times. Then stepped to the plate and whiffed the first pitch. Then he whiffed the second pitch. Then he whiffed the … no, he barely brushed the ball, but he was still alive. On the sidelines, Amy and Susan are doing the wave while everyone else is buried nose-deep in a cup of one of the last remaining all-American brewskis, Budweiser. The fourth pitch is a big, fat, Rookie of the Year-style floater. Tongue wagging, Ian leaned back and swung with all his might through the ball, sending it right back at the Nats’ pitcher, Tim Redding. Redding got his glove up, but misjudges, and the ball lands in his midsection with a meaty “whump!” Redding crumpled, and the runners dashed madcap around the bases as the Nats ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. By the time the dust settled, the Oracles led 7-3, and the Nats were utterly demoralized. At that point, Manny Acta, the Nats’ manager, showed up at the field to collect his team, which had been fooled by Adam to believing the game was a scheduled charity event. It wasn’t. Our bad.
As the Nats’ trudged off the field, nursing wounded body parts and a massively bruised collective ego, the Oracles popped open more beers and celebrated their utter dominance of Major League Baseball’s Little League-level team, the Washington Nationals. Ian and Amy professed their love for each other (ewww), Delicia danced an impromptu recital on the mound, and Nelson ran in circles until he dropped to the ground, exhausted and in need of a cigarette.
Good game Oracles! Too bad I just made all this up. It would have been one hell of a story for the grandkids. In reality, we had two teams cancel on us in the same day, so we beat someone by forfeit. Just not sure who. Ultimately, we incorporated five people from another team and basically scrimmaged against ourselves, with the Oracles beating the Oracles in a shortened game.
Missing only their shortstop, the All-Star Cristian Guzman, the Nationals arrived at the field in their official team short bus. Unbeknownst to them, the scruffy chauffeur, Adam “I’m still on this team, right?” had not been sent to pick them up by the management. And those drinks he served them in the short bus? Well, let’s just say that its hard to play a good game of softball after downing Ex-Lax.
At 7:01 p.m., jets from Andrews Air Force Base flew over the field, shattering every window in the neighborhood and causing Tim “First Base Coaches Should Not Coach From the Dugout” O’Neill to lose his hearing. For the rest of the game, he wandered around shouting “SINGLES SCORE RUNS” at everyone who crossed his line of sight.
The Nationals took the field first, and despite their short bus experience (in the Major League, every other team views the Nationals as being “special”), proceeded to knock the first three pitches they saw over the fence. Were it not for the aforementioned jets, the Nats would have shattered a few windows.
But just when Ian and Roy began to cry, when Nelson gnashed his teeth and Amy began to throw softballs at her sister, Brianne took one step out of the dugout, then another, then another, and another, and so on, until she was standing in front of the Nationals’ dugout. Pointing to the fence, she reminded the team that, under our rules, they were out of home runs. Oh, how the Nationals howled. Elijah Dukes tore first base from the ground and chucked it at Chase, who of course, caught it barehanded with his eyes closed while making a long-distance call using only a can and some string to Guatemala. It was truly inspiring to see the Oracles’ own MacGyver at work. Despite the Nats’ attempts to challenge the rules, Brianne “Still braking for little kids, and giving them our field” Nadeau was solid as a rock, and budged not one inch. In fact, by the time she returned to our side of the field, she had convinced the Nationals to contribute to the education of her first-born child. She’s VERY persuasive.
At that point, with the Nats unsure of how to hit singles in such a tiny park (Tim’s hearing was not back yet, so his chants of “singles score runs” were cruel reminders of the Nats inability to play small ball), the Oracles began to surge forward. With the local police standing on the sidelines mocking the Nats (“Nice stadium you guys got this year? When are we getting a team to go with it?”), the Oracles began scattering ugly but effective bloopers all over the field.
In the third inning, with the Nats leading 4-3, Dana “Everything’s Better with Nicotine” MacDonald, came to the plate with the bases loaded and 1 out. After watching, one, two, three balls go by, she coiled up and let loose at the unfortunate 4th pitching, spanking it like a naughty child back in the days when spanking wouldn’t get you five years in the clink. Up the ball sailed, high in the air, drifting lazily towards left field. The Nats’ fielder, Wily Mo Pena, settled underneath the ball. It began, inexorably, to drop towards his awaiting glove. Then, out of nowhere, two pigeons came rocketing across the field, engaged in a high speed mating dance. The lead pigeon, unaware of its surroundings, rammed straight into the ball, pushing it several feet closer to the fence and away from Pena. The ball hit the ground, the pigeon hit the ground, and the ball rolled slowly towards, and then under, the outfield fence, for a ground rule double. Two runs came in, and Dana was standing up at second base. Also standing up was the unfortunate pigeon, who flapped its wings a few times before taking off again. Pena just scratched his head.
