Sometimes, the saying goes, a minute can seem like an eternity (or is it a lifetime? Both are kinda long). For the Oracles, the bottom half of the first inning against the Navy's Loose Cannons seemed like several eternities, with an encore performance of "Free Bird" thrown in for effect. The Loose Cannons' pitcher, by all accounts a very pleasant and upstanding member of society, stubbornly threw the exact same pitch over and over again, a pitch that, without fail, landed on or short of the plate. In a fast pitch game, the poor girl's arm would have fallen off after her pitch count broke 40 in the first inning alone. It was a test of the Oracles' patience. Oddly enough, despite such frustrations, Roy was STILL able to hit the first pitch thrown to him, proving that there are some things in the lives of the Oracles that just resist all outside influences.
During that inning, Tim kept up the steady patter that has shock jock radio stations begging for his services, like this gem while he was patiently waiting for a ball he could hit after yet another ball dropped at his feet:
Pitcher: "That was my sinker"
Tim: "That was just short"
Really, the whole game was the Tim and Brian show. Why, you may ask, does Brian get to share the glory? Because Brian is the writer. And because Brian was really awesome, except for that one moment where he threw high AND inside on the Loose Cannons' grandfather, only to see the man bash the ball over the right field fence. EXCEPT for that moment, Brian was awesome. More on that later ...
Later being now. Also in that first inning, Brian drilled a grounder up the middle that somehow was misplayed badly enough that Brian ended up on third. At that point, an overthrow from the outfield left the ball dribbling slowly between 3rd and home. Seizing the opportunity to show off, Brian scampered home for a weird inside the park, ground ball 2-run homer. Any port in a storm, or something like that.
In the second, the Oracles temporarily forgot how to catch and field for a few minutes, allowing one-run to score. But then the defense re-learned its ABCs and remembered how to count 123, and the inning was over, with the Oracles leading 3-1.
In the third inning, the aforementioned, totally awesome Brian replaced Lucinda for one inning of pitching gnarliness. And it was gnarly, except for that home run we aren't going to talk about anymore. Instead, we'll focus on Tim's reaction as he walked out to catch. Cup in hand, he strolled to the plate to take his place as catcher. As he neared the plate, his head rose up to look at the mound, and a look of shock and disgust passed through his face as he noted that Brian, not Lucinda, was pitching. All he could choke out was a loud, long "WHATTTTTT?!!" Brian almost asked for a different catcher at that point, particularly when Tim alerted the other team that "He has never pitched before; he has no idea what he is doing." Whatever.
In the bottom of the third, with the game tied at three, and the sun already setting thanks to the long-ass first inning, Brian again came home to score with opportunistic baserunning. Did he get a ticker-tape parade? NOOOOOOO. Though, it should be noted that the Oracles were very short-handed at the game, with no substitutes, so maybe they didn't have time to plan the parade. The inning ended with the Oracles up 4-3.
The fourth inning was an ugly affair, as both teams began to be affected by the creeping approach of nightfall. Even the neon yellow ball was not a guarantee that catches wouldn't be dropped or throws muffed. Each team scored one run, and the inning ended with the Oracles leading 5-4. For the game to be official, five innings had to be completed, so there remained one dark, treacherous inning to be played.
In the fifth inning, with Tim calling for "three up, three down", the Oracles started playing like what they really were, a bunch of people who couldnt see shit in the darkness. The opportunistic Loose Cannons jumped all over the ball with multiple doubles and smart baserunning, and threatened to blow the game wide open before the Oracles' defense cracked down and got out of the top of the inning down only 6-5.
And thus, we come to the bottom of the fifth inning, the moment when we learn who is a player, and who is just getting played. A time when heroes are made and villains soundly beaten with a big stick. A time when nations crumble but the Oracles' stick together. A time ... for bad decisions, apparently. Sean "Still not an IRA terrorist" Ryan came to the plate with the game resting on his shoulders, and walloped the ball into the outfield. Equipped with wheels of fury, he tore around the basepath, ignoring Tim's cries to "Stay" at second. The ball and Sean arrived at third base at the same time, and despite his beautiful, textbook, dirt-disturbing slide, he was out. Later in the inning, Brian, He of Great Importance to This Story, came to bat, and picked up his third hit of the game, making it to 2nd base on an overthrow. With one out, Brian advanced to third on Kristen "Totally Makes it Worth Having Roy Around" ground out to the pitcher, and here we come to the defining moment. Brian at third and two outs, when Britt steps to the plate (if our memory serves us right). Britt grounds the ball up the middle, and the Loose Cannons' fielder scoops it up. Brian dashes to home, sure the run won't count, but wait! An overthrow, an overthrow! Oracles tie the game, 6-6!
