WEEK #9

wed 8/03: the night the universe can finally be deemed
completely evil yet totally perfect for all future Gods

The Weight of Human Suffering

DEAD YUPPIES: 13
CHAMPAIN JAMMM: 3

This weight is on people’s golden shoulders and behind their pink, remarkable ribs. It is so very old to them, but never ceases to add on a new kind of bad. This suffering spreads to all around it, to those who try to help the suffering and are accused of defeating them, to the fellow team that is there to play but is accused of being there to berate. This suffering is the suffering of never winning a kickball game. This suffering is the suffering of hating an ump’s call quite often, but having that “bad” call never actually be the determining factor in a one’s loss, never even coming close. Of having a beautiful water balloon launcher that doesn’t send the glitter water to space, doesn’t know that these pink wanderers need to see the stars respond to their fate, tell them that this is an unwalked path in the WKL that they—the chosen ones—are gifted to walk, to teach us from. The gifted ones. They can save us all. Yet we teams continue to beat them, we umps call them out, call other teams runs’, and we never, ever let them win. It is our fault after all, isn’t it? Just as it was the fault of the citizens that Jesus was tied up to a cross and killed miserably, killed like a fucking street dog in Tijuana. Are we disregarding the chosen ones, who come before us every week with a new kind of sweetness, the peach scent of their crafts permeating our air with their willingness, their utter fucking willingness to taunt? Jesus’ willingness brought him to the wood, the wormy useless bark that would throw a fire, cause hunger for the evening, perhaps force a child to starve. We people of the state congregate in our own circles of 9 as we ascend up the playoffs list (well, not my team), kill those below us with a kindly “good game.” If you were really listening to the fire in the air this night, the charred wormy wood in the blood of the Chosen meeting their sweat, you hear their responses underneath their responses:

“good game” (yeah right)
“good game” (I hate you)
“good game” (but it wasn’t)
“good game” (it never has been)

You see, because in every skin level interaction they will be protocol, but it is something deep in their blood that is screaming the wrongness of the universe, the terrible, terrible indifference. So as I write this after a night of not sleeping, of my heart combusting with rage and misunderstanding of their losses, my hands shaky in a dark room with only St John of the Cross’s poems to hold onto, contemplating their state of communication after their games (which might I say have been more and more heartbreaking and harsh) I ask you you fucking un-chosen wretched creatures, is it our fault that they are losing? That they have lost all along?

Jesus’ death was a gift. A surrender to the human cause, a necessary beginning in the Western world for a one of the Western World’s most defining powers. It was not the people who killed Jesus, it was the God who started his religion.

The Champain Jammm is the beginning of growth, the flower bud’s first plan of attack on the sun. It is the start of something that will take our whole lives to overcome. And they don’t even know it. They didn’t even see the awe and shyness of the Dead Yuppies, the absolute envy. Who cares about being on top of the humans when that is a fucking mole hill? I hope CJ exist in WKL forever. Just look at the old sufferers, the Pirates. Just look at them not suffer now. Now they are a religion of the WKL. And so are CJ.

Kill me with glory and see how the sorrow
of love is only cured by the sight of the lover.
I live, but not within myself,
in hope I now begin to die
because I know I will not die.

—St John of the Cross

The new Religion

spreads over cars

PIRATES:11
EL CAMINO: 8

El Camino? Are they mere mortals? Why, they started out on top last year, winning every game in the regular season, whining like you wouldn’t believe. And this year they don’t whine, they barely win, and they have abandoned their suffering. Instead of forcing a path of the Chosen on themselves they have decided to do what some teams can never do—actually see what is good about where they are at in the league. Their place creates all other places. So does your place. So I tried to force something on them; I thought I could mess with these Chosen that El Camino play. I thought that if I could not help the CJ win, if their path was so distinctly carved out in the universe, then I would try to cheat this team called the Pirates. A Pirate ran towards third, slid belly first, like the suffering salmon in Ballard on their way to their sex-filled deaths, and he stopped short. His hand didn’t reach. But then the dust tangoed in the air, brought up from his powerful belly, and his hand was disguised. Did it reach the base after that? I don’t know. And I didn’t care. I took the protective dust as God’s mocking me with his Chosen, their round peaceful bellies and spirit-filled intestines. I called him out. For fun, I did it. And it didn’t matter, just as nothing has ever mattered in a Champain Jammm game besides their own playing. These two teams have the paths that we mere earth walkers cannot step on. You think El Camino had a fucking chance? Oh I wanted them to win—I wanted to see some humiliation and surrender plowed into the Pirates. Stupid me—I have forgotten the deserts the Pirates have wandered through the first two years in order to get to this place. The humiliation they have already suffered. And did they ever bitch, scream at the mortals “can’t you see we are good, good people?” No. Why would they care? The lovely secret to the Pirates that many people don’t know this year is that they have lost more than any team—they know loss and suffering greater than that head shot you might have tried for but didn’t get, that bunt that just hit your foot a second time, that time you didn’t tag up but said you did. That’s nothing. That is human concern. The Pirates are on a path more righteous than bullshit.

Corn

I am the corn quail.
What I do is quick.
You will know only
the muffled clucking,
the scurry, the first
shiver of feathers
and I will be up,
I will be in your
head with no way out,
wings beating at the
air behind your eyes.

—James McMichael

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thurs 8/4: The night of fucking delivery!

How many runs can one

grown woman take?

DANGER MOUSTACHE: 23?
LOVE: 11?

Look. I don’t know how many runs were scored. They just kept coming in. I tried to keep counting but how many runs can a grown alcoholic keep up with? The Danger Moustache fucked the Love hard. The wonderful Love, who it seems this game lacked their special oomph. I heard from a little red devil that they were throwing the game because they don’t care anymore. I don’t think that was true for all of them, but I say once the Love get their mojo juice back, they will get their insane base running back. I hope it is soon, by next season. And their opponents? The Danger Moustache never tire. The Danger Moustache are after the prize. The Danger Moustache are willing to die for kickball. Will they kill you? I would be willing to make a small bet on it. And this is how they will kill you—with kindness. They will always give you the benefit of the doubt on a call that favors your team because they don’t fucking care—they know you will die whether or not you get that one measly call that makes you feel a little safer. And they will never be assholes to you. What about the screaming, you say, in this game against the Love where they yelled “hate, hate, hate the Love”? Well, I say that was simple semantic play, a verbal game of using opposites. And who do the Moustache really yell at? Each other. Every time one of them fucks up, the team yells “you suck!” on the sidelines. Is this done out of hatred? No—it’s done out of play. Play, play, play. This is something these people can do. You’ve seen the drinking, the thongs, the babies, right? P-L-A-Y. Even Ben asked me to yell at them more. Why? Because these cyborgs lack the ability to care about what others think about them. And I did yell. I brought someone from their team back to third base when Ben yelled on the sidelines “I got it” to confuse the Love. Wait—wait—they aren’t cyborgs. When you see them after the games in dark corners, you see a group of boys with sensitive boners, constantly broken hearted sweethearts whose surface-level hijinks are all about play, but whose insides are all mushy and lovey-dovey. I guarantee all their hearts get broken at the final party. Sho nuff.

A tasty treat of shots

and re-match!

PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS: 8
DARKSIDE: 7

Can I please tell you how much I love the Darkside? And it has nothing to do with their playing. It has to do with their incredible etiquette. The two sista captains (Heidi and Amy) always bring a tasty treat. And it’s never the same. This week it was shots in cute little cups, cookies, and suckers. They also brought report cards for the Private School Punks. Yes, I love their constant sugary surprise and their dolling out treats like loving mothers. Will you be my mother? My real mom is at the tanning salon. Yes, I love them. Yet, I was elated that they lost. It is not that they lost—it is because of how they lost. Here is the situation: bottom of the 5th, PSP last chance (which never gets used this season) and the Darkside are confident. They have been ruling the game. The Private School Punks need 3 runs to tie, 4 to win. Two outs. They fucking beat the Darkside. THIS IS INCREDIBLE. And these teams will be playing each other Saturday. What an exciting way to start off the day. A fucking RE-MATCH. The Private School Punks are learning from their past mistakes and starting to win in exciting ways. I can’t wait until Saturday. The suspense is killing me. And can I just remind all of you that the PSP have a team half men, half women, and the women fucking rule? They make incredible plays, are fast, and look sexy town. After the game I saw one of them making out with Juice Box from the DM, and switch pretty little skirts with them. This team too will always be good to play, always be good to umps, and always give your middle a little something to get warm from.

Except cap’n Bud. WHO IS AN ASSHOLE! See that lovely kickballers? That’s called humor, subversion, joking, laugh-tastic. You better fucking learn it by Saturday or else you are going down with an ump’s shoe. Be good to each other, your volunteers and those behind the mikes. Otherwise you’ll get mocked by people over speakers, guarded by a fence. Mean joking is always fun. Being mean is not.

