Narrative Prose is Important

I have several close friends who are English Major writerly types. My buddy Bryan wrote this.

• Was gonna post this to your blog…thought it might be a little gay…also wanted to work in how three little black kids showed up at the end of your game on sunday playing with broken bats…ran onto the field to mess around and then they turned the lights off.

There is something about baseball that inclines the written word towards a nostalgic glorification. So often in movies, books, and television documentary’s there is this resonating obsession with the grass, the sky, leather, wood, players as heroes, all the elements of baseball being described romantically, as if a thesis about the best parts of what it is to be an American man.

Some strange feeling that awakens the senses to being alive, as if there is no better place to be alive, spectator or player, than near a baseball field, in all its endless detail and all its possibilities. Each play is a renewal, a challenge of focus and timing, a mixture of curiosity and fear, patience and aggression, a chance for guilt or redemption.

And the tools are heralded, gloves oiled, balls massaged, bat handles meticulously taped and tacked. The debt and gratitude of the wooden bats, breaking one is like breaking a limb, something so precious, so cared for and entrusted to be the conduit of a man’s god given skill, clarity and timing.

I watched a player borrow another man’s bat and line one for a hit. Returning to the dugout he thanked the owner of the bat so genuinely it was as if he had been the recipient of a kidney. Likewise broken bats are smashed to the ground by the handle tested for cracks and fired into a nearby trash-can with furrowed brows, muttered curses, and dark feelings.

And the baseball itself is more than an object. A baseball symbolizes something when you hold it in your hand, the many varied ways to throw it and how someone chooses to and has learned to throw it mean something, it’s like a person’s signature.

“You have to know the feel of a baseball in your hand, going back awhile, connecting many things, before you can understand why a man would sit in a chair at four in the morning holding such an object, clutching it-how it fits in the palm so reassuringly, the corked center making it buoyant in the hand, and the rough spots on an old ball, the marked skin, how an idle thumb likes to worry the scuffed horsehide. You squeeze a baseball. You kind of juice it or milk it. The resistance of the packed material makes you want to press harder. There’s an equilibrium, an agreeable animal tension between the hard leather object and the sort of clawed hand, veins stretching with the effort. And the feel of raised seems across the fingertips, cloth contours like road bumps under the knuckle joints-how the whorled cotton can be seen as a magnified thumbprint, a blowup of the convoluted ridges on the pad of your thumb. The ball was deep sepia, veneered with dirt and turf and generational sweat-it was old, bunged up, it was bashed and tobacco-juiced and stained by natural processes and by the lives behind it, weather-spattered and character as a seafront house”. (Don Dellilo).

To play baseball as a child is like participating in magic. Taking that tense anxious excited feeling before and game and releasing it on the field and seeing what happens. I watched a men’s amateur baseball game a few Sundays ago. Late into the night, the myth of each team’s best player gathering , concealing a deep urge to take the field scoop up a grounder and fire it across the diamond as hard as I could, slam a closed fist into the palm of the glove, grab my nuts, adjust my hat, and spit on the field. The urge to play a game that is not easily played or won, with concise rules, unexpected outcomes, and offers the reward of, both, personal and collective pleasure.

Along these lines I’ll once again link Rob Swanger’s recap of the AC Tournament.

Go Ducks.

BP Today 5:30pm Pitt IM Field.

Quack.

Legalize Sex with Ducks…

I have no opinion one way or the other on gay marriage, but I am pro-Sex with Ducks., er, wait that’s not what I mean, that’s not what i mean either, shit.
I like boobs.

thanks for the link Depo.

DUCKS
It’s amazing that we haven’t had more rain-outs this season.

Batting Practice Wednesday 6:30 pm at the Pitt IM field.

LINK TO THE BLUES ATLANTIC CITY TOURNAMENT WRAP-UP

Narrative prose is important.

Quack.

FANTASTIC DUCKS/EAGLES RECAP TWO POSTS DOWN

Lost City of Atlantic..