Unfortunately, the Oracles were unable to take the lead, but we all, except for maybe Tim, decided that we could accept a tie in the days leading up to our weekend tournament appearance. Tim, disgusted with the lack of a victory, announced that "a tie is like kissing your sister." Which led to this unfortunate reply, a stab at humor that just made everyone uncomfortable, by Brian: "doesn't everybody kiss their sister?"
In fact, after the game, many humorous or otherwise awkward statements were made that really must be shared with everyone. At one point, when Brian was mocking Tim, Tim turned to Brian and announced: "You don't talk, I talk."
When Tim was talking about his younger sister used to try to set him up with younger girls when he was growing up in WV, Brian interjected to note that "so when you were growing up in the backwoods of west virginia, you could put a little makeup on anything, even your dog, and it would look good".
Tim continued with his stories, including a comment about how he "was watching the Olympics," leading Sean to interrupt him and point out that he "hates the Olympics. I want to watch real sports", ignoring the fact that nearly every sport known to man is played during the Olympics. Oh, but Sean is, despite his Irish terrorist origins, as American as they come, and clarified that he was in need of "football. not soccer football, but football football."
Finally, to cap off a night of awkward moments, Brian made a very understandable mistake and threatened to give Kristen, a very nice, wonderful person, a "nookie." For the record, and just to head off any potential lawsuits, he meant "noogie." That is "noogie," spelled "n" "o" "o" "g" "i" "e".
MVP of the game: If you didn't see this one coming from a mile away, you need glasses. Brian. He rocked.
Howard Stern award for Achievements in Talking: Tim. It's more of a lifetime achievement award than a recognition of any single statement.
Don't forget everyone, we've got at least two tournament games on Saturday afternoon. Brianne is bringing the mimosas and Jason is bringing the bloody marys. We've also got leftover beer. Everyone who is in town must come.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Oracles Answer Question, Pew's Your Daddy, With Resounding "WE ARE"
At certain points in history, a few special individuals come together to right the wrongs of society, and to bring happiness to the masses. Everyone knows such individuals: King Arthur, the Allied Forces, the Beatles, and Rachel Ray. On Thursday night, the Oracles brave players were those special individuals, defeating Pew's Your Daddy, 14-7.
On a day when stormy weather threatened to sink the game before it began, the Oracles refused to bend to early fears, and showed up at the Field of Dreams en masse in time to take up the banner of Freedom, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Unfettered Happiness While Wearing Beer Goggles. The game started on a low note, as the pitcher for the oddly named Pew's Your Daddy couldn't seem to distinguish the plate from the broad side of a barn. Balls sailed over heads, away from bodies, and in general the pitches seemed to take on a life of their own as soon as the Pew's pitcher released them. It was almost like those old Calvin and Hobbes comic strips where the ball comes alive and chases after Calvin with fearsome teeth. What, no one else reads the Sunday funnies? Bah.
While the Oracles and the Pew's were playing a teeny-tiny game of defensive baseball early in the game, Lucinda "Crocodile Dundee" Lessley was fighting off the local flora and fauna. One dog-walking Washingtonian took a fancy to Lucinda's fedora, and began pestering her about where he too could purchase such a fine hat ("Hey pitcher ... hey pitcher ... HEY PITCHER, WHERE'D YA GET THAT HAT?"). Eventually, her resolve weakening, Lucinda admitted to the man that her had came from Filene's Basement, leading to this rather amusing exchange:
Lucinda: I bought it at Filene's Basement.
Man: Can Filene come to MY house?
Lucinda: I don't know, can you find her basement?