WEEK #8

WEDNESDAY 7/27:

A LETTER TO THE MAYOR

OF BOR-ING TOWN, USA

DEAD YUPPIES: 4
KUNG FU STREET HUSTLERS: 2

Dear Mr. Boring of Boring Town,

I know you have a hard job running a whole town. But I don’t care that much because I have to visit it. Often. I am writing to ask that you please pave over the giant gaping assholes that block the road to Funville on Main St. This would be much appreciated as driving around all those assholes can be time consuming and tedious, as they are all over the road that EVERYONE has to take to enter or exit town. I ask that this removal be quick and done without any further trouble, optimistically before next week’s town meeting in the main courthouse, but certainly before the town’s big parade Aug. 6th.
If this measure is not taken, then I can guarantee you will be in serious trouble the day of the parade. I am only a lonely fisherwoman but I have certain people at my disposal that will be the ones doling out your campaign funds, or might I say, not doling them out on the day of the parade. And by the way, if any of the residents of Bor-ing Town want to participate in Funville’s nightly shenanigans, please join us. Please see the following letter for examples. Since we all share the same county, it is ridiculous to not know each other. Especially if you are winning the championship game on a league full of friends. Oh—I mean—uh...using the same library.

smiling with a keen eye,

Mayor, Funville, Sarah Heston

A LETTER TO THE CITIZENS

OF FUNVILLE, USA

DANGER MOUSTACHE: 9
EL CAMINO: 3

Dear populace of Funville,

Thanks so much for the good time the other night. You had no idea that I had just driven through Bor-ing Town in peak rush hour. AND I had to drive a bus full of our citizens through it on my campaign trail. It sucks to be on a road bumpy with so many assholes that it makes you never want to go back—especially when those assholes are disregarding your tires, gas mileage, and eventually you as a volunteer driver and your passengers as equal citizens. Those assholes are really deep in the road that we all share. Anyway, I’m not going back ever. I’m staying in Funville where our town meetings invoke lively debate, ironic taunting, and never actual meanness or over-sensitivity to something as small as bouncy ball—I mean a new stop sign. And after the meeting, being able to go out to Irene’s Diner together and drink meade, see each other’s genitals, discuss the more important things in our lives besides our town—our art, our bands, our families, the boy and/or girl we want to rub against before the season is over, is just wonderful. Thank you for being kind to your town officials, your mayor, and most importantly, the citizens that come over sometime from Bor-ing Town. I wouldn’t have you any other way. You are amazing.

smiling with something exposed,

Mayor, Funville, Sarah Heston

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THURSDAY 7/28: THE 3 GAME FUN FEST!

NO-WAVE VS. TEENY-PUNK

PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS: 15
HELL TOUPEE: 9

NOT A WHINER IN SIGHT

PIRATES: 11
DARKSIDE: 6

KEEGAN COULD HAVE TAKEN

IT ALL WITHOUT THEM

DARKSIDE: 10
HELL TOUPEE: 1

I don’t really know what to say about these three games. I wrote titles hoping they would guide me, but they haven’t. I’ve tried to think of how what I’m reading right now might guide me but it hasn’t. This night was awesome. 3 games of jello shots, taunting, BBQ, shared dugout, commish impersonation, and absolute drunken fun. Everyone played without a care of actually winning. People did win. But who cares when you have a bloody knee that you are pouring vodka over while someone naked is taking a picture of you and your genitalia is exposed? That is the real magic, and after last night’s crappy game, is was good to be a part of this and know that this is what will always be prevalent in this league. I’d rather not obfuscate this night with critical theory and poetry. This shit was good stuff for every personality present. And what happened after everyone left to their respective bars? Look for the final party invite in your email boxes soon to see the photos.

I love you all like a motherfucker.

WEEK #7

WED 7/20: THE TOUGHEST DAY OF CALLS EVER!

The old colonial gift,

or climbing the other’s range

DARKSIDE: 4
LOVE: 3

As I arrived on the field, I knew it was a day of reckoning. Each team would be calculating if they could get into the playoffs (because the top 6 teams are in this year), or if they would be lost to that horrible place known as the middle: Safe. Boring. The C STUDENT. And the field, alight with the blaring sun and dust clouds, as if from the Cochise Stronghold, not the ocean, a wind that told white men to back the fuck down the mountain because Cochise never gave in until the very end. The field seemed to be whispering from those who would not enter the Rez, red woman, it’s time to struggle your education. Then my eyes fell on the lines, the lack of white chalk lines, and I thought upon seeing the smeared barely visible white dust yes, the white man will fall. I come to sit in the sun about an hour before each game, testing my Estonian knees in the new land, always wondering the exact second white skin burns before the enflamement shows. It burned this day, but the exact second before was not found. And we three umps smoldered like confused colonial hearts. How was it that each team played with such stealth, equal only to each other, and so many catches coincided with a foot on the base? An old earthly thing focused itself on a small white square with such deliberation, sucking our bodies towards our future at too much of the same time, making my heart mourn: slow us all down—we are moving together fast. There is never really a “tie” moment on the field, ex-commish Todd proclaimed as he stood with me in the humiliating sun, my fascist id reminding me that I must make a call and he/it would yell at the chosen for me. There were so many almost ties on the field for this game though, that it came down to what line ump JT, guest ump Todd, and mostly I decided to call it. As we left the field later, my head racing from what had happened, the possibilities of the future if the game had been called—even once—differently—Todd approached me, me wearing my red face with uncertainty about what I have control over, perhaps what in the world I fool myself that I control, and looked me in my eyes, his mouth speaking as my cultural comrade:
the outcome is right because it feels right.

And this is the oldest colonialism.

In the Serviceman’s bar that night, nobody was bad and the night turned
noisy and incidental to the long run.—James Welch

The O/Oh is hardest to know

KUNG FU STREET HUSTLERS: 5
PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS: 4

How many losses does it take to truly surrender? What if one surrenders for the first loss and transcends beyond the ordinary state of ego affairs only to face a loss again? Does one bring the maturity and acceptance of the first surrender to face this new loss or does one have to create a new maturity to allow oneself to surrender again? It is isolated ignorance that people possess with such fierceness that makes them believe that their enlightenment is a progressive process. Enlightenment is not a hill to climb with a hilltop—it is a rolling desert of mountains and hills where the peace and surrender of ego only comes temporarily; luckily the confines of ego are only temporary also. And so it is with the Private School Punks, having to learn and then re-learn losing, for how can they go on to a win without knowing the loss before them? The Kung Fu Street Hustlers appeared to me in the beginning of the season to be almost a non-team, barely anyone there, barely a costume, sure—I thought—to lose and take the place of the filler team that allows people to win something and move up the WKL ladder. Yet, with every one of my criticisms (comical criticisms if I do say so myself), they changed minutely. Examples: I say no costume, they show up with small peaces of orange fabric ripped from the same cloth and instantly gain a quiet authority over a uniform identity, I say shut up first baseman, and he shows up the next game with his uniform identity (his headband) wearing the insignia “whispering complainer.” It is an insignia on an insignia, and completely subversive. Is it that this team that I characterized so quickly has been moving through the desert quietly, accepting their hills and climbing their mountains? Yes. They are moving forward in a quiet slow way. And when it is this quiet, this slow, that’s when you know there is movement. The “O” or “Oh” that appears in poetry from all the romantic languages is the quiet equivalent to the KFSH. It most often comes at the beginning of a line and grammatical unit, setting a precedence for the rest of the line that everything that comes after the “O” is accepted, whether the author is accepting what he/she hates or loves. Try it Private School Punks—in the next discussion you have as a team, insert the word O before each sentence, each remark. Watch how this letter that has become a word (perhaps a word that was reduced to a letter) creates an internal sigh, humiliates you somewhat by making what you are secretly humiliated about suddenly spoken, and how it reveals in its most powerful moments the passion inherent in your team, in you as a player, as you surrender to the idea that kickball is never about kickball, and your physical failures are never your failures; you will get out of your head, move onto the new. Consider the following last line of this poem, and then the revision of that last line.

The Cauliflower

Her words clot in his head.
He presses himself to remember
And feels the skin peel back,
The skull bleach, crack, fall away.
All that’s left of him is the brain,
Its tissue knotting up to shade him,
The pain of its light pulsing
How to move, O how to move.
--James McMichael

*This is about having testicular cancer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THUR 7/21: SUBVERSION REIGNS!

Their deaths are

ruining our lives

DEAD YUPPIES: 9
PIRATES: 0

What we leave behind after we die are artifacts that speak to our existence. Some may believe in ghosts that “haunt” the living. What if these dead wandering our living world are people who left behind no artifacts to their lives, and are trying to create some after their lives have ended? So it is with the Dead Yuppies. The life of a yuppie is homogenous, bound by a lack of individualizing from a company; a yuppie aligns him/herself with a soulless abstraction that creates an physical artifact only of a building or logo. Then after the yuppie dies, the yuppie realizes that he/she has created no identity. So he/she begins to revision of life after life, coming back to “haunt,” one might say. The Dead Yuppies are haunting us all with their disgusting moaning and unbearable love of Phil Collins. They are leaving artifacts with us and we will remember these people now, not as corporate abstractions but as individuals ripe with blood and life so powerful, that it strips our own away from us. And so this is with the Pirates. Pirates wander the sea, a culture of the disenfranchised that deny human culture, often historically people who carried the blood of multiple ethnicities. Their artifacts are not physical, only mythological, stories that drift from tongues onto various docks, reinserting the disenfranchised into human culture, as if every story were saying: You deny me, I deny your use of artifact—I deny your use of ground to walk on. Perhaps this is why the Dead Yuppies, needing to create a physical artifact, scored 9 runs, and the Pirates, hateful of human ritual, scored no physical runs, only left a story. The most ghastly part of this whole half an hour game is that the Yuppies forced their need to create human identities onto those who wish no identification with humanity. It is like none of us have any choice when we play this team. We will never be able to say I choose to not recognize you. We will always have to experience the lust of a yuppie who has died and frantically desires to place his/her artifact on the living, who is supposed to move all slow and dead, but has a quickening pace. Their lust, humanity, regrets are murdering us. I thought “dead yuppies” was a dumb name at the beginning of the season; now I think it is incredibly subversive and appropriate.