This is lengthybut it is a good read. – especially if you’ve played on any of our tournament teams, or have been in the league for a while.

by Rob Swanger

I am now posting the recap in its entirety

On an October evening in 2005, “Pittsburgh NABA” (Our team was technically called The Burgh) took the field, playing in its first tournament ever at the National tournament in Tempe, Arizona. The team was a ragtag group of Ducks, Black Sox, Pythons, Warriors, Rangers and Knights – players who loved the game and had played it hard since the league’s inaugural season two years before. The game would be meaningless – we had already suffered three difficult losses in pool play, including a heartbreaker in extra innings.

We were shocked by the elevated level of play, the Arizona heat, and perhaps by the pristine, Big League Spring Training fields located 3,000 miles from Spring Hill. Our league was still in its pre-modern era, still an aluminum bat league, still a league where former legion players were the most experienced, double digit errors were the norm for any game and many teams were sometimes forced to take the field with only eight men.

I was in centerfield that night, frustrated, and many of our guys had already resorted to goofing off and looking ahead to one last night of partying (in retrospect I don’t hold that against anyone, you have to do what’s necessary to feel better about a humiliation like that one). My legs and arm ached more and more with every gapper I chased after and every desperate hurl from the fence and I distinctly remember thinking that a city whose name adorned the uniforms of Wagner, Kiner and Clemete deserved better.

I missed the team’s first tournament in Virginia last summer, but was pleased to hear that the fresh-faced Pittsburgh Blues had made a strong showing, winning a game and earning its first national points. But it wasn’t until Saturday morning when the current incarnation of the team took the field and I saw Scott Dunn warming up that I realized that Pittsburgh baseball could actually compete on the larger stage.

When I think about everything, I find myself dividing it into Saturday’s low-scoring double header, the Sunday morning must-win, and the last two games.

Three separate sections, three separate baseball teams. The first was a team of unfamiliarity, everyone knew at least someone else, but it was a team largely divided by the fact that a lot of guys had never played together before and didn’t even know each others’ names.

Baseball is unlike football or basketball in that there are no elaborate plays, no special defenses or offensive packages that need to be learned and rehearsed repeatedly before a team can play a real game.

With the exceptions of maybe first and third situations or pickoffs to second baseball is always the same – a shortstop always has the same responsibilities – any variations are governed by the situation itself, not a game plan or playbook. Any nine guys that know the game can function in a game situation, but in any team sport, knowing and trusting your teammates counts – especially in baseball. In baseball it breeds that thing that makes rallies happen, it makes it possible for players to motivate each other, to calm each other, to come from behind to win in late innings. It’s what makes a mediocre player come through when destiny has decided that it’s he who is up with two outs and the winning run on third. It’s what we call chemistry and it’s what makes a good team great.

Those first two games, we didn’t have it.

Defense and Dunn won that first game for us against a tough Ghetto Goats opponent, a team I thought was one of the best we faced. We hit the ball well up and down the lineup but when it came to driving those runners in, we just didn’t do it. This failure is indicative of a team that does not trust itself. Perhaps demoralized by this, or maybe just worn out from a long day, our poor offensive play caught up with us in game two and we were defeated in an anti-climactic low scoring game.

We played more than half of that game down just that one run without being able to so much as manufacture an equalizer and what were we facing all that time? Not an ace, not a fireballer who located four pitches for strikes at will. We were kept at bay inning after inning by a junk-baller who grunted as he topped his fastball out at 75 MPH, stole a pair of socks from a court jester, and modeled his hairstyle after the late great goofball, Mark Fidrych. Spirits were less than high. The future, as it often is, was uncertain.

Hope, of course, is found in strange situations. Later that evening nine of us sat together at Hooter’s and in a bizarre, almost Mennonite uniformity, we all ordered Buffalo Chicken sandwiches. More than a few were vocally appalled by the lack of fries. I found this odd display of team unity eerie but exhilarating. Suddenly, I was looking at things differently. We had played two consecutive games as a team of relative strangers without an error, without throwing the ball around, and with exemplary pitching first by Dunn, then a no less dominant duo of Ben Sorosky and “Buddy” Skeels. The defense was better than solid.