The next batter up, Ian “The Outfield is for Conference Calls” Grant, picked up one of Adam’s wooden bats—this one dubbed “Rent Collector” in homage to Adam’s horrible sense of humor and also his chosen profession—swung it a few times. Then stepped to the plate and whiffed the first pitch. Then he whiffed the second pitch. Then he whiffed the … no, he barely brushed the ball, but he was still alive. On the sidelines, Amy and Susan are doing the wave while everyone else is buried nose-deep in a cup of one of the last remaining all-American brewskis, Budweiser. The fourth pitch is a big, fat, Rookie of the Year-style floater. Tongue wagging, Ian leaned back and swung with all his might through the ball, sending it right back at the Nats’ pitcher, Tim Redding. Redding got his glove up, but misjudges, and the ball lands in his midsection with a meaty “whump!” Redding crumpled, and the runners dashed madcap around the bases as the Nats ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. By the time the dust settled, the Oracles led 7-3, and the Nats were utterly demoralized. At that point, Manny Acta, the Nats’ manager, showed up at the field to collect his team, which had been fooled by Adam to believing the game was a scheduled charity event. It wasn’t. Our bad.
As the Nats’ trudged off the field, nursing wounded body parts and a massively bruised collective ego, the Oracles popped open more beers and celebrated their utter dominance of Major League Baseball’s Little League-level team, the Washington Nationals. Ian and Amy professed their love for each other (ewww), Delicia danced an impromptu recital on the mound, and Nelson ran in circles until he dropped to the ground, exhausted and in need of a cigarette.
Good game Oracles! Too bad I just made all this up. It would have been one hell of a story for the grandkids. In reality, we had two teams cancel on us in the same day, so we beat someone by forfeit. Just not sure who. Ultimately, we incorporated five people from another team and basically scrimmaged against ourselves, with the Oracles beating the Oracles in a shortened game.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Oracles Return from 4th of July; Bleed Red, White, and Blue
It's amazing how a recap can be delayed when one has to be at work before 8 am (insert your own sympathetic sounds here).
Coming off a two-week absence from the Field of Dreams (now complete with longer grass and locked gates!), the Oracles reverted to their traditional pre-game rituals, including showing up at our own field much later than the opposing team, refusing to warm-up, and exercising our bellies by imbibing obligatory pre-game, all-American brewskis, courtesy of Nelson "My first name spells America and I wear red shoes like Dorothy" Freeman. He's the first redneck metrosexual.
We knew the game was going to be interesting when we got our first glimpses of the other team. The older man with the beard, wearing plaid and smoking a cigarette; the tall, skinny guy walking around barefoot in the shortest shorts that are legal under DC law (though that law may be struck down by the Supreme Court next); and the guy playing in khakis he had rolled up into awkward-looking shorts. It was a motley crew, but as a motley crew ourselves, we knew that singles, not devastatingly handsome men like John "Chase, I am your father [in left field]" Florio, scored runs. So we smashed our beer cans against our heads, let out a few choice belches and burps, and took the field.
I haven't seen the scorecard, so my ability to recap the game is a bit, umm, abridged. Needless to say, we followed the general rules of Oracle softball and sucked in the first inning. Thankfully, our opponents, whose name I never figured out, weren't doing much better. An inning or two later, though, the Oracles served up their famous inning-long ass-whooping, racking up 10 runs. You could just see the cash register in Tim "Can I interest you in disability ... watch out for that car! ... insurance" O'Neill's eyes marking up "Run" over and over as the Oracles set what may have been a team record for singles in an inning.
The rest of the game was a muddle, with the Oracles chalking up another five runs or so, and the whats-their-names relying on their big men to score a total of 9 runs, while their women proved almost laughably ineffective. If there is one facet of the Oracles that cannot be underrated, it is the value of having a lineup, both men and women, who bring their "y'all" to the game. None of this sissy "I'm a woman and I shouldn't be expected to have upper body strength" crap. The other team's men would rack up a few runs, then their girls would come up and often turn into three quick outs, with a few swinging strikeouts thrown in for good measure. Now compare that to the Oracles, where girls and guys were relatively mixed in the lineup, and there was never an inning where the Oracles would send up three non-hitters in a row as sacrificial lambs. That's smart softball, folks.