On a long shot, I went searching
for you downtown
when your offices empty at five.
I had my lust to lead me
with its sleepwalker’s stride.
“I was working late,” you’d say.
“If I’m dressed in black, it’s because
I went to a funeral of a friend.”
We’d be voluptuously alone
on a street of tall and dark buildings.
The grand parade of clouds—
with love screaming bloody murder!
--Charles Simic

Keytarded clowns beat

bruisers with merkins

HELL TOUPEE: 12
CHAMPAIN JAMMM: 5

Before this game began, I assumed it would be the longest game with no one scoring ever. This did not happen. And I assumed that it would be the funnest game ever, as both teams seem more concerned with accessories rather than the ball on the field. This did happen. Hell Toupee pulled up with their keytar a-blazing, their megaphone ripe with taunts. And the Jammm, oh the Jammm...they created a giant sign that said “you are keytarded” and taunted the Toupee with crafted merkins (a merkin is a toupee for your gi-gi or wee-wee). Yes. AND the Jammm’s catcher had a shirt with a keytar on it crossed out AND the Jammm handed the Toup’ small definitions of being retarded, or something, I don’t know how to read so I didn’t get it. And did the Toup’ cry? Did they whine, hate the Jammm, get offended? Nope. They took tons of pictures and got keytarded with their dancing and felt blissful that a team taunted them for what was really important to them—NOT KICKBALL. Oh, and they also wasted the Jammm. But the last inning the Jammm did the most fabulous thing—they had two outs and were on the verge of losing. Then they scored 4 runs. This is what is known in kickball as an OH SHIT! The Jammm were slipping and sliding all over the place, accumulating bruises and dirt in their butt cracks, freaking out like beautiful weirdoes. And the Toup’ kept screaming, screaming (I mean me mostly). When I was in the dugout the 5th inning, my team on the field was more concerned that I keep talking in the megaphone than they were with getting the Jammm to suffer. When Lindsey from the Jammm went to be catcher, he was more concerned with dancing around a kicker with a stereo, flashing the kicker a stanky-eye. It was an amazing, colorful, freak show. It was not kickball. Thank God. It was a PHD thesis on subversion in sports. The fact that both teams spent more time on their creations or commentary than they did on strategizing the game or playing the game is a good sign that this league is holding fiercely what it intended to promote from the very beginning, and what it will force more on its players next year. Sure, you will beat both of these teams. And if you love winning kickball then you will be satisfied. But if kickball is a medium for other things to you, like making out, deadline art, taunting, drinking, talking, suffering humiliation, getting over humiliation, playing in bands, learning about more bands, and not playing kickball, then you will leave the act of playing this team with your own artifact. People that freak out at games over kickball—and it is always someone from the team that wins, and NEEDS to win in order to feel good about him/herself—need to spend more time making out and painting. Perhaps making pink merkins with yarn. Call me and I’ll show you how. Your subversion is more important than any of your wins.

In the Serviceman’s bar that night, nobody was bad and the night turned noisy and incidental to the long run. “Dirty bastard,” said Pretty Weasel, and he meant the sun.
--James Welch

WEEK #6

GREEK TRAGEDY, COMEDY OF ERRORS?

WELL, ONE OF THEM HAD TO WIN...

EL CAMINO: 8
HELL TOUPEE: 6

So what happens when the two most apathetic teams on the league play? Well, a game happens. What aren’t El Camino apathetic about though? BEER. I distinctly remember Matty at home plate needing to walk away from the inning because he was too drunk. And no one cared because they are all bound by the alcoholism. El Camino brought Bud on the field with them (but didn’t they have 9 already??? wait—I heard there were some injuries, SUUURRREE) and as we all know, bringing Bud on to help your team means you will win. Not that Hell Toupee cared that much. El Camino are kind of like that dude from the Brady Show. You know, young hot big star, now 30 years later making a “comeback” by being on a reality show or something? Dating a “model” from another reality show? A hot mess, but having little triumphs again because the new generation are recognizing him as that dude from the reality show, post-therapy, able to yoga away the media. Yeah, El Camino are like that—last year they were totally hot as that team, ol-whats-its-name. And now they are having their moments, not very invested in any of it, just here to throw their names around and get some reality show pussy, all while chanting a mantra from Madonna’s yogi. Maybe they are really like retired exotic dancers. Who are gay now, post-therapy. What?

And what are Hell Toupee? Well, they are NOT apathetic about THE KEYTAR. THE FLASKS. THE DRAMA. As Hell Toupee insipidly speak through the megaphone “El Lame-o” and hurl taunts that only speak to their own mistakes, something happens to me...

I feel something besides just kickball.

Oh, but what do I feel, you ask? I belong, like a pig belongs on your breakfast plate. I feel like any horrible mistakes on the field with this team or El Camino are forgiven, and I really feel it when a couple of them start screaming “Sarah, I love your vagina!” Because it came out a little. Sorry. As commish, I dream about kickball every night, talk about it in every bar, write about it every week, and plan my outfits around it on the field. I am kickball. I know every fucking rule that someone argues about with me, I create every major decision for this league, I exert control in situations that create no honor for myself. OHHHHH, but what did I not do that day? Catch the ball, run from 2nd to 3rd when I had to, and take my mistakes lightly. You see, no matter how many rules you know, you still fuck up miserably on the field sometimes (or often) and it’s good to know that your team doesn’t care because you will always hate yourself more than they will hate you. BUT, as Hell Toupee reminded me: “it doesn’t matter what you think of yourself, it’s what others think about you.” Thank you HT—I fucking love my team, and my captain, oh my captain, Andy. He has a mechanical knee. And thank you El Camino for being awesome-town to play this year. The most exciting part of this game is to know that as crappy as HT are on the field sometimes, well, often, they ran like apes on PCP around the bases, keeping the game close until the very end; as I ran into home I remember flying like a breezy hair commercial, and gettin’ ghetto with Craig from the El Camino as I proclaimed “get the fuck of my base sucka”. Lovely Craig was injured. But he still played to the beautiful tragic end. Oh the end, when bad strategy, or lack of it, happened with HT. But did they care?

Caliban: Art thou afeard?
Stephano: No, [you] monster, not I.
--The Tempest

YOU’VE LOST THAT OLD TIMEY CULT FEELING

KUNG FU STREET HUSTLERS: 3
DA LOVE: 1

You are a new person in the WKL. You are talking shit behind the commish’s back as she is umping your game. You are upset and keep talking. You obviously don’t know the WKL rules about whining or what kind of commish-crazy she is. Your captain is telling you to shut up, two umps are telling you to shut up, the game has gone on, AND YOU’RE WINNING, but you wont just play and win. Thanks to line-ump Bud for shouting “Look, if there’s an out, we’ll let you know.” Next time that happens, she will do what her and ex-commish Todd Arkley talk about doing late at night in a bar after chatting about the good things in their lives (it takes them exactly 6.4 seconds to each say MEL): the commish will pull the dude or dudet over to the scoreboard, take the 3 that is up for their team, hold it with a 2 and say “Now lets talk about this.” Then if things go well, she will replace the 3, but it probably wont go well and your team will get a 2. The commish is a sad, sad adult and this is all she has in the world after gaining 217 pounds, and she lost her big toes in a baking accident. And you—oh you!—you are sad if you’re really pissed. The commish loves you. Receive her love from behind NOW. Or at least give her your love from behind...

Hello? Where the hell were all of you? I was expecting this game to be the most confusing because of all the people that would be there. But the teams had so few. Seeing the Love without an army is very sad. I’m not sure if they know how to hug without at least 1,284 people involved. Even the KFSH’s captain Jeff joined in their hugs, not out of strategy, but to fill in the gap a little. I’m going to be honest and say that I wanted the Love to win because they looked so sad over there without a million. And well, they are the WKL’s old-timey cult. This second new-fangled cult coming along with their headbands and ice chests, cars and short-shorts, are upstaging the old-timey skinny snake handlers/bike riders. And I don’t like it much. The Love could take it all if they wanted to—but it seems like they do want to, so what is holding them back? I don’t know. That is what is purely frustrating. They are such a good team, run bases like crazy town. But in this game their kicking wasn’t superb, as they only scored one run, which I don’t ever remember happening for them before. And the KFSH only scored three, so what is going on? I was thinking the final score would be like 20 to 25 or something. I wanted it all—drama, screaming, snake janglin’, beautiful weirdness. And I got a kickball game. And a whispery complainer on 1st base. I would rather have both teams scream in my face with passion and score a shitload of runs and spread their satanic messages than have one person complain about how the other team got a safe on 1st, onlookers sitting like cacti in Tucson, too bored in the heat to move, and unclear about how to care about anything.

As commish I must say that I want the cults of the WKL to propagate their messages and mythic runs all over our lives, leaving a mess of drunken de-programming work for the umps and captains. I had no de-programming to do this game. I felt no urge to stop whatever I was doing and join a side. I felt no cults. KFSH won, yatta yatta, they both played with equal strength yatta yatta, and I’ve lost that old timey cult feeling, sniff sniff. The Love—give me your best, your worst, your reddest messiest game again. KFSH—get your cult on, yo. As a neighbor revved his chopper over and over again, pulling attention away from the game, I thought to myself, let this never happen again cults;

never let the chopper take your stage because this

is your stage.

PEOPLE ARE FUCKING IN THE BACKGROUND!!!

DEAD YUPPIES: 8
PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS: 1

It finally happened. People from the apartments above either 1. had sex or 2. simulated sex.
I understood completely—it is very often that I have to the ol’ http://www.vixencreations.com/store/tristan2.html before I come to kickball.
Especially for this game, when I really expected a fight to the ultimate death. But there wasn’t one.

