Sunset Blueballs: Dealers 14, Nobles 13 (pp'd)

RECAP: Riding a three-game winning streak with visions of the playoffs flickering in our chemically imbalanced heads, we traveled to the cold and dark environs of Crocker Amazon last Wednesday to try to dispatch the Sunset Nobles, a respectable-but-not-particularly-terrifying baseball team. I, like many of us, thought we were going to win. We had momentum, and delusional self-belief; they had customized hoodies from Zazzle.com. Alas, our pitcher (I use the term "pitcher" in the 19th-century sense, when teams carried only one pitcher, because face it, that's our situation) was off his game, and we were in a 12-2 hole after four innings. The Nobles drew several walks with the aid of a thoroughly ungenerous home plate umpire, and also got key hits from the likes of Dave "Frodo" Gardner and Shane "Lil C" Crosby (twitter.com/lilcmurder44), which left us all feeling confused and miserable. But then...WE RALLIED. Taking advantage of the parsimonious strike zone, we chipped away at the hard-throwing but oft-wild Bill Sandberg, and with some bad Nobles defense and a monstrous night at the plate from Crizzle Puff Adams, we came all the way back (and then some) to make it 13-12 in the 7th. The Nobles tied it in the bottom of that frame with an RBI single by Craig "Lumber Pimp" Matoes, but we reclaimed the lead in the top of the 8th when Crizzle doubled off of Dave "Pippin" Gardner and then scored on an error. We had the bases loaded with one out and Justin "Three True Outcomes" Flowers at the plate, but then the fucking lights went out.

All you see is this, and all you feel is

Crizzle's heavy breath on your neck. Then

Will steals your wallet, and the next morning

you're pregnant with Spoon's child.

 

Because the game was tied at the end of the last completed inning, it's a suspended game that may or may not be completed, depending on possible playoff ramifications and however many people share the fundamental belief that THERE ARE NO FUCKING TIES IN BASEBALL. We'll see. I hate night games.

 

PLAYER OF THE GAME: CRIZZ

Google Image result for "Chris Adams"

 

Five hits, four RBIs, and what might have been the winning run if God didn't hate us as much as He apparently does. I tend to play badly in night games. My eyes have weakened irreparably after almost two decades of squinting at computer screens, and I don't see the ball well. Crizzle has no such problem, because he spends his nights tracking and eating small nocturnal animals.

 

PLAY OF THE GAME: MICKEY THOMS, unhappily relegated to the outfield, rushing in on a shallow fly ball with the bases loaded and one out, making an obscene diving catch, and then firing it in to third base to double off the runner. God, that was cool. Let's make this blog even gayer, as if that was possible:

 



 

DRIVE OF THE GAME: Eric Rosen's beeeyootiful 2-RBI line drive in the bottom of the fifth that sailed just over the shortstop's glove, capping off a six-run rally that elevated us from "dejected losers" to "manic fantasists."

Queens.





 

QUOTE OF THE GAME: "A good compromise is when both parties are dissatisfied"-Henry Clay

 

MARK MOSS OF THE GAME: Mickey Thoms