As the game continued, the Oracles, bolstered by the return of Andrew "West Virginians don't follow no calendar" Stasiowski and Sean "No longer in the IRA" Ryan, plus the introduction of Mrs. Roy, the inimitable Kristen, began to conjure up magic like cows make methane. Except, the Pew's weren't tipping over as easily as cows. In the 4th inning, the Pew's hit every single ball to right center, angering the writer of this recap, who was patrolling that area with a ferocious sense of territoriality, and probably leading to future karmic retribution (plot spoiler!).
While the Pew's were coming back and threatening to take the lead, Andrew lost track of Molly's dog, Stella, and became slowly and inextricably caught in Stella's leash, eventually sloshing his beer over everything around him as he desperately ducked under the leash as the life was about to be choked out of him by an overeager dog. At the same time, a fascinating conversation was occurring on the sidelines, as Molly and Nelson began a deep and serious discussion about providing condom dispensers that were shaped like balls and a penis, but that, when lifted, dispensed valuable, valuable condoms. A regular Aristotle and Plato, those two.
Around the same time, Tim's pep talk reached new, mildly inappropriate heights, as he urged the team to "drive it all the way in," leading certain jokers to comment that the team had never heard him talk that way before. Something about this game was absolutely, positively Freudian. Oracles are troubled individuals.
But back to the game! On a day when the Chicago White Sox hit four consecutive home runs, the Oracles made a little splash of their own, breaking, for the first time this year, the three home run barrier. While, for the life of me I cannot recall who hit the last roundtripper, I do recall that Chase was the proud father of at least two solo shots, and that Andrew gave birth in the 5th inning to a beautiful baby three-run dinger.
But despite the pyrotechnic displays of the Oracles homegrown Hans and Franz, the bottom of the 6th inning came with the Oracles at bat, holding on to a tenuous two run lead (9-7) as the sun was lazily drifting below the rooftops. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a rusted, dull butter knife from pre-World War II Britain. It was that thick. But magic pixie dust must have settled on the Oracles at that point, for their bats lit up like a gaudy Christmas tree, and the Pew's Your Daddy fielders could only shake their heads in dismay and disgust as not one, not two, not three, not four, but five Oracles runs trotted across the plate. With 2 outs in the bottom of the sixth, and the Oracles still sending batters to the plate, Pew's Your Daddy had had enough, and in the deepening night, called for an end to the game. After the poor showing of August 11, the Oracles needed, nay, HAD TO HAVE that win. Nothing less, no "well we tried our best" would do. Victory, or die trying! (for the record, we never took a vote on the dying part, so thank goodness we won).
After the game, the Oracles cracked many ice cold "ice teas" while Molly's faithful companion Stella was in doggie heaven, trying to chase three softballs at the same time. It is impressive that she didn't get whiplash.
Newcomers or Old Faces Seen Once Again: Props to Andrew for reuniting the Bash Brothers (though everyone on the Oracles was a Bash Brother/Sistah last night), Sean Ryan for not pulling any Irish terrorist shit on us (I've seen Patriot Games!), and Kristen for being the clear better half of Roy, while also wielding a wicked bat and a small cannon for an arm. She can patrol our right field any day.
MVP: The MVP goes to Chase for his home runs and his defense, Andrew for being Big Bat Deux, Lucinda for taking crap about her hat and not going postal, and everyone else for contributing to the Oracles best win of the season. Smell that? That's what victory smells like ... or that may be the bacon in my sandwich. Either way, good job!
Golds Gym membership goes to: Adam. Learn to bend with the knees!
Tall tale of the game: Nelson's fish was thiiiisssss big (12 inches... AROUND). Oh wait, he really was talking about a fish.
Drinks of the game: Busch Light + Miller Light + Yuengling + Jack Dan + VO = hijinks!
On a day when stormy weather threatened to sink the game before it began, the Oracles refused to bend to early fears, and showed up at the Field of Dreams en masse in time to take up the banner of Freedom, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Unfettered Happiness While Wearing Beer Goggles. The game started on a low note, as the pitcher for the oddly named Pew's Your Daddy couldn't seem to distinguish the plate from the broad side of a barn. Balls sailed over heads, away from bodies, and in general the pitches seemed to take on a life of their own as soon as the Pew's pitcher released them. It was almost like those old Calvin and Hobbes comic strips where the ball comes alive and chases after Calvin with fearsome teeth. What, no one else reads the Sunday funnies? Bah.