Dead Yuppies, quickly becoming my pick for ultimate champs, took the Private School Punks from behind with a little bit of the ol’ http://www.vixencreations.com/store/geewhiz.html. And the Private School Punks took it. Last week they lost with such grace and respect. This week they weren’t so happy about it. Captain Bud, who is always the ringer on teams who don’t have enough people, now sits in a old fisherman bar at night slamming a butter knife between his 5 fingers, and when the stab accidentally happens, he feels he deserves it. His old lady stopped making the cherry pie he loves, because he stopped eating it. His cronies at the office are scared at their lunch field trips to the shooting range. But not surprised. Bud took all the money he had after winning that rodeo in Kentucky and moved out here to start a new life for his woman, and himself. He poured that money into the WKL business and now he might have a money pit. If the PSP don’t win a game soon, Bud’s late night visits to the concrete basement, where his “liftin’ cinderblocks” are covered in his blood and toil, will be his everyday hideout. The Dead Yuppies on the other hand are going so far up, and getting creepier and creepier, that I don’t think anyone can stop them. They are like the http://www.vixencreations.com/store/champ.html of the sex toy industry. The biggest hardest thing to swallow.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, WHAT A GOOD GAME!

DARKSIDE: 10
CHAMPAIN JAMMM: 9

On the Darkside Dugout, captain Heidi is alone, without her co-captain Amy, and Taj, big kickball crazy Darksider Taj, is gone, gone. I knew then that Champain Jammm had a chance. But wait. Heidi is wearing a pink cape and pink tights and gold boots and a pink bow. She is mocking the Champain Jammm captain Pam. MOCK-ING. And they put up a sign that said---wait...wait...I can’t read it. Why? Because there is a group of people coming on the field, a coven you might say, wearing tattered rags and hippie/dragonmaster paraphernalia. They have a giant dice (die?). It is 12-sided. They have spoofed Darkside’s Vader theme by making them out to be Dungeon masters. They roll the die, and all scream out what side it has landed on: “DORK.” Champain Jammm 1, Darkside 0. Then the game begins. The Darkside was having a promising season, beating every really good team until last week. And the poor Jammm, like the Pirates of year one, never winning, but so so close. In inning 4 and 5 the Jammm scored 5 runs, creating a lead on the Darkside by 1 point. This Darkside that I thought was sooooo dangerous is getting meeker, less of a force to be reckoned with in space, and more of a fad that I bought into. What is the new fad? SEEING THE JAMMM WIN. I CAN FEEL IT. IT IS COMING SOON. And it almost happened this day. When one of the best on the league barely gets a win from the worst team on the league, either the shit is turning gold or the black mask is a piece of shit. They both played well, so I have a feeling the Jammm are what is changing. Last week they restored my kickball virginity, this week, they made me think of saving up to purchase this little number: http://www.vixencreations.com/store/johnny.html.

That’s right, I went right from restored virgin to smutty mcslutterson in 2 games.

This is why I fucking love the WKL.

Because you all give it to us all right.

...which reminds me, I am planning the Final Party. Where should it be? It is either my huge house in Ballard, or somewhere else that you would like. If you have a suggestion, a house/place, let me know by replying to this email.

REMINDER: Please use cups on the field, do your pot and/or pcp in your car, clean up your trash, don’t give your Captains guff unless its gruffy love, jostle your umps kindly, and wrastle your commish at the final party.

with love and servitude forever until the end of the summer,
commish sarah.

WEEK #5

What happens when you ump for people you are friends with, or Commish for them for that matter? Horror happens. Inside. You see someone sliding into 2nd base who got you a cute Hello Kitty wallet for x-mas, the skin flying off of his elbows to get that base, and you know you have to do it because he is not quite touching the base: you’re out. Or a team captain with a bad back, whose personal struggle you’ve witnessed over the months, who has given you all of her pain meds...you have to ump the game in which her team loses. Or all the people you’ve gotten together with for a decade are on this league—this is hypothetical of course—and you have to tell them not to step over that line, or shut the fuck up and you think I hope he/she/it knows that I’m not doing this because he left me in the motel in Death Valley after I “accidentally” stabbed him with my dad’s old boot knife that I call “Mr. Knife”...then all the phone calls begin after the games are over, the drunken, sad phone calls where an ump or commish—and this is not me, I’m just saying I’ve heard—proclaims how hard it was to make that call or how sorry one feels for the friend’s team for sucking that day, and he/she is sorry about making that person drink alcohol from a league-bought cup when it’s not as cool as the MGD bottle. And how he/she as an ump regrets the day he/she agreed to take the job, because he/she had to be involved in the ego battering of a friend. I’m not saying this is me—it’s just that late at night as I sit in my chair, with my cat, a picture of Todd Arkley above me, looking at me like an ultimate authority figure who knows how I feel but gives no sympathy to me, wearing my pageant sash that reads in lonely gold letters: commish, and my bottle of Ruskki Standard vodka, I could understand how one might feel that way. But I—I...I don’t, really...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday, 7/6

HUSTLERS WIN BY FORFEIT,

EL CAMINO DRINK BY CHOICE

KUNG FU STREET HUSTLERS: fucking win
EL CAMINO: forfeit—fucking lose

As the orange army of KFSH showed up to the field an hour early—I just happened to be walking by, I wasn’t like, hanging out there all day for kickball to start, I thought to myself, what is this? A new cult? Is this the new competition for the Love as the creepiest (because of being the nicest) large group of people I’ve ever seen? Right when I came out from behind the bushes, they offered me a beer and they didn’t even ask what I was doing there—such understanding people, the whole fucking big mess of them. And El Camino, oh apathetic El Camino with no mean words for the umps this year, no desire to take it all, barely there...5 of them showed and as we waited—I waited—no others showed. They lost. So sad really, because after their beating of an undefeated team last week, I thought I would see the slammy come alive in them, an insatiable hunger that can only be calmed slightly by kicking a ball at a stripe of orange fabric—the emotional target manifested in physical reality. Perhaps my desires are getting in my way...anyway, a “fun” game was just played and the El Camino’s fake team won it. I think they could have won it also had one more team member shown up. But there I go again in my fantasy land...I better adjust my sash.

MOUSTACHE WIN—EXPECTED

JAMMM JAM WIN IN THEIR FACES, NOT EXPECTED.

DANGER MOUSTACHE: 14
CHAMPAIN JAMMM: 6

Look. Can you please look at this? The majesty? The peace and chaos? Game starts: a man from the Jammm is dressed as a woman, the Jammm are circling him, they are moving methodically toward the DM, and the DM are serene and interested, and this man is in pain, he falls to the ground with a large lump moving under “his” dress and his team is cradling him. And he gives birth. To a baby Jammm kickball. BUT WAIT. The jammm are pulling out large straws. They are snorting glitter off of the child. They are high off of rainbows and lollipops. The DM are quiet.

At this moment I am holding my mouth, walking away as the amount of love and time put into this taunt is hurting my cold, black heart, and—what’s that?—awakening it also, to the teasing love inherent in kickball that is hard to find in a drippy city like Seattle. I thought this team was going to die like motherfuckers, but the sun broke through the clouds, the Jammm baby was born, and Floyd, cap’n of the DM, was gone. The world became uncertain. The DM started off in the outfield, and the first inning brought them a big fat zero in regards to runs. The CJ got three. Second inning: the DM get two, the CJ get none. I even heard them identify the “hole,” Sky on first base, and keep charging the ball at him. Are you listening to me? The crappiest team in the league held their own against the DM for 2 fucking innings and used strategy. Not many of us can say that. It was the third inning, oh the third, that brought 6 runs for the DM and only 1 for the CJ. And it went on like that, with the DM scoring and the CJ playing better than they have ever fucking played, only making a few minor fumbles. Sadly, when you play the DM, making a minor fumble results in the runners zooming home like cosmic space fire balls. The DM were nice, easy to ump for, like always, and took their taunt well. The CJ were angry, disgustingly needy of the win, full of the slammy and well: really good. That was new.

As I walked away that night, off to eat my fried potatoes and talk with the cook at an old dark bar, I thought to myself, I won’t hide in the bushes anymore—I will wear my sash proudly, I will call my ex-husband on the league a boring-salad, and I will, yes—I will

LOVE THIS LEAGUE WITH

MORE DISGUSTING GOOEY

LOVE THAN IT CAN TAKE.

WE ALL WILL BE

UNCOMFORTABLE.


AND VERY SATISFIED.

A good game can just do that to a commish. It can replace your kickball virginity and make it possible for you to re-learn all over again the sex tricks your older girl friend taught you. That older girl is now in the suburbs with babies and a vacuum.

WE ARE NOT.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, 7/7


THE 4 BEST TEAMS PLAY, AND ALL I GOT WAS

THESE BUMPS ON MY HEAD, LEG, AND SHOULDER

THE CREEPIEST, EERIEST,

SCARIEST GAME EVER!

DEAD YUPPIES: 7
DARKSIDE: 1

As you all know, the Dead Yuppies creep my shit out. Heebie-Jeebie-ville: population Me. And they get creepier as the season goes on. Can someone please kick Larry off the team? The moaning that escapes his giant jaw latches on to my spine and echoes up my vertebrae. Then every last one of the weirdos start moaning and I have to stretch out to keep my muscles from clamming up. And the Darkside—yes, capes freak me out; not because they are like “oh...I’m the cape from evil land” but because they remind me of child molesters. And the fact that this is a space-themed team, my head goes all wacky with thinking about if child molesters are in space, or is Darth Vader really Jacko with a mask? Anyway, this game was SCARY but nonetheless, very exciting, as these are the two best teams, and this was the DY’s chance to shove a loss in the capes of the undefeated Darkside, making them drag home that loss and eat it for dinner. The Darkside must have been very hungry because they fucking lost. And as Taj from the Darkside says, “We lost by errors.” This is what bothered him the most as he sat atop a bench with his sweat-soaked cape and sullen helmet. This is what actually made me the happiest; I thought the Darkside would take it all and win everything and never lose, and at this game I was surprised. They fucked up. They got a shit load of outs from players not tagging up and fly balls. A girl that weighs half the amount of the ball caught a hard kick from a Darksider that turned her body 360 degrees, and they hit the ump in the ear with a ball (I’m assuming this was a mistake). Being surprised is the best gift a team can give an ump or commish, and I think each other. That doesn’t mean I want to be hit in the head again. Let us return to our recently deceased friend Jacques Derrida, who says meaning exists in its differance`. The DY are only winners because the Darkside—for the first time—are losers. And the Darkside can only feel the unbelievable surrender of a loss because the Yuppies won. To be a good team, you must know that unbelievable surrender with your deepest, wildest insides. Thank the Kickball God this incredible team got this loss just as the DY got a loss—they are both now closer to the rest of the league, and closer to the suchness of kickball—closer to the critical theory and Blues, and of course, the SLAMMY. In order to know the win you got to dig the loss:

In order to love I must disparage—Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse

THE DIFFERANCE` AN INNING CAN MAKE,

OR

WHO AM I SLEEPING WITH?