In two close ball games Jeremy Barchie and Dunn at third and Anthony DeFillipo (sp.?)secured the left side so thoroughly that I can remember only one ground ball making it to me in left. Nate Heath made a number of fine plays at second and Vinnie Gala was bulletproof at first despite a pulled hamstring. As for the outfield, they remained largely untested in light of the brilliant pitching but when called upon, they made the plays.

Sunday, we arrived at the field, with an air of relaxation. The isolation into groups of players who knew each other from regular season teams had faded and in its place a more singular, collective joviality. DeFillipo hit our first home run, and we put up runs quickly and constantly. The little concern I had was that our scoring seemed to bottom out in the middle innings, but that was alleviated by the strong pitching of Barchie, the first of several pitching performance that can be labeled as nothing short of heroic. I roomed with Barchie, and that morning he told me that he was in no mood to pitch.

Aware of his situation, I was worried; Barchie is due for rotator cuff surgery and is forced to throw with his arm at an awkward forty-five degree angle. (Perhaps this unconventional delivery provided just the deception he needed.) Behind him, the almost flawless defense had his back through it all. The exception were some shaky reads and lapses in coordination by this leftfielder, which I later (sort of) redeemed by making a couple difficult catches. Nevertheless, Barchie battled through nine innings, some of them difficult, but through it all, we maintained our lead.

This game would be our turning point, not only because it marked the first time we played team baseball, but also because it marked the first of several instances of individual success which were the difference between a strong showing and championship. Clutch pitching, clutch defense, clutch baserunning, and timely hitting proved as always to be a winning combination. We would not look back.

The semi-final was one of the weirdest games I ever played.

The team we played did not expect to lose.

They in fact refused to lose.

We beat them anyway.

The pitching game plan of resting our top two after getting ahead early in the first games had gone out the window and it would be up to veteran Brian Strom keep a hard-hitting team at bay. Strom is fine pitcher who has gotten the better of me countless times, but he is a hitter first and a pitcher second. We were going to have to get him some runs.

At this point the specific details get a bit hazy. Everyone, literally everyone made something happen at the plate that night so it’s hard to keep track of who did what. Things started immediately as Joe Graff beat out a single, getting on base for what seemed like the millionth time of the tournament. I have now had the pleasure of playing with the A.E. Spalding of the Pittsburgh NABA on two separate occasions and I believe he plays the game the way it is meant to be played – hard and aggressive with a “by any means possible” approach.

After that, well, Rob Cool hit a bomb, a grand slam I believe. Scoscia [sp?] hit a bomb. Dunn hit a bomb. Everyone hit the ball, and hit it hard. Before the sun even went down we were up 10-0 and their starter was gone. They brought in Superman from centerfield. Dunn homered again, his third of the tournament. Inspired by this, I felt obligated to his a solo shot of my own in spite of my lousy tournament at the plate. On my way to the outfield after another round of mashing, their centerfielder asked, without irony, if we took batting practice every day. I told him

“no, we’re just sick.”

The shit was contagious.

Strom pitched great, better than anyone could have expected given that he hasn’t pitched since last season. He provided five solid innings before a few miscues with the catcher, which then carried over to reliever DeFillipo. DeFillipo settled down, and got us through a couple of innings. But by the seventh we were holding on to something like a two or three run lead, which given the pace of that game, seemed tenuous to say the least. This game was up for grabs. We added some much needed breathing room in the eighth with an important RBI single by Mr. Duck [edit: apparently this is me, Ben Gwin]. Then Dunn came in, the very definition of relief pitching.

There was talk that the other pitcher had thrown seven innings or nine innings or whatever the game before. And maybe what I’m about to say is pure speculation but I think that pissed Dunn off. I think the second he heard that, he decided he would pitch two games in two days, only he was going to win both of his. He shut them down in the eighth, he shut them down in the ninth adding a save to his previous win. Game Blues.