In the end, despite a stressful period at the end where the other team suddenly started taking steroids ("cream and the clear? nooo, this is Neosporin!") and cleared the fence several times, the Oracles early 10-run outburst served us in good stead, and we rode our bats to victory in a full 7 innings. Oracles win 15-9.
Congrats Oracles, after a brief set back two weeks ago, we are now 7-3 and ranked #15 in the league. Let's keep up the good work!
Welcome Back: To Florio and Tim "Safari Hunter" O'Neill, who made significant contributions to the team. Florio, you'd better keep coming back, at least for as long as Chase "Two left feet, and they are both broken" Groseclose is hobbling around like an old man.
Welcome (at least for one game): To Susan, who looked, hit, ran, and otherwise played like Amy. It's almost like Amy cloned herself ...
Props: To Chase, for even showing up after nearly killing himself in a game of pickup basketball. We love you man. Now quit all non-softball-related sports. We need you.
Wowza: To team turnout. It was like a flash mob; one minute, Florio, Dana, Chase and I were sitting around playing Chutes and Ladders, the next minute, 12 more teammates had popped out of nowhere.
Your Softball Moment of Zen: http://youtube.com/watch?v=W0e7ddfM6uk&feature=related
Coming off a two-week absence from the Field of Dreams (now complete with longer grass and locked gates!), the Oracles reverted to their traditional pre-game rituals, including showing up at our own field much later than the opposing team, refusing to warm-up, and exercising our bellies by imbibing obligatory pre-game, all-American brewskis, courtesy of Nelson "My first name spells America and I wear red shoes like Dorothy" Freeman. He's the first redneck metrosexual.
We knew the game was going to be interesting when we got our first glimpses of the other team. The older man with the beard, wearing plaid and smoking a cigarette; the tall, skinny guy walking around barefoot in the shortest shorts that are legal under DC law (though that law may be struck down by the Supreme Court next); and the guy playing in khakis he had rolled up into awkward-looking shorts. It was a motley crew, but as a motley crew ourselves, we knew that singles, not devastatingly handsome men like John "Chase, I am your father [in left field]" Florio, scored runs. So we smashed our beer cans against our heads, let out a few choice belches and burps, and took the field.
I haven't seen the scorecard, so my ability to recap the game is a bit, umm, abridged. Needless to say, we followed the general rules of Oracle softball and sucked in the first inning. Thankfully, our opponents, whose name I never figured out, weren't doing much better. An inning or two later, though, the Oracles served up their famous inning-long ass-whooping, racking up 10 runs. You could just see the cash register in Tim "Can I interest you in disability ... watch out for that car! ... insurance" O'Neill's eyes marking up "Run" over and over as the Oracles set what may have been a team record for singles in an inning.
The rest of the game was a muddle, with the Oracles chalking up another five runs or so, and the whats-their-names relying on their big men to score a total of 9 runs, while their women proved almost laughably ineffective. If there is one facet of the Oracles that cannot be underrated, it is the value of having a lineup, both men and women, who bring their "y'all" to the game. None of this sissy "I'm a woman and I shouldn't be expected to have upper body strength" crap. The other team's men would rack up a few runs, then their girls would come up and often turn into three quick outs, with a few swinging strikeouts thrown in for good measure. Now compare that to the Oracles, where girls and guys were relatively mixed in the lineup, and there was never an inning where the Oracles would send up three non-hitters in a row as sacrificial lambs. That's smart softball, folks.
In the end, despite a stressful period at the end where the other team suddenly started taking steroids ("cream and the clear? nooo, this is Neosporin!") and cleared the fence several times, the Oracles early 10-run outburst served us in good stead, and we rode our bats to victory in a full 7 innings. Oracles win 15-9.
Congrats Oracles, after a brief set back two weeks ago, we are now 7-3 and ranked #15 in the league. Let's keep up the good work!
Welcome Back: To Florio and Tim "Safari Hunter" O'Neill, who made significant contributions to the team. Florio, you'd better keep coming back, at least for as long as Chase "Two left feet, and they are both broken" Groseclose is hobbling around like an old man.
Welcome (at least for one game): To Susan, who looked, hit, ran, and otherwise played like Amy. It's almost like Amy cloned herself ...
Props: To Chase, for even showing up after nearly killing himself in a game of pickup basketball. We love you man. Now quit all non-softball-related sports. We need you.
Wowza: To team turnout. It was like a flash mob; one minute, Florio, Dana, Chase and I were sitting around playing Chutes and Ladders, the next minute, 12 more teammates had popped out of nowhere.
Your Softball Moment of Zen: http://youtube.com/watch?v=W0e7ddfM6uk&feature=related
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