PIRATES: 9
PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS: 4

2 more incredible teams, another opportunity to hit the ump with the ball. Thanks for the attention guys, but next time just slap me on the ass like in the normal assaulting world. I’ll take it better and probably buy you a drink for doing it. You see, kickball is how I have the sex in daylight hours. With you. And probably your partner on your team. And your friend, and your opponent. So don’t hit me with the ball when I’m giving you the business—I’m trying to concentrate on lovin’ you! Geez...okay, this is another game where the winner could be either incredible team. But as we know, the Pirates are the changing team, like the kid deciding which emotional path to take in an after school special—go to church? or TESTIFY with his girlfriend in the woods. The Pirates are getting better and better, and getting more competitive and filled with the DESIRE TO BAPTIZE EACH GAME LIKE SNAKE HANDLERS IN MISSISSIPPI. And they did. What won this game? One fucking inning! The Pirates got no runs except in the 3rd inning. 9 runs that is, very close to the mercy 10. The PSP, always good, scored runs in 2 innings this game. They kept bringing each other down like fire in the woods brings down the trees. The 3rd inning the PSP got a little sloppy, and the Pirates got a little better, and there you go. Since the PSP decided to wear Pirate shirts to mock them (uh, this is the nicest mocking I’ve seen, and the PSP conducted “pirate school” before the game) it was hard to tell what was happening and who was doing it. I felt like I was giving the business to the same person over and over again. The PSP, clearly losing after the 3rd, were so fucking awesome about it. They kept screaming “this is bullshit!” in the friendliest way, subverting the kickball character who loses and turns into a fucking asshole. They brought out beer for me, perhaps trying to cloud my vision or catch up with the extra loving the Pirates got for bringing me beer, and generally enjoyed losing more than any other team I’ve seen. I had no idea who was who by the end of the game, as they all looked alike and were all just, well, playing. BUT, there is one way I distinguished the PSP—I love the team that loves losing more than I love a team that loves winning. Appreciating the opportunity to make your team and your character more complex, surprise others and yourself, is why masochism has a sexy, sexy place in kickball. SEXY TOWN---POPULATION: PSP. The same Barthes adage applies here, but lets just give another wording of it:

excuse me if I break
my own heart.
It was mine from the finish, I guess
it was mine from the start.—Adams

WEEK #4



Wednesday 6/29: 3 Games of Philosophy

I’LL TAKE A HEADBAND, HOLD THE GLITTER

KUNG FU STREET HUSTLERS: 10
CHAMPAIN JAMMM: 6

The blinding sun was pure joy to me this day. How I’ve missed you all. And this game was the perfect return for me from Russia, as I have not seen the KFSH as a full team and the Jammm are always fun to be around, as glitter floats in the air around their fairy stompin’ steps, and the dust cloud they create is more like the majickal glow of time travel. KFSH headbands are so authoritative, so certain. How can something like a wrap of orange fabric create such calm and attention to the irrational field? I think these headbands are not chi creators as much as “slammy blockers” (If you are not familiar with my slammy reference, the “slammy” is the drugged out love/hate feeling that kickball creates, similar to slamming the heroin). CJ are all slammy. They are emotionally invested, scurrying to learn what spot they should have on the field, and they have a tall pink woman bossing them around, similar to drug bosses in Chumash lore. They are good infielders, have good kickers. But KFSH are also quick infielders. The difference in this game is the KFSH’s ability to keep a stronger, calmer, slammy blocking outfield. I suggest to the CJ that the next time one of them see this banded family, pull off that shit and see if the slammy sets in. Give them a little of your emotional mojo. Each team had an alleged head shot in this game, but in fact only one was a head shot. A woman on the KFSH was running toward first when a ball brushed the side of her, lightly, and she wasn’t already at the base or tied with it. This is not a head shot. No one went “ow,” it didn’t hit her head, it bounced around her happy head area. This is a head shot—Courtney from CJ ran home, and was hit on the side of the head over his ear while his foot touched the base. Not only does tie go to the runner, but he was hit and people went “ow.” Of course neither of these people cared—it was the teams who tried to profit. And only one did, but no avail.

MEN AND WOMEN TOGETHER ?

OR ONE IN THE SHADOW OF ANOTHER?

These next two games’ write ups will be an engaging discussion between Maude, the Baptist rich Republican, and Olio, the thoughtful commish of the Tibetan kickball league. They were brought together by me because I think some different perspectives need to be heard about these 2 games, and my email box as well as my ear on the field, has been ringing with the league’s comments.

ETHICAL TOUPEES,

STANDARD MOUSTACHE PRACTICE

DANGER MOUSTACHE: 13
HELL TOUPEE: 0

Maude: You know Olio, I loves a summer day with some nice sportin’, but the names of these teams makes me alittle un-cozy in my Jesus heart. They don’t sound very Kurshtin. But I do like that doll the Toupee had, he was cute.
Olio: Well Maude, I think that might be the problem. He is cute, and going against a good team with cute is not very threatening. You must be honest about your fears of an opponent before you can walk with fear as a bridge to your opponent’s weakness.
Maude: What in da Lord’s green earf you talkin’ ‘bout, son? I’m gointer teach you a lesson right here. Now that Moustache team is a good Kurshtin bunch with no weakness ‘cause they be runnin with da lord—der women be supportin’ the mens from da sidelines, lookin perty and bringin’ chilrun’ in da world to praise da Lord above; that Toupee is a bad patch of Satan wif der gals runnin’ all over, switchin out places wif der men folk like men and womens hold the same place wif der bodies, can play together, and I don’t see no disciples of da Lord being made wif women like dat. The lot of ‘em probably never gettin’ hitched.
Olio: Okay Maude. I don’t think the Moustache are Christian people, and Hell Toupee switch players out because if you have players show up to play, they should play. If a tiger’s mouth can speak with ferocity and shake its tits at the mouse, then the Tiger should enter the field where the field mouse plays, not just circle around it and taunt. If the Tiger truly believes he is killing the mouse, then he needs to actually be in the same physical space as the mouse, otherwise the mouse may be dead—sure—but only by other Tigers, or its own stupidity, never by the taunting Tiger on the sidelines. The taunting Tiger is strong, exhibits stealth, and takes its calls in life (in this case from an ump) with such ease, so why shouldn’t it kill the mouse by facing it?
Maude: You be crazy in da head to be talkin’ wif a lady bout Tigers like dat. I didn’t start havin’ chilrun’ at 17, runnin’ the childcare by 18, and full of the Lord always, to put myself in positions to be talking ‘bout no Tigers. What I really want to talk about is the Lord’s army, the Moustache. They scored 13 runs like they gat da angel wings, and da Toupee scored none. They scored nathin’ cause dey got Satan in der veins wif all doz ladies trampin’ round wif out mens, takin da men’s place. Don’t tell Maude it’s ‘bout playin all ya players, ‘cause Maude knows it’s ‘bout playin da men’s and supportin da men’s. Why I’m a little un-cozy wif da fact dat the Moustache let der ladies kick at all, and have dat one lovely lady out der alone in the field. Dey need a new baptism.
Olio: You know Maude, I think in this case you are right. It is about men and women on the field because the Moustache makes it about that. For any other team it is just about making all players play. After realizing this, I too am a little unsettled that the women of the DM kick at all. Are you a philosopher also?
Maude: Don’t twist my words boy. I know ‘bout signifiyin’. And those gals are good people.

QUIET AND KICKASS, LOUD AND JUST KICKING?