While the Oracles and the Pew's were playing a teeny-tiny game of defensive baseball early in the game, Lucinda "Crocodile Dundee" Lessley was fighting off the local flora and fauna. One dog-walking Washingtonian took a fancy to Lucinda's fedora, and began pestering her about where he too could purchase such a fine hat ("Hey pitcher ... hey pitcher ... HEY PITCHER, WHERE'D YA GET THAT HAT?"). Eventually, her resolve weakening, Lucinda admitted to the man that her had came from Filene's Basement, leading to this rather amusing exchange:
Lucinda: I bought it at Filene's Basement.
Man: Can Filene come to MY house?
Lucinda: I don't know, can you find her basement?
As the game continued, the Oracles, bolstered by the return of Andrew "West Virginians don't follow no calendar" Stasiowski and Sean "No longer in the IRA" Ryan, plus the introduction of Mrs. Roy, the inimitable Kristen, began to conjure up magic like cows make methane. Except, the Pew's weren't tipping over as easily as cows. In the 4th inning, the Pew's hit every single ball to right center, angering the writer of this recap, who was patrolling that area with a ferocious sense of territoriality, and probably leading to future karmic retribution (plot spoiler!).
While the Pew's were coming back and threatening to take the lead, Andrew lost track of Molly's dog, Stella, and became slowly and inextricably caught in Stella's leash, eventually sloshing his beer over everything around him as he desperately ducked under the leash as the life was about to be choked out of him by an overeager dog. At the same time, a fascinating conversation was occurring on the sidelines, as Molly and Nelson began a deep and serious discussion about providing condom dispensers that were shaped like balls and a penis, but that, when lifted, dispensed valuable, valuable condoms. A regular Aristotle and Plato, those two.
Around the same time, Tim's pep talk reached new, mildly inappropriate heights, as he urged the team to "drive it all the way in," leading certain jokers to comment that the team had never heard him talk that way before. Something about this game was absolutely, positively Freudian. Oracles are troubled individuals.
But back to the game! On a day when the Chicago White Sox hit four consecutive home runs, the Oracles made a little splash of their own, breaking, for the first time this year, the three home run barrier. While, for the life of me I cannot recall who hit the last roundtripper, I do recall that Chase was the proud father of at least two solo shots, and that Andrew gave birth in the 5th inning to a beautiful baby three-run dinger.
But despite the pyrotechnic displays of the Oracles homegrown Hans and Franz, the bottom of the 6th inning came with the Oracles at bat, holding on to a tenuous two run lead (9-7) as the sun was lazily drifting below the rooftops. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a rusted, dull butter knife from pre-World War II Britain. It was that thick. But magic pixie dust must have settled on the Oracles at that point, for their bats lit up like a gaudy Christmas tree, and the Pew's Your Daddy fielders could only shake their heads in dismay and disgust as not one, not two, not three, not four, but five Oracles runs trotted across the plate. With 2 outs in the bottom of the sixth, and the Oracles still sending batters to the plate, Pew's Your Daddy had had enough, and in the deepening night, called for an end to the game. After the poor showing of August 11, the Oracles needed, nay, HAD TO HAVE that win. Nothing less, no "well we tried our best" would do. Victory, or die trying! (for the record, we never took a vote on the dying part, so thank goodness we won).
After the game, the Oracles cracked many ice cold "ice teas" while Molly's faithful companion Stella was in doggie heaven, trying to chase three softballs at the same time. It is impressive that she didn't get whiplash.
Newcomers or Old Faces Seen Once Again: Props to Andrew for reuniting the Bash Brothers (though everyone on the Oracles was a Bash Brother/Sistah last night), Sean Ryan for not pulling any Irish terrorist shit on us (I've seen Patriot Games!), and Kristen for being the clear better half of Roy, while also wielding a wicked bat and a small cannon for an arm. She can patrol our right field any day.
MVP: The MVP goes to Chase for his home runs and his defense, Andrew for being Big Bat Deux, Lucinda for taking crap about her hat and not going postal, and everyone else for contributing to the Oracles best win of the season. Smell that? That's what victory smells like ... or that may be the bacon in my sandwich. Either way, good job!
Golds Gym membership goes to: Adam. Learn to bend with the knees!