That game was incredible. I cannot describe the feeling I had after that, it was as if there was absolutely no way we could lose. We did everything well, as we had for each game, but now we were rallying, now everyone was chipping in at the plate, in the field. We were getting stellar pitching performances from the most unlikely sources.

But we were playing not for ourselves, not even for our team mates but as representatives of something bigger. This was Pittsburgh baseball – sometimes brilliant, sometimes ugly but always hardcore – tough and gritty. We could hit bombs, we could manufacture, we didn’t give a fuck. We were going to score runs, then we were going to shut you down. Battle back in middle innings if you want to, but we’ll score a couple more on top and we won’t let up. Then we’ll bring in Dunn, just to make you feel bad.

This game was a collective effort, with the Owlz representatives the obvious standouts. If the defending champions are any indication of the league’s future, then it is a bright future indeed for Pittsburgh baseball. Rob Cool’s Brian Cashman-like ability to bring talent to the league is what creates the competitive atmosphere that carries over into tournament play.

I won’t be surprised to hear that that pitcher from the semi-final that can also run like a gazelle and hit like a tyrannosaurus will be an Owl in ’10. If anyone cries foul on Cool’s tactics, it’s nothing but jealousy. I received reports that in my two years away from the league the level of play had increased – after seeing the ways these guys play, I believe it. Teams like this make the league better.

In retrospect, the championship game against the Hated NYC Metros was a foregone conclusion. We were riding high on momentum and there was no way were headed back west without the synthetic polyester championship shirts. As I said, I missed the ’08 Virginia tournament so my hatred of the Metros was limited to proxy although they did seem like arrogant jerk-offs one morning when I saw them at breakfast. I hoped we’d get a chance to play them. But, song-singing in the dugout? Chanting? Pitcher heckling? This was too much.

The only way a team like that wins is if you actually listen to them and then allow them to get the momentum. Skeels wasn’t going give them the pleasure. He pitched well without an initial lead and with the Metros chirping away at him like a jayvee softball team. He kept his composure all the same. Once we started scoring, the Metros had quieted to a whisper and in the sixth, one of them even emerged beyond the first baseline to begin his training for UFC. Arribe indeed. Once again, Dunn came in in the eighth, if the Metros still had it in them to heckle him, he only fed off it.

The Metros wouldn’t get another runner on base. The synthetic polyester shirts were ours.

I live in Central Pennsylvania now, and I can tell you that people who don’t know, people that suck off Philadelphia like it’s the greatest city in the world and in the state don’t think of Pittsburgh as much of a baseball town. The Pirates suck, therefore it’s automatically a hockey and football town. If we achieved anything last weekend, I think we disproved that erroneous conventional nonsense. We presented ourselves as sportsmanly, in victory and in defeat, and despite early hardship, we won a championship. I was proud to play on this team among the veterans of my day and the hot shots of the tomorrow – nothing has made me miss Pittsburgh more.

The league in Harrisburg where I play has similar talent to the league I left, but the thing most missing is the camaraderie, the passion – competition in the purest sense. In Harrisburg, we play hard, but it’s as if it really doesn’t matter. It’s a subtle thing – the way a player sighs as he arrives at the ball field, or the way a pitcher complains about a sore arm or a hangover. Baseball players should want to play ball. We don’t even have a league website, much less team blogs. People care about things in Pittsburgh, it isn’t that way everywhere.

Looking at the league standings, it’s going to be a very interesting, very competitive second half and I look forward to following it, wishing I was out there. Watch out for the Ducks.

Quack.

Editors Note: Rob Swanger, P/OF played on the Ducks from ’05 to ’06, his number 9 hangs from the imaginary rafters on the blog. He was a dedicated Duck, and holds the Ducks single season batting average record of .608 one strike out that year is pretty solid, I think Strom got him.

Rob Swanger’s 2006 stat line.

PA AB R 1B 2B 3B HR RBI BB Sac SO HbP RE FC SB CS OBP Slg OPS Avg.

54 51 24 20 7 4 0 15 1 0 1 2 3 2 8 3 .630 .902 1.532 .608

Quack.

