It's been a while since I blogged at ya'll, my productivity predictably diminished by depression, alcoholism and sexual dysfunction. I'm basically late-stage Eugene O'Neill if he didn't get haircuts and had a Nintendo Gamecube. So consider yourselves lucky that Saturday's game provided us with so much florid suffering that I couldn't NOT write about it. I didn't even write about the 29er game, and that one involved an actual, literal ambulance.
After losing our first two games to various skateboarders and nerds, we went to Crocker Amazon (Crocker? Really? I heard the Brians tried to get Rolph but decided it was "too classy") looking for our first victory since the invention of fire. Our opponents were the Daly
City Brians, a team whose most marked improvement since last year was in the field of "dressing less horribly." I got to the field shortly before the scheduled first pitch and was the only Dealer there, in contrast to the roughly 300 Brians playing catch and doing jumping jacks and piercing each others' ears. Eric, Mickey and Abraham trickled in, and the four of us decided we could take 'em. Abe would pitch, I would catch, Mickey would be a rover, and Eric would handle our money.
The main reason that anti-Semitic joke was terrible is that
none of us have money, least of all Eric.
Eventually enough guys showed up that the prospect of playing baseball evolved from "farce" to "black comedy," and the game was on. Abraham, a vicious woodland creature named for the biblical figure who invented the sneer, took the bump and pitched damn well for a guy who was also named after our gayest president.
Abraham, shown here trying to sell a diseased
sex donkey to a pretty youth.
We got out to an early 2-1 lead, which is rare for us. Our vibe is usually more "failed comeback" than "scoring in the first inning." The Brians managed to score some runs, which I won't get into in detail because when I talk about the Brians I get so bored I have to slam my balls in a drawer just to feel something. Abraham and Jimmy pitched really well. The runs they gave up felt like bullshit. We started scoring for real around the fourth inning, erasing a five or six-run deficit with quality at-bats from the likes of Abraham, Mickey, Jesse, Spoon, me, a couple of elderly Chinese can collectors, pretty much everyone. Team effort. We traded blows evenly into the bottom of the ninth inning, when some guy presumably named Brian made it to third base with one out. Jimmy saved the game by masterfully inducing a pair of popouts, and we headed into extra innings, brimming with confidence from our history of losing every extra-inning game we've ever played.
Mark Moss led off the top of the tenth with a screamer down the third base line, scampering into second like a hungover bunny. (Do bunnies get fucked up? Fermented carrots?) Spoon advanced him to third with a perfectly placed grounder to the right side (I was the only one screaming praise at him for this, because I like the little things and am a thoroughly awkward person) and then Mickey smoked a clean base hit to center, which he didn't have to do (a fly ball or slow grounder would have worked) but was nice of him. We went into the bottom of the tenth looking to slam the door on those bluish-gray bags of carbon for our first win of the season, and after their first batter flied out to the sexy hairdo playing center field, things were looking good. But then some bad things happened. The Brians loaded the bases in their typical raggedy horseshit style, and the next batter hit a deep fly to center that got over Jesse's head. The winning run was scored by Elias Perez, a man whose speed is measured in geologic eras.
Please don't kick my ass if you're reading this EJ, despite
my size I am incredibly weak and a noted coward
Jesse ran off the field, jumped on his Harley and drove it straight off the Golden Gate Bridge, landing safely in a newly-installed suicide-prevention net because of course he'd fuck that up too.
Pete Kozma Play of the Game: I'm going to give this space to Mark Moss because he's always great and I don't want to acknowledge that the defensive play of the game was Kyle Smeallie's game-saving (for the Brians) catch of Eric Rosen's super-clutch shoulda-been base hit in the later innings. Kyle looks like Wolverine. I'd post a pic of Hugh Jackman but that just looks like a compliment
Drazen Petrovic Drive of the Game: Eric Rosen's super-clutch shoulda-been base hit in the seventh that got caught by fucking Wolverine
Honorable Mention: Spoon's mammoth blast over the right-fielders head in the I think seventh? Dude was on ABSINTHE at the time. He's like Pete Rose mixed with Arthur Rimbaud and left out in the Nevada desert for a few years. Also, of course, Moss and Mickey's hits in the tenth inning etc.
Roscoe Arbuckle Sad Fatty Moment of the Game: Me failing to take second base on an overthrow because i was too tired and distracted from having to run ninety feet. With Jesse's base hit coming afterwards, it could have won the game for us. Which brings us to the
River Phoenix Sad Prettyboy Moment of the Game: Jesse getting picked off.
Raoul Wallenberg Self-Endangering Act of Bravery of the Game: The great hobbled bear, Andrew Gomez, drawing a walk and playing an inning at first base against the advice of every medical professional in his employ (the quacks AND the real ones)
Mark Moss of the Game: Mark Moss
Rob Spector Sighting: confirmed
Was This All Crizzle's Fault? yes, probably would have won if he was there
STATS COMING TOMORROW
SOMEBODY CHECK ON JESSE
I'M WORRIED
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