Tall tale of the game: Nelson's fish was thiiiisssss big (12 inches... AROUND). Oh wait, he really was talking about a fish.
Drinks of the game: Busch Light + Miller Light + Yuengling + Jack Dan + VO = hijinks!
Friday, August 8, 2008
Oracles Fall to Canons, 13-7
Not since Casey struck out to end the game had Mudville been so depressed. The rumors began to spread from villager to villager soon after dusk on Thursday, rumors so horrible that many considered them to be sheer blasphemy. “The Oracles have lost,” cried one old man before he was set upon by an angry mob of soccer moms. “I hear the score was 13-7 in the other team’s favor,” whispered a little girl to her friends, before a bully buried her in the sandbox. Everywhere, dinners ended abruptly and telemarketers chose to wait to call until a more reasonable hour. Could it be true?
One intrepid TV reporter ventured out in the street to ask for peoples’ reactions; it was a fool-hardy move. He is now in traction at the local hospital. Yet, despite all attempts to suppress discussion, it soon became clear to all but the most stubborn that the Oracles had in fact seen their three-game winning streak come to an abrupt halt.
Let us know look back in time and review how this game, this game that tore a small town apart, came to end in such a tragic manner.
The day of the game, the Field of Dreams was looking a bit shabby. The grass was long, very long. In fact, grass seemed to have grass growing on top of it (R-rated grass on grass action?). Hippie grass, one person called it. Additionally, the field was billowing dirt particles whenever a player took a step; during base-running, clouds of dirt would drift lazily across the field. In contrast to the field, both teams look sharp, very sharp.
It was the Oracles versus the dreaded Tax Court’s team, Colvin’s Canons. While their record was not good, their recent three-game winning streak indicated that they were locked and loaded, ready to deliver opening statements and cross-examine the witness … with a vengeance. The stage for a tough fight was set early, when Tim “I may need someone to run for me, but I do ALL my own talking” O’Neill decided to strike a low blow, telling the Oracles (in a rather loud voice) that tax lawyers were not just scum, that they were the lowest of all scum. And the fight was on …
It was a beautiful night, and the beer was flowing freely. Unlike previous games, the Oracles (and their opponents) remembered how to use their bats to create plays; after the first few innings, Tim was floating in the space between happiness and euphoria as the Oracles hit single after single, marred only by Adam “Ball and Chain” Morgan’s selfish grand slam (way to break up the band, big guy).
After the Oracles fell behind on a Canon’s 3-run dinger, they came back through smart base-running and a little luck to load the bases with 2 outs and Adam stepping to the plate. After one epic swing merely knocked the ball into the dirt at his feet, Adam tapped his bat on his shoes, pointed as if he was calling his shot, and proceeded to swat a monstrous grand slam that cleared the batting cages and put the Oracles back in the lead. After that, the two teams cracked down on defense for an inning or tow, until, it is painful to admit, Colvin’s Canons opened a small can of whoop-ass with a grand slam of their own, taking a 7-6 lead, a lead which they would never give up.
As team captain and token elected official Brianne sadly reported via e-mail later that evening, a report that set off a panic in Mudville, the Oracles eventually lost 13-7 to a solid Colvin’s Canons. It was a respectable loss, but a loss nonetheless. And the toll, oh the cost, of the loss to the citizens of Mudville. Hours after the game, the town’s widespread discontent translated itself into a series of small, pointless brawls that soon turned into a massive fight that left five dead, 32 wounded, and a town torn apart by the agony of defeat.
Luckily for the Oracles, they missed the violence, as they were out at the Pour House, doing what they do best, drinking. They will live to play (and win) again.
Thumbs up go to: Brittani. She doesn’t get to play with the Oracles that often, but when she does, she makes the most of it. Special recognition and Web Gem status for her over-the-shoulder snag of a line drive while playing shortstop.
Thumbs down go to: Amy, for confusedly remarking that Brittani was Adam’s girlfriend, while Sam stood next to Amy looking confused.
Thumps up go to: The beautiful Delicia to Adam double play. There was magic in that relay.
Thumbs down go to: The team comedians. The tax jokes were atrocious. No jokes should ever be made in a sports context about audits or missing filing deadlines.
Thumbs up go to: Nelson, for bragging about his unwashed clothing (3 months and counting, he claims).