League Update with apologies to Excitable Boy/the French Connection

Ducks Blog Staff, thanks for picking up the slack while I ran around the East Coast like a moron.
The Blues win in Atlantic City is a very significant milestone for our league.
We were helped emensly by a few of the Owlz playaz.

Will Kenny Powers be able to put his hatred of the Owlz aside and rejoin the Blues along with his arch-nemesis Rob Cool?
The Owlz players played hard, played hurt, and were great teammates.
It was always about Pittsburgh and not about the Owlz.
I did hear a strange noise coming from their hotel room…

Joe Graff had a .700 obp, and was the sparkplug for the team.
Vinny played on one leg and still raked in the semi’s.
Brian Strom and Jeremy Barchie had two of the gutsiest pitching performances i’ve seen outside of Nick Homa, and Adam Smith this season.

Rob Swanger went yard in the semifinals, and had an acrobatic day in the outfield in a must win pool play game.
I got on base 6 of 8 times in the semi’s and the finals and only hit the ball hard twice, that’s not easy. Thankfully I didn’t boot any routine plays in right, or kick them like Brett Hull kicked the puck past Hasek a few years back.

I had a conversation with Rob Cool last year, and he was complaining about not having a catcher…So he went out and got Mike Scoscia’s second cousin.

Scott Dunn allowed 2 runs over 14 innings, recorded a win and two saves, hit .490 with 3 home runs, and banged the Metros shortstop’s mom during the seventh inning stretch.

Anyone who says they wouldn’t stack their team like Rob does if they had the means to do so is delusional.
I don’t believe it but I can’t fuck with these guyz any more, at least I still have the Confederacy, and two other Bloggers on the staff who probably think I’m lying.

The Owlz haven’t seen the best South Oakland has to offer.
That will be the game of the year at the Duck Pond. – not to look ahead or anything –
We can beat that team.
It would be so boring if the Owlz just blew everyoen out of the water, and went undefeated.
Someone has to stop them.
I believe in Dr. Jones

***
Kenny Powers spent his Memorial Day at a cookout.
(profanity)

I got ride the coattails of a great Blues team to a championship in A.C. then watch the Pens win the Prince of Whales trophy.
As a Welshman this makes me proud beyond belief.

A Labor Day tournament to be held in Pittsburgh is in the works, and will most likely feature teams from our league and not the Blues, which means the Ducks would a chance to enter a team in the event.
If you’d like to help out with this email the commish at: Conspiracytof_cktheGrayBats@LarryZwhines.com
if that address doesn’t work try:
pittnaba@yahoo.com
We might have to un-retire a few numbers, and call up Barchie, clearly our roster isn’t big enough as it is.

There will be a full, narrative recap of last weekend’s events written by South Oakland Duck, and fellow Pitt English Department product, Rob Swanger.
***

ducks

Batting Practice at the Pitt IM field: Saturday at 1pm, and Sunday from 12:30-1:30.

Go Blues.

To the rest of the Ducks blog staff, don’t stop jobbing the Gray Bats, while I keep the Blues posts updated.
***

This weekend we put aside our petty differences.

Memorial Day, 4th of July, whatever. Either way the Confederacy does not recognize these holidays…

In my search for a score book I cam across a game from a couple years back, a Ducks game featuring Rob Swanger, Jeremy Barchie and mysefl.

Swanger was 3-4 with 2 doubles and a triple, 5 rbi.
Barchie was 2-3 with 2 rbi, pitched 5 innings allowing o earned and beaning two batters
I probably kept score and padded my stats with a 3-4 performance. (all singles to right field – no doubt)
the game was a 15-4 Ducks victory, and was the last time Barchie, Swanger and Gwin played for the same team.

This weekend we don the powder blues along with the latest installment of the Pittsburgh Blues.

You got the Blues.

Check out the league website for more Blues news.

DR4L

Quack.

Taking Requests…

Go Blues.

2009 Atlantic City Memorial Day Tournament Schedule.

The Blues will have a chance to beat the Metros in the finals.
Here’s a link to the schedule

Go Blues.

Quack.