By Mark "Salt and Pepper" Smith
Special Correspondent and Studly Right Fielder
Though it isn’t my strong suit, I am going to try and be brief – for two reasons:
1) I am typing this with one finger (right pinky) because it is the only part of my body that either doesn’t hurt or isn’t numb –
and
2) I want to finish up quickly so I can go watch the late-night rerun of Baseball Tonight and see my catch on Web Gems again.
But I digress. Again… To be brief…
(Note: As the honorary substitute recapper for our fearless leader, I will do all I can to emulate his customary compassion, generosity, and positive outlook – and those who know me will understand that, being the spiritual progeny of Darth Vader and always feeling the tug of the dark side, it will be no easy task for me. But I shall try and look away and walk toward the light.)
So…
We really hit the ol’ cowhide casaba tonight, didn’t we? Really smacked the hell out of the honeydew, huh? And how about them runs? 14 sets of cleats clomping down on the magic pentagram that isn't where home plate is supposed to be but is, as we used to say in the 60’s, close enough for the blues.
14 runs in six innings… That’s 2.33 every turn of the merry-go- round. That puts the other guys’ pitcher’s ERA at a cool, Roger Craigish 21.00! And that doesn’t include the last run we scored in the 6th that the ump decided didn’t count (or, with two guys still on base, the others we would likely have brought around to surely break those chumps’ ungodly spirit and bring them to their arthritic knees.) Yes, as Mikey likes to say – “It doesn’t get any better than that” – with the possible exception of…winning the game. But again – to be brief…
But a moment… About ‘the little run that wasn’t’... It seems that in the off-season the league’s brain-trust (rumor has it, all former General Motors execs) held their annual Donner Party Memorial Rules Meeting and decided that ‘yelling’ on the basepaths by the offensive team would no longer be tolerated because, well, it’s offensive. (I, for one, agree, having felt for some time now that, especially in these sobering, more modest times, making noise at softball games is very much at odds with the serene, kharmic nature of the ritual.) The law being what it is, Jimmy The Pez was called out while swiftly approaching third base and exhorting his slower-footed teammate in front of him to continue his quest toward the magic pentagram (the one that isn’t where home plate should be but is close enough for…well – you get it) at a volume judged to be rude, disruptive and insensitive. Please, my callow compatriots – in the future, take this to heart: Don’t be noisy running the bases. It isn’t nice. There are other children playing, and they may not like it. What’s worse – they may not want to play with you again. Be careful or you may end up like Jimmy The Pez. (‘Mommy, I don’t want to play with Jimmy anymore. He’s loud.’) Sadly, Jimmy is going to have to live with this the rest of his life, and it’s a heavy burden. Trust me, I know all too well from whence I speak. At my eighth birthday party, I emerged the victor at pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and chirped (a little loudly) “I won!” At my ninth birthday party, the only kids who showed up were Boris Silverman, the class geek (who went on to become the assistant CFO of AIG) and my cousin Natalie (whose parents made her come and sat in the corner all afternoon braiding and unbraiding her pigtails.) For my tenth birthday, my parents took me and my sister (“Mom… I don’t wanna go! Marky's loud!”) to see The Parent Trap (Hayley Mills, not Lohan.) Since then, it’s been a constant struggle. Angela Fisher wouldn’t let me get to second base with her, I almost flunked out senior year at Horace Mann, got rejected by NYU and only made waiting-list at Harvard, got fired from numerous jobs, had two ruptured disks, three knee surgeries, lost over forty percent of my hair, developed GERD, got divorced, been in analysis, and became addicted to Cialis (but understand – that doesn’t mean I need it). So, dear, dear boys… I implore you: Be quiet on the basepaths. Respect the rights and audial space of others. Clearly, there will (and should) be no exceptions. If, while legging out a dribbler to the pitcher’s mound, you have a massive coronary episode, lie there in a seemly fashion until 1) someone comes to your aid, or 2) you die, dirty and dusty, but demure. You don’t want to be remembered as the lout wriggling on the ground between first and home screaming “Oh God, my fucking heart!” Think of your kids. You don’t want them to have to live with that.
But again… To be brief… We sure did lash the ol' giant lemon, huh?
Yes, it’s true that half the runs those chondroitin-laced clowns scored were unearned, but in the spirit of our new, tranquil, muted and humble approach to the game, let us look at it this way: I believe most of us increased our chances of going to heaven by doing good works, by being charitable. As it says in the Bible (King Babe’s version) – ‘Consider the willies on the field, how they grow: they toil and spin; and yet I say to you that an error committed is a gift given, that a run unearned is a blessing earned. Let he who casts the first stone wide of the base know that others surely will follow in his path, and that the Lord cares not what misdeeds are done in the name of the game, but that ye do them humbly, and quietly.’ (My italics.)
But I digress.
Now… About that catch. I saw it right off the bat, that it was sinking and slicing toward the line, so I zigged left while I went into fifth gear, and then ---
Wait a sec. SportsCenter’s coming on again. Gotta run.