Thumbs down go to: Nelson, for wearing unwashed clothing.
MVP: Adam. The man hit a selfish grand slam, and we can’t condone that sort of “me me me” spirit, but hell, he’s engaged!
One intrepid TV reporter ventured out in the street to ask for peoples’ reactions; it was a fool-hardy move. He is now in traction at the local hospital. Yet, despite all attempts to suppress discussion, it soon became clear to all but the most stubborn that the Oracles had in fact seen their three-game winning streak come to an abrupt halt.
Let us know look back in time and review how this game, this game that tore a small town apart, came to end in such a tragic manner.
The day of the game, the Field of Dreams was looking a bit shabby. The grass was long, very long. In fact, grass seemed to have grass growing on top of it (R-rated grass on grass action?). Hippie grass, one person called it. Additionally, the field was billowing dirt particles whenever a player took a step; during base-running, clouds of dirt would drift lazily across the field. In contrast to the field, both teams look sharp, very sharp.
It was the Oracles versus the dreaded Tax Court’s team, Colvin’s Canons. While their record was not good, their recent three-game winning streak indicated that they were locked and loaded, ready to deliver opening statements and cross-examine the witness … with a vengeance. The stage for a tough fight was set early, when Tim “I may need someone to run for me, but I do ALL my own talking” O’Neill decided to strike a low blow, telling the Oracles (in a rather loud voice) that tax lawyers were not just scum, that they were the lowest of all scum. And the fight was on …
It was a beautiful night, and the beer was flowing freely. Unlike previous games, the Oracles (and their opponents) remembered how to use their bats to create plays; after the first few innings, Tim was floating in the space between happiness and euphoria as the Oracles hit single after single, marred only by Adam “Ball and Chain” Morgan’s selfish grand slam (way to break up the band, big guy).
After the Oracles fell behind on a Canon’s 3-run dinger, they came back through smart base-running and a little luck to load the bases with 2 outs and Adam stepping to the plate. After one epic swing merely knocked the ball into the dirt at his feet, Adam tapped his bat on his shoes, pointed as if he was calling his shot, and proceeded to swat a monstrous grand slam that cleared the batting cages and put the Oracles back in the lead. After that, the two teams cracked down on defense for an inning or tow, until, it is painful to admit, Colvin’s Canons opened a small can of whoop-ass with a grand slam of their own, taking a 7-6 lead, a lead which they would never give up.
As team captain and token elected official Brianne sadly reported via e-mail later that evening, a report that set off a panic in Mudville, the Oracles eventually lost 13-7 to a solid Colvin’s Canons. It was a respectable loss, but a loss nonetheless. And the toll, oh the cost, of the loss to the citizens of Mudville. Hours after the game, the town’s widespread discontent translated itself into a series of small, pointless brawls that soon turned into a massive fight that left five dead, 32 wounded, and a town torn apart by the agony of defeat.
Luckily for the Oracles, they missed the violence, as they were out at the Pour House, doing what they do best, drinking. They will live to play (and win) again.
Thumbs up go to: Brittani. She doesn’t get to play with the Oracles that often, but when she does, she makes the most of it. Special recognition and Web Gem status for her over-the-shoulder snag of a line drive while playing shortstop.
Thumbs down go to: Amy, for confusedly remarking that Brittani was Adam’s girlfriend, while Sam stood next to Amy looking confused.
Thumps up go to: The beautiful Delicia to Adam double play. There was magic in that relay.
Thumbs down go to: The team comedians. The tax jokes were atrocious. No jokes should ever be made in a sports context about audits or missing filing deadlines.
Thumbs up go to: Nelson, for bragging about his unwashed clothing (3 months and counting, he claims).
Thumbs down go to: Nelson, for wearing unwashed clothing.
MVP: Adam. The man hit a selfish grand slam, and we can’t condone that sort of “me me me” spirit, but hell, he’s engaged!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Oracles Beat Bass 6-2, Now Ranked #10
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.
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 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
Friday, June 27, 2008
Oracles Fall to Margin of Terror, 9-3.
