The Fulgent Star Memos Part of an unofficial web site about the music of Bob Seger, which has taken an odd detour to focus on America's Favorite softball team, Fulgent Star. Last updated July 6, 2001 Written by Scott Sparling
sparling@segerfile.com
"I kept my records in old looseleaf notebooks...and today, I think I still know where they are."
Memo #1: Fielding Spasms and Ground Rule Singles
To: Fulgent Star Team
From: Essenesse
Ok, here's how I see it: We got beat, but we didn't get whupped. That's something we can all be proud of.
Well, technically, I guess we did get whupped. (The score was 12 to 5, I think.) But we certainly didn't get pummeled. Or thumped, for that matter.
And keep it in perspective. July has always been a tough month for our softball team. Much tougher than, say, November, in which we're undefeated. Despite all this, we put together a string of five straight days without a loss, all based on my strategy of staying away from the field. As the Lottery commercials say, If You Don't Play, You Can't Lose, or something like that.
Still, something about last night's game kept bothering me -- something I couldn't quite put my finger on. After the last out was recorded, and the last fan went home, and the last street vendor sold the last vial of crack, some nagging problem still nagged me. Finally, around 3 a.m., as I was polishing off one more bag of Turkey Jerky from my Y2K horde, (only three cases left!), I realized what I didn't like about our opponent: They were dull.
Sure, they were good. And they seemed to enjoy themselves. But they were dull as dishwater. Consider their dull white t-shirts and their dull cheer. ("Let's Go!") How tame, especially compared to our inspired cheer: ("Let's Glow!")
And how 'bout their silly "Ground Rule Single" for any ball hit into the trees. Anyone with an ounce of wit or creativity would have named it a "Tringle." If I ruled the league, I'd say any ball hit into the trees would be dubbed a tringle, and if you hit more than one per game, you'd have to wear a silly hat made out of acorns. Not just for the game, but for the entire next day. When people asked you why you had acorns on your head, you'd have to say, "I hit too many tringles." As they were hauling you away, you'd have to apologize to the tree.
But dullest of all was the way they fielded, scooping up every grounder and catching every fly ball, exhibiting none of the explosive chaos we bring to the game, where anything can happen. We've mastered that special knack of making routine plays look astounding, even bizarre. We send too many players to the field, or too few. We collide with each other and throw the ball in unexpected directions. It's called Excitement, and America loves it, which is why we're America's Favorite Team, according to my imagination.
Sadly, our opponents seemed to lack our spontaneity. Face it, the most exciting thing that happened when they were on the field was when someone tried to steal their shoes.
My biggest worry is that their dullness might rub off on us -- that our fielding spasms might become less spasmodic. But that's crazy talk. In the ongoing battle between Chaos and Order, Chaos always wins. Check out my cubicle if you don't believe me.
Memo #2: The System
Hey Team:
For those of you who missed last week's practice, let me state that there is no basis to the rumor that I wore a pair of dark sunglasses with one lens missing for over two hours, without noticing the problem. Only a dork would do that.
In truth, I was testing my new Asymmetrical Shading System, (or ASS), which I'm happy to say worked perfectly.
As you know, I'm always looking for new ways to improve the team's performance over last year's record of 0-41. The Asymmetrical Shading System may be the answer -- it's a revolutionary form of eyewear guaranteed to raise your batting average at least 20 points.
In its pure form, it works by asymmetrically manipulating your pupils. Mastering this system can take years of specialized training, but you can accomplish the same thing by buying a large pair of sunglasses and breaking out the right lens. Wearing these glasses leaves your right pupil exposed to direct sunlight, so it focuses down tight. As you know, your right eye is connected to the left half of your brain, which is the logical half. So you get a good tight on focus on the mental part of the game.
Meanwhile, the shaded left pupil is as wide as all outdoors. The left pupil connects to the right side of the brain, where your muscle memory resides in the limbic system -- (coincidentally, the same system that allows you to do the limbo and get drunk with your frat-boy friends. But enough about George W. Bush.)
Anyway, I hope you'll give it try. Remember: During the regular season, no one will be allowed on the field without a pair of broken sunglasses. Unless you bring a note.
#3. The Modified, Limited Killebrew
To: Fulgent Star
From: SS
Below, some basic softball tips.
But first, a nostalgic trip back to my youth and my first visit to Tiger Stadium. My grandfather and a certain curly-headed eight-year-old approach the stadium. It was a more innocent time, before Vietnam, before Watergate, long before my enemies began spilling coffee on my mock-ups just to make me look bad. It was a spring day like any other, but now, decades later, I still remember my first step inside a major league ballpark. Perhaps you do, too -- and if so, I'd like to know how you have access to my personal memories. Were you following us? Did you meet my grandfather later in some Michigan Avenue gin joint and pry it out of him between shots of Johnnie Walker Red? Or, more likely, did you accost my dentist, impersonate her and implant a little device in my head while I was high on nitrous oxide? That would explain a lot.