DANGER MOUSTACHE: 11
PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS: 6

Olio: Those “gals” as you crassly refer to the women of the ‘Stash are not just good, they are capable, and great kickers. So they should play the field. Even captain Floyd tried to persuade them to get on the field, but he said they didn’t want to. The ump yelled “get on the fucking field” and no one moved. It was a very odd minute, and it seemed like the destiny of changing this policy was about ready to burst. Not, of course, before the DM scored a shitload of runs and kept their winning streak, an hour old, on the up and up.
Maude: They won because dey know da Lord’s rules for us lowly types—you just look at doz gals of da Moustache with der perty hair and ‘s-portive words for da mens, their combativ’ words for da Satan mongers Private School Punks, and compare dat to the hell vixens from the PSP. I don’t believe in Private school meself; all that good education and what-not can make a gal snotty—just look at those ladies from PSP. Quiet as mice—not one s’portive scream for der mens, catching balls on the field dat de mens should be workin’ for, and I guarantee you not one of dem gointer get hitched. They look perty, sure, but all this runnin’ round like a man, trading out spaces like mens and womens have de same spots in life, is pure sin.
Olio: Well, Maude, being pure sin must work a little bit because their outfield is pretty strong, scoring many outs on the ‘Stash and holding them at 11 runs when the chi of the ‘Stash is always hunting for more runs, more possibilities, and usually gets them. And the PSP scored 6 runs, that’s 6 more than the last team, and that’s over half of the DM’s runs, when the DM usually wins by triple the runs of a team. They switch out all their players and make sure players play the field because, well, they showed up, and should have the opportunity—or be forced—to engage in the epic yet normal struggle that the league promotes, “view playing as an act that scrapes and caresses the deepest, darkest parts of your insides, leading you to duel in the ultimate struggle of life: Ego Fulfillment vs. Ego Destruction.” This isn’t really about men vs. women, this is about playing kickball, suffering its humiliation, and reaping its rewards.
Maude: Well I heard a lot of signifyin’ on the field from other teams and onlookers and it seems that they do think it’s about whether or not womens and mens play together, not about makin’ all da players play. Granted, these sinners are on the wrong side of heaven if they think dat da men and womens should play together like dat on the field. Mens need sumthin’ ta work fur, and womens need someone to cheer fur.
Olio: Look Maude, you are a wrong person. And those people that are so concerned with having a right number of men and women on the field at once are missing the suchness of the sport, that all who identify with a team and show up should play. Who cares how many men or women there are—just everyone with working legs play. Also, the Tiger never complains about the mice he plays with—it is always the mice that complain that they are being killed. To tell the Tiger when one is a mouse ready to be eaten “hey you better bring a Tigress over here to kill me” as a way to avoid being killed not only offends the Tigress’s powers, but it makes the mouse’s death that much less dignified. And the Tigress should kill you on her own accord. You will still die either way, and you might eat your own words when the Tigress comes on the field and kills you extra good. This is called sexism, Maude.
Maude: Don’t curse at—

suddenly Maude is punched in the neck by Olio, who has risen high like the Christ she promotes, and is pulling off his face. Yes, his face is leaving. And out comes a red-headed woman with a loud mouth, so loud that it is pulling the skin off of Maude’s, and she is holding a picture of todd arkley in one hand and a WKL boot knife in the other. This disgusting display of transfiguration descends upon Maude, who is raising a feeble hand to the sky, the empty sky...

WE ALL WILL


PLAY THE FIELD.

.commish.

Thank god that’s over with. Not another word about it!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday 6/30: After the Storm

THAT OLD TIMEY CAR

HAS ITS OLD TIMEY FLAVOR BACK!

EL CAMINO: 7
DEAD YUPPIES: 6

As I approached El Camino before the game and asked what they wanted first—field or bat—they all looked at me like fat step-children in a summer camp who had just been asked if they want to go swimming or hike. APATHY. They didn’t care, and began the game with no concern about anything. They have been defeated a lot this year, and we are seing the hurt children of many assualts emerge. At one point I actually asked them to get angry and start bitching at me while umping. Perhaps that’s why I made so many shifty calls—to break the old whiney winners out of them (thanks to Laurie the line ump for making sure the correct calls were made). Sure. The one game where they actually have a reason to complain about the calls, they weren’t. It seemed as if this game was a certain win for the DYs, who have a kick-ass team that was undefeated until this point. But by the end of the third inning, EC were bitching, cheering—and thank God—giving me a hard time. That’s when I knew they were a team to contend with. The DYs ended their last inning prophetically, with captain JT coming up to bat with two outs, with his broken finger, with his love for the sport, with his bald head. The game was tied by the DYs and EC had one last chance to score a run. They did. They won. They are back. I think this will be a good change for the DYs, whose kind sportsmanship, fair playing, and respect for other teams will hopefully be shattered, as they have been beat by a crap team this year. It’s time for the DYs to get a little slammy.

ME LOVE DIED ARGGG,

AND ALL ME GOT WAS THIS SCURVY!

PIRATES: 11
LOVE: 6

So we all know that the Pirates get better by the year, and after beating the ‘Stash and a load of other teams, I wasn’t surprised that they beat the Love. Although this does make me sad, because when the Love win, they get more angry with desperation in their next game. After the Love lose a game, they go back to their wonderful selves, accepting, loving blah blah. The Pirates this game were still reeling off of their wins, and as I expected, are changing...I see the anger, anxiety, and the SLAMMY coming through. What happened to “the nice,” indeed. It is there, but competing with emotions most of their rivals exhibit, as if they were the Joan Crawford of WKL, with prim and perfect shoulder pads, but on the inside...oh, the inside...drug/fame/sex crazed lunatics who should NEVER have adopted children. Wait a minute...where am I? Oh, okay, anyway, the Pirates are changing—even some member I don’t remember ever meeting before snotted me up after the game, and I peered through my drunk lids only to form a question in my head: who are you? Then the rest of the team shook my hand and thanked me—see, “the nice” is there, but so is something else... As we had 3 games tonight, I was trying to rush the teams, but doing this with the Love is a joke, as they are the hardest team get on the field, or off the field. Their dancing red baggy clothing seems to catch wind wherever they try to go, creating almost another person behind them who must also walk on the field. And it was a very VERY windy day. There were so many red people...

LOVE IS MORE POWERFUL

THAN A DRUNKEN ROLLER RINK

LOVE: 12
CHAMPAIN JAMMM: 2

Oh Jammm, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: 1. your hatred for the Love prevalent in your opening taunts was magical, 2. your outfielder Stacy (Tuna Bomb) always catches when guys kick it to her thinking she won’t, 3. Peter Lynch’s legs, 4. James’s ultimate apathy in going after the ball EVER, 5. Captain Pam’s bad back from pulling rope for 5 years while sailing the high seas near Gibraltar, 6. your team always looking incredible despite never winning, and probably never winning, 7. your ma and son combo where the mom shouts out lovely things to her son who goes up without a red face despite his mother’s public doting, and finally 8. you look like a displaced roller skating gang. Every time you lose, it seems fitting, but heartbreaking—how well you pull at our hearts, how fun it is to ump for you.

Highlight of this game? Being able to call a Love member out because he came up to bat, and turned around and pissed on the field while we were at the fringe of daylight. My new name for the Love member is “not that funny, just kinda boring Love”. No, you are not in Guns n’ Fucking Roses, this is not your frat, and by the way, YOU ARE ON THE LOVE. No one argued this out with me, as the daylight was leaving, I was insanely grumpy, and his own team thought he was stupid for doing this. The thing I love the most about the Love is their creative and tumultuous anger/love for kickball, how they contain their mojo until you think they might burst, then someone gets a run, and the bubble calms down, and then someone fucks up and the bubble looks overflated again. I’ve been waiting for this bubble to burst—I stay single just because of it—really, that’s the reason—and if the bubble of angry lovin’ bursts with a brick-of-a-white-man pissing on the field we have to play on for the rest of the season, so have to keep the neighbors contents at, then well, BOR-ING: I’ve lost my boner for the Love, no matter how may games you win or lose. By the way, they won this game. Hard. But I’m still breaking up with them.

WEEK #3

Oh you. you know what happened. you know why this couldn't be written. I was in RUSSIA. Did you here me? Russia. Drinking absinthe. Falling in love with this week's teams from afar, unable to write about them and the pain from missing them was too close at hand...

This is all I can bare to tell you.

6/22

Darkside-win
Kung Fu Street Hustlers-loss

El Camino-win
Champain Jammm-loss

6/23

Dead Yuppies-win
Danger Moustache-loss

Love-win
Hell Toupee-loss

Being unable to bare the beauty of a week of kickball, unable to write about it, will never happen again. I will be stronger...I promise.

WEEK #2

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15th

I don't have the scores on me. You know why? Because I was at work. I was at work at a Republican law firm counting all of their goddamned money. Why was I counting all of their goddamned money? Because I have to. I have to count all of their goddamned money.

It was on a scrap; the scrap got thrown away. Who are you people? Do I know you? Oh, yeah, I remember. You're part of the kickball league which I "decided" to "not run this year" because I was "too busy". Yeah. Thanks for swallowing that story. Thanks for the "unwavering loyalty". Whatever.
I still got my videogames. Do you honestly think that I would hand this shit off to some Mama Redhead voluntarily? Are you out of your minds? The fact that you're even reading this is, simply, an insane miracle. I happen to have some nasty data on Miss Heston and, by playing this last card, I can have at least one, brief, shining moment of democracy. So, I'll give you the scores. Why? Sarah Heston is in Russia. Excuse me? Did you hear me? SARAH. HESTON. IS. IN. RUSSIA.

Game #1

The Love 14?
El Camino 10?

God almighty. What is wrong with this season? I get thrown out in a bloodless coup and this is what happens - El Camino (ne Cuchillos Calientes)is now 0-3. 0-3. zero and three. Did you know that they were UNDEFEATED last year until The Stache brought it home? And they were blessed. Comebacks, blowouts, roustabouts, around-the-corners - you name it, they won it with style. But now? Frankly, they're lifeless. Dead in the water. Believe you me, I don't hate the C.C./Camino. In fact, I love them so hard. So, so hard. But what happened? Did they lose that Kickball Spark? I will go out on a limb here and pinpoint the beginning of the end for the Camino. Late summer 2004. Matty, dear, beautiful Matty, in centerfield. Reeling from opium tea. A minus 10 second reaction time. Something corrupted that day, something pure, and good, and right. Either too much opium tea or not enough. You decide. And the Love. Oh Lord, the Love. They are still dipping from the deep reservoir of love, sex, anger, and fondling from which they draw their mighty strength. True, they were 0-2. But for every moment of ferocity from Camino, amazingly, the Love answered back equally, harder, faster. Kickball is supposed to be all about breaking your opponent's spirit early and often. Comebacks aren't part of the storyline. Answers, responses - those just don't happen. Kickball is all about who gets stomped first. Eat or be eaten.Unless you are blind, deaf, and dumb, then you know that if the Love have anything, it's a deep, boundless, fathomless spirit from which they draw succor, strength, hugs. Nothing fazes this team because they are beyond us mere fools on the field. They are beyond "competition". They are beyond the beyond. They are beyond the beyond the beyond. Zen shit. Just know that Good continues to triumph. Know that the Love are back on track.