Click here for a pre-recap pep talk …
Now, let’s face the facts, Oracles. We lost. We lost legitimately. There was nothing funny, or evil, or zany about the game. In fact, I’m at a loss right now on how to recap this game. That’s why I threw in the link above, to distract you from the pedestrian nature of this recap (thanks Peyton, for having my back. I was worried Dana was going to stab me for the lateness of this posting).
First, let’s start with the good. Oracles showed up on time and in significant numbers, carrying with them loads of enthusiasm and good cheer. We got plenty of warm-up in the field and at the plate, and overall comported ourselves in a very professional manner. Except for two innings of close calls and lucky hits, we shut the Margin of Terror machine down.
Unfortunately, for the second time in a row, our bats, normally ever so mighty, were silenced. Part of it could have been due to the very competent fielding of MoT, and part of it may just have been due to Tim’s absence – I’m not pointing fingers, but there seemed to be a lot of people failing to hit singles and score runs … cough, cough, Mary Beth and Stella.
I would venture a guess that the sheer amount of time the Oracles had to prepare for the game utterly messed up our mojo. The Oracles don’t PRACTICE. We don’t PREPARE. And we certainly don’t BEHAVE. What makes the Oracles far better on the field than we look on paper is that certain indescribable scrappiness and tenacity (je ne sais "fuck it?") that we bring to the field by showing up late and getting rowdy and drunk. How many teams have anything closely resembling Tim and his prodigious heckling abilities? How many teams have a dog trying to catch every ball? How many teams, I ask, patented the shotgun beer rally to win games?!
We are like the Bad News Bears with the ability to win on a regular basis (I haven’t actually seen that movie, so I don’t know if they ever win. Pretend they don’t). Hell, screw the Bad News Bears. We are like the Clint Howard of softball. No one can figure out why or how we win, but we … just … keep … getting … it … DONE.
So forget about the 9-3 loss. Remember that we play games our way on our field. That means we don’t warm up, we drink heavily, and we hit singles or whatever else will score runs. We’re off next week, but when we come back after the 4th of July, I want the Oracles to strike another blow for American independence and win another game. If we all don’t shape up and win more games on our home field, I’ll be starting a future recap with this sad, sad, depressing video
Now, let’s face the facts, Oracles. We lost. We lost legitimately. There was nothing funny, or evil, or zany about the game. In fact, I’m at a loss right now on how to recap this game. That’s why I threw in the link above, to distract you from the pedestrian nature of this recap (thanks Peyton, for having my back. I was worried Dana was going to stab me for the lateness of this posting).
First, let’s start with the good. Oracles showed up on time and in significant numbers, carrying with them loads of enthusiasm and good cheer. We got plenty of warm-up in the field and at the plate, and overall comported ourselves in a very professional manner. Except for two innings of close calls and lucky hits, we shut the Margin of Terror machine down.
Unfortunately, for the second time in a row, our bats, normally ever so mighty, were silenced. Part of it could have been due to the very competent fielding of MoT, and part of it may just have been due to Tim’s absence – I’m not pointing fingers, but there seemed to be a lot of people failing to hit singles and score runs … cough, cough, Mary Beth and Stella.
I would venture a guess that the sheer amount of time the Oracles had to prepare for the game utterly messed up our mojo. The Oracles don’t PRACTICE. We don’t PREPARE. And we certainly don’t BEHAVE. What makes the Oracles far better on the field than we look on paper is that certain indescribable scrappiness and tenacity (je ne sais "fuck it?") that we bring to the field by showing up late and getting rowdy and drunk. How many teams have anything closely resembling Tim and his prodigious heckling abilities? How many teams have a dog trying to catch every ball? How many teams, I ask, patented the shotgun beer rally to win games?!
We are like the Bad News Bears with the ability to win on a regular basis (I haven’t actually seen that movie, so I don’t know if they ever win. Pretend they don’t). Hell, screw the Bad News Bears. We are like the Clint Howard of softball. No one can figure out why or how we win, but we … just … keep … getting … it … DONE.
So forget about the 9-3 loss. Remember that we play games our way on our field. That means we don’t warm up, we drink heavily, and we hit singles or whatever else will score runs. We’re off next week, but when we come back after the 4th of July, I want the Oracles to strike another blow for American independence and win another game. If we all don’t shape up and win more games on our home field, I’ll be starting a future recap with this sad, sad, depressing video
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