Game #2

The Danger Moustache 10
Kung Fu Street Hustlers 1

Although I am deposed, I still have, shall we say, certain channels of communication open throughout the league. And whether or not I am Commish, Disgraced Commish, or simply Commish Emeritus, I will always have the ear,and the heart, of Floyd McFeely. Let me paraphrase a communiqué I had with Mssr. McFeely the day of the game.

Me : Your team is hurtin', sir
Floyd : Goddamn it, if I have to carry this entire team on my shoulders, so be it.
Me : Godspeed.

An avalanche of pain descended upon the poor Street Hustlers - a newishly minted team for this '05 season. As many onlookers commented about the 'Stache, one phrase kept coming up --- Floyd McFeely has Will.

Floyd McFeely came up to his first at-bat.
Floyd McFeely kicked the shit out of the ball.
Floyd McFeely hit a homerun.

For all of the 'Stache haters out there, I have to ask. Doesn't this story give you chills? Doesn't this story make you feel as if the prodigal son has returned home? You know it does. You really, truly, deeply know it does. As the Misfits and G'n'R blasted from the D.M. dugout, you could taste the ferocity which dismantled the KFSH. It's almost unfair that a well-intentioned group of lads and ladies (with natty head sashes - thank you for the hot uniform) runs into the proverbial buzzsaw of the two-time defending champs. But such are the fortunes, the highways, and the byways of the 2005 WKL. Nothing makes sense anymore, but when some semblance of order returns during a D.M. match - best get the fuck out of the way. This was an unstoppable destiny that hit the Street Hustlers, but I predict big, bold, and dramatic things out of them. Oh wait. I don't run this league anymore. I "stepped down". Yeah. Sounds"good".

THURSDAY, JUNE 16th

Well well well. Not in Russia for a week when you-know-who tries to re-enter your hearts as your supreme love god. And how slutty are you? Are you willing to love me and Todd both? Because we like love. We need love. both we each need ALL THE LOVE. Which is why we love/hate eachother. And I see he didn't even have the scores for the games. Yes there is a reason why I must extend my iron fist from red Russia to green Seattle. SHIT FALLS APART. Weep not child, I will return for next week's games to ump and write them and you will be getting your game reports ALWAYS a few days after the game, always before the next week's games. Yes. And I will be typing on an American computer so there will not be spelling mistakes. NEVER.

TWO TEAMS PLAY, COMMISH IMAGINES THE DAY

PIRATES 16
HELL TOUPEE 12

Holy crap! How did each team score so many points? Are they both that bad or that good? We know the Pirates beat the DM so they must be good (or the DM are just that bad) and Hell Toupee's only win was a default win because the Hustlers didn't show opening day (and BTW, HT lost that game to the made up team). So what's going on here? Who is good and who sucks? I wasn't there but these are things I know with my blinding heart aflame with mojo: the suchness of the Pirates is that they are good, good people. They are easy to ump because they respect the league, and with any team they play, they have a consistently good out and infield (which gets better on an annual basis) and they will not fuck your wife. Hell Toupee? They have a great outfield, and an ehhhh infield, a loving captain who sends out EVITE'S to each game and then writes them up after the game, and some hotness (for wig wearers), which might fuck your wife. So there you have it. HT are wife fuckers and Pirates are nice fuckers . But HT are uncertain, their future is muddled with uncertainty. The biggest question to ask is, how will they react when they actually get the win? Can a win change that much, make an infield better and correct hair problems? Probably not. Oh but wait. The Pirates had the biggest win of their career last week and changed, are changing,leaving one end of the spectrum to another, beating average-to-great teams and scoring a lot, advancing bases like spitfires. They will keep winning. They will beat you. In the end you will ask, how could you ignore all mercy? You are dead.

PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS 11
CHAMPAIN JAMMM 6

In a pink world, far far away in this land called "America" a group of people who like crafts got together and started a kickball team, so they could make crafts with clothing and get together to sew, and smell the butts of their scratch-and-sniff My Little Ponies together. Pamela Lan-Di-Nez pulled out her ribbon and bows and anointed the group with peaches and cream. Near this world was an office with a disgruntled administrator, tired of white shirts and sensible ties, his mildly competemt employess walking slowliy around, not appriciating his 8am-ish time for wonder work method, who was very very lonely one day staring into the same coffee his secretary Norma made for him everyday. This man stood taller than he ever had before. He said: "Norma, bring me a sharpie." This man drew an anarchy symbol on his clean shirt, and this man kicked a rubber ball over the heads of his servants, who for the first time, followed him without hesitation. It is this power that captain Bud brought with him to the game that day, barking orders of "turn up my song bitch!" and "kick that shit or me kick you!", that saved his team the horror of losing to a team that likes crafts. And that is horrible. The fact that pink spandex came into home plate 6 times is remarkable, as these are the kids that had an okay time in high school, came from better "places" than the other team, and all have talents that create a cozy space for them in the new world. Punks hate people like this, with their "oh look what I can do with ribbon" and "ohhhh I'm so polite to other artists", and aim to kill them. Kill. Them. Good. What could CJ do but let their natural talent guide them to a not-so-undignified loss? This is their way of losing-not that bad. We will ribbon dignity into our lives losses. Less dignity is what gave PSP the win. They have nothing to ribbon if they lose, their rough childhoods in swamps gave them NO RIBBON. This is why they will beat you next.

Thanks Todd, love you! Now get the fuck off my throne. I'm single. I need this. I have nothing. You have Mel. I have a cat.

WEEK #1

Derrida says meaning isn't in the essence of a thing but in the difference between things.

Your team has meaning because it is not this other team, you have meaning because you are not your opponent, not because you can play well or suck. WKL contains meaning, in that it is not WAKA. We have no meaning in kickball when we just are. This week's games are an important example of the Zen and theory inherent in the game. 3 days of traveling next to large sweating Russian men. Now, this Tundra…George Michael and Lead Belly alternate on the stereo, a perfect accompaniment to the scale of expression inherent in vodka drunk, which eventually leads one to the questions that stacks up to committing murderous love - Why am I here? People speak to me in Russian because I look Russian, people ask me if I am so-and-so teenage Russian pop star…the world could be opening another identity to me, yet I am stuck asking the basest question-why did I leave round red rubber love, where the ones exist who define me? I am learning your team in a whole new way (from sadness of not seeing it), and by separating from you, lovely kickballers, my consciousness loves you anew. Kickball is critical theory-sure-but even more so, kickball is the blues

WEDNESDAY JUNE 8th

DON'T STOP IN THE NAME OF LOVE!

PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS 7
LOVE 6

Hello Love! Bigger than ever, more united than ever, and whaaaa?!?! ANGRIER than ever. Hello Private School Punks-still showing stealth, great opening taunts (killing balloon hearts on the field), and also large and may I add, IN CHARGE! Was it the taunts that drove the Love to such passionate flailing or was it the harsh opening day loss? They stood with linked arms in the cold (a common activity) BUT stood together to hurl insults with such brevity that I had not heard before. They also took it to the field, proclaiming they did not need a catcher, and when the ump forced them into having one, Juicy Love, home plate was pregnant with sexual harassment for all the PSP ladies. Although, can it really be harassment if the PSP teenage teases like it and in fact gave a firm "sure" to it? Love's ability to advance runners has always been one of their strengths, and tonight they were optimal at this part of the kickball pie. But they were defeated. PSP had their shit together , perhaps not in WKL long enough to experience what I call "the slammy", the druggie emotional state that makes you horrible and beautiful on the field. They were detached and calm like CEO's about ready to merge some shit, not punky at all. The Love's emotion was shown through PSP's serenity, and the PSP's cool nature was highlighted by the Love's verbal assaults and bootie snappin'. These teams created a complete kickball experience and the universe recognized it. As the sun bled through the skin of the sky to witness the energy on the field, the meaning burst over us in a cloud of meaning-dust kicked up by the two teams-never final, always close to finality.

There is no Love without obstacle / There is no love without bramble /
There is not love in the unerring --Bill Calahan

DARTH VADER IS GETTING

COOLER BY THE DECADE

DARKSIDE 4
EL CAMINO 3

So are the Darkside getting cooler by the minute, or is it "the slammy" that makes me think this? Even their shirts "come to the darkside" invite me. Their constant beering/rice krispy-treatin/ lawn chair-sittin combo details their commitment to the game as they are always prepared and Dionysian-a deadly combo of indulgence and capability for indulgence. El Camino are good. Their abilities are known by all who experienced their wrath last year (uh, that's every person)...except BLACK SPACE-SUITED ZOMBIE FATHERS! The two fetishes dueled it out on the ironic love zone known as the kickball field and the Darkside won, but each team could barely score runs off of each other. What will stop the space father??? Will it be your team? They already beat the two best in the league from last year. And that damn car needs a tune up yo-I have a feeling we will see them with a pimped out ride soon. The blues or critical theory to piece this game together would be distasteful. Star Wars and Cars have had enough fetishizing in our world, and these teams are breaking away from their stereotypes to kill the abstract unconscious.

Can you hear me knocking / On your window, on your door. / Help me baby, I ain't no stranger. /
Here me ringing down below, hear me ringing Soft and low.--Mick Jagger

THURSDAY JUNE 9th

GREY SKIN EATS HAIR, VIGOROUSLY

DEAD YUPPIES 10
HELL TOUPEE 1

The one run Hell Toupee got was undermined by the stunning theatrics of their players: Jen, near home plate, was mowed down by a man at least 35,002 sizes larger than she. But she needed her feet on that plate. And she got it. From the one run, the vast amount of possibilities of runs that never came to be were shown, and Dead Yuppies' buttload of 10 runs seemed like a stadium filled with runs. HT's captain Andy's running ability was overlooked by the sheer amazement of the fans that he could run at all after his mechanical tin-and-velcro knee was installed. HT's outfielder Mike caught like a rockstar in his tight jeans and weird hair, or as I like to call him-hottie tight jeans wearing ball catching guy who dances a little when he catches the ball. And he will ALWAYS catch the ball. DY's captain JT paced around (again) with a 711 cup filled with "juice" and a tie, bringing a whole "hi, Im your uncle Gary and you better win this for me because I have a lot of money riding on it and if you lose I'm gonna lock you in your parents' pool house while they are gone and I baby-sit you" feel to the game. And by the way, if you don't know, FAST ZOMBIES SUCK. THEY ARE SCARY AND MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A 4 YEAR OLD IN THE WOODS ALONE. I don't know who this short shorts wearing zombie is on their team, but his grey legs give me the heebie-jeebies and he is FAST, DAMMIT! I have no idea how DYs scored so many points, or why the Hell Toupee didn't, all I know is that shit is scary, and it was too overwhelming to bear witness to yet; the difference' abandoned both teams to the forest alone, with a win or with a loss:

In the pines in the pines / Where the sun refuse to shine / I will suffer the whole night through
--Lead Belly

HOLY SHIT PART II:

INSERT JOKE ABOUT A GUY WITH A MOUSTACHE

WALKING THE PLANK HERE

PIRATES 7
DANGER MOUSTACHE 4

Toby has a friend named Simon. Simon was raised in the Midwest, working hard on his parents' farm, went to college for biology, and eventually moved to Seattle where he feels he fits in with his mates working at Trader Joe's (or some store like it) and does reenactments on the weekends with his girlfriend Fallulah that involve the Civil War with a aura of pirating which he feels is a nice touch. Simon started to play kickball just because and always was nice to others despite his win or loss because he feels it is about fun. But what will happen to Simon's identity when he accidentally sees a new strength in himself, beating the best of the best? Where will the nice go?

I asked the Pirates before the game if they were ready. They all seemed discouraged-you know, that "I have to play the 'Stash feeling." And the Pirates hadn't practiced because the stashes were all marking up the field with large swooping hair strokes. BTW, the Pirates beat the DM by one point, and even captain Floyd was present. Umping this game was pure bliss as they both played such clean kickball. This game revealed the critical theory and blues inherent in kickball. They both had the opportunity to surprise each other, and by doing so, strengthen their own identities. By losing the DM gave the gift of the win to a team that has lost many, in fact came in dead last the first season. The Pirates gave the gift of surrender to a winning team-they lost and there is nothing they can do about it. And the DM were kind about it. They surprised each other and themselves for containing identity traits that they didn't know they possessed. When I accidentally cut my hand with my ump pen and smeared by blood on the DM's pitcher's shirt for a blessing, I knew destiny was already at play and my blood, the DM's sermon singing, and the Pirates' lack of confidence were all secondary to the differance'. What a fucked up beauty.

With the grace of a corpse I let go / And surrender to the river, and slide / And I sing to keep to keep from cursing / Bury me and I will splinter.--Bill Calahan

OPENING DAY!

SATURDAY, JUNE 4th

NEW TEAMS HAVE HOT ACTION,

THE OLD ARE MOJO-LESS

Like the day I saw the Rolling Stones in the late 90's, on this day I had to tear up my old heart for the old image I had of WKL's own Jaggers to let room in for the new studs to bear witness to. Is it Justin Timberlake? Luke Perry? God, I don't even know the names of the "studs" you kids have today. Are these mentioned stars so 5 years ago, like my precious Jagger is so 5 decades ago? And are the teen beat photos of WKL 2nd season hotties I print out and stick on my wall next to my voodoo doll box starting to tear? Yes. I have to become a new woman to understand the new hot.

THE TEENAGE HOOLIGANS STOLE THE CAR!

PRIVATE SCHOOL PUNKS 12
EL CAMINO 4

The first game began with a new ump, a new team, and an old threat. There were problems. Weather shifted, ump calls were shifty, and the power was shifting from the old to the new. Towards the end of the game, in typical CC/Camino style, they started to come back, yet this time to no avail. A member of El Camino wore head gear and tried to talk some "special" logic into their heads; the captain harassed her men in the outfield to be the outfield; and in typical CC/El Camino fashion, some members didn't believe in any call an ump made against them. The Punks were, well, punks, and didn't show the slightest discomfort because as we know, they're too cool for school-perhaps this is their game strategy that will pay off for them. Wearing their shirts from last season, the undefeated CC/El Camino were defeated. It was sad because they're sexy; a hard first lesson it was to learn that in the 3rd year, WKL is changing and new teams are here to take the old.

DEAD ENTRPRENEURS DON'T BUY WITH LOVE!

DEAD YUPPIES 16
LOVE 3

We all know the Love are liars. All this lovey, dovey, gooey stuff. If you get one of the men alone from the Love, you see the competitive anger, hatred, and desire for fulfillment that we all harbor. The Love do not love Dead Yuppies-in the 3rd inning it seemed like the Love might use their anger for their own benefit. But as the captain of the Yuppies drunkenly paced like a bear happy with its anger, knowing that the claws have sunk into the red red flesh, the Love bounced on the field not knowing who goes where, how many people to have on the field, and how to stop a run from happening. "First Love" was angry, captain Love was quiet, and the outfielders were all looking to each other for A LEADER TO TELL THEM IT'S OKAY TO LOVE WINNING. I've never seen such quick zombies, and we all know that fast moving dead people are scary shit. We don't like it. Another new team is stripping down the knowledge that we have built up about the teams we think we know.

CUTTING THROUGH THE DRUNKEN SPANDEX

PIRATES 10
CHAMPAIN JAMMM 7

This game started with golden pink roller-rink-like children giving a pirate chest filled with "shit" to the Pirates, and mocking them with smearing the "pooh" on their own mouths. Members of the Pirates were out for a wedding so they were down help, and the captain of the Jammm was looking fine in her golden hairband, but not playing due to an injury. Still both teams played their little cute hearts out. The game was close. At tie, it went into an EXTRA INNING MOTHERFUCKER! The ol' E.I. resulted in the Pirates winning the extra 4 runs that made them, once again, a team on the rise, and unclear of the future. But the Jammm looked good. Oh did they look good. I recall boobies, pink-spandexed crotch, and a tall praying mantis of a man in women's shorts. This new team was soooo close, and could get closer as the season goes on.

HELL TOUPEE WINS, BUT FOR NO DAMN REASON

KUNG FU STRET HUSTLERS FORFEIT, "DOPE ASS BITCHES" 9
HELL TOUPEE 3

The Kung Fu Street Hustlers were a mystery team, and still are. The captain showed up, barely, and joined on the Dope Ass Bitches for a nice old "we won anyway, but lets play a practice game." Hell Toupee was lucky it was practice, because they blew. Captain Andy kicked a magical number that allowed him to run all the way home, but no other player seemed to understand foot+ball should equal scoring a run. Even your commish, with a mind filled with the smell of kickball from umpping 3 games, could not muster the mojo to fucking play worth a damn. There are some hot ladies on this team. There are also some sexy men folk. And they all looked pretty standing around, knowing they already won. But as the ancient Estonian myth about kickball's life under communist rule goes, the more you lose, the uglier you get. So watch out hairpieces. This new team needs to read up on Jagger's rules for kickball.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

DARKSIDE 4
DANGER MOUSTACHE 3

Once upon a time there was a kid in 12th grade named Toby (male or female, you fill that in) who wore a trench coat, waited in line for star wars movies, knew how to speak another "language" from a space tv show, and was good at math. He/she was a virgin until he/she's genius was recognized by an Ivy League School, a powerful corporation, and then God, who bestowed on this former cabbage patch look-alike the power to destroy the ones who were good at sex and joint rolling.

What happens when the Stash don't have their suicidal captain? They FUCKING LOSE! And they lost to a new team with an EMBARRASSING DARTH VADER THEME! This new team has some players from the 2 worst teams of last year and actually purposefully chose a star wars themed name. Are you listening to me? Do you understand how the paradigm has shifted?!?! THE GEEKS BEAT THE STASH! When the Stash wins, the world feels normal and expected. When they don't score a zillion runs, and in fact lose to a team like this, I worry that the fat child in all of us actually has an opportunity to succeed in the world, and it is we who are preventing that child from success. It is we who would rather bitch and hate the winners instead of actually believing in ourselves that we can challenge them. I'm frightened and intrigued. And totally hot.

TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEM...

KUNG FU STREET HUSTLERS 5
PIRATES 0

At this point in the day, everyone could barely see. Sunscreen, champagne, beer and gossip about the shit smeared around the girls' bathroom spread through the field, and that "I've been here for 6 hours" headache sit in with all. The Pirates, generally ready and able, were tired. As they should be. This new team, Kung Fu Street Hustlers, had 6 people show up, just enough to play, but not enough to truly represent a team. And with no fucking uniforms. I will refer the Hustlers to the commish's FACE KONTROL rule about having a uniform, by the next game...each team had people sitting in, and watching it encouraged spinning in the spectators, as they all were wearing black and white. I don't know how the Hustlers won, or why the Pirates lost. Ump Laurie had some tough calls to make, and a lack of vision from the sun and drunkenness made it hard to make any call. But she did it. The last 3 innings no one scored, and the game dragged on and on. We all saw sandwiches and a drug of choice in the future. This was a hard game to play. I salute the Pirates and the measly Hustlers. Get more players and a uniform and show us what you got. This new team won the game, but it doesn't seem like a real win yet.