Anyway, it was at Tiger Stadium where I first saw the Killebrew Shift. Harmon Killebrew was an opposing hitter who pulled the ball so severely that the Tigers moved the second baseman over next to the shortstop, putting three infielders on one side of the field, and leaving a gaping hole between first and second. Killebrew would try to punch the ball through the hole and strike out in the process.
Which leads to my next three tips for successful softball. As usual, guard these with your life.
1. The Modified, Limited Killebrew (The MLK). Essentially, move the second base person toward the bag and move the rover over, and dare the hitter to hit behind the ball. Then eat crow when he does. I know it sounds complicated, but I have it all diagrammed out on a little post-it note by my desk. You're welcome to stop by and take a look, and have a wine cooler.
2. Play the Baserunner. We tend to play the batter. But every team has a few PB's -- Pathetic Baserunners. (Except our team, of course!) Before each pitch, assess the baserunner for PB-ness. It will help you decide which base to go to if the ball is suddenly hit your way.
3. Go Dive Four. Sure, it's a football play. But imagine our opponent's surprise as our fullback takes the handoff and plunges through the hole off right tackle. Before the other guys can catch their breath, we're 7 points ahead!
Remember, the game starts at 7:30. See you there.
#4. Under the Fulgent Stars
Hey Team,
FYI, many of you have asked where our team name, "Fulgent Star," comes from and what it means. Well, actually no one has asked, but it would be nice if someone would show some interest.
It comes naturally from the French poet, C. Gar Sigarrillo, who after losing the love of his life found renewal and inspiration from the star-filled heavens, declaring "despite love's score, no loss endures, under fulgent stars so rare."
Actually, it seems to me the stars are pretty common -- they're out almost every night. (But maybe it was rare for Sigarrillo to be out after dark, which could explain the failed romance.) Fulgent of course means shining, though I'm sure you knew that. On second thought he may have been an Italian poet, or perhaps Spanish.
At any rate, I interpret our name to mean that we can never lose, no matter what the score, as long as we play at night.
#5. Redefining "Winning"
Hey Team:
Our worst fears have been realized, and as captain, it's my job to spread panic. And to get the best seat in the lifeboat.
Here's the deal. Our next game is against the grim, grisly, gruesome Badass Ads. For those of you who don't remember, two years ago we stole a client from Badass. Then, at that year's game, one of our players ran onto the field screaming idiotically about violations of the Outfield Arc Rule, a bizarre regulation that none of the Badass players had ever heard of -- or so they insisted as I shoved the league rules in their faces.
Anyway, we won, but we antagonized them. Which may have been a strategic error.
The next year, smelling revenge, Badass Ads showed up with 12-foot goons who unwrapped $500 bats from velvet cases and pulverized us.
I figured our strategy for this year's game would be to redefine "winning." Specifically, I thought we should charter a yacht, throw ourselves a huge party, take a Polaroid of ourselves having fun, write "Wish you were here" on the back and have mylacky.com deliver it to the softball field where the Badass goons would be cooling their heels.
Sweet, huh? But pulling that kind of stunt this early in the season would probably get us a bad rep. So perhaps we have no choice but to show up.
Finally, a correction to yesterday's memo, regarding our name, wherein I state that the stars are out almost every night. The "almost" is incorrect. Stars are out every night. It's just that clouds are out some nights too.
#6. Latex Revenge
To: Everyone on the Hey Team list
First of all, I wanted to make sure you all know our team cheer: "Let's glow, Fulgent Star! Fulgent Star let's glow!" Write this down and bring it with you to the game.
My real purpose for writing, though, is to say that we still need a good shortstop. And that we now have an extra glove for lefties. You might be interested to know, by the way, that the baseball glove was invented by Charlie Waitt, a rookie outfielder/first baseman who hit .156 in 1882. (He couldn't hit his Waitt.)
Even though Waitt's glove had no padding, his teammates thought it was totally was lame...all except for the pitcher, Albert Spaulding, who stole the idea and got rich.
That reminds me...can anyone do the math on Exposure to Communicable Disease Probabilities stemming from the ritualized handslapping parade at the end of each game? Let's say the other team has 12 players and we have 10 and you happen to be fifth in line. Every player has been putting their hands who knows where all through the game. As you proceed down that line, you're going to get live sweaty germs mutating at an enormous rate...10 to the fifth power, I guess.
So I was thinking, does anyone have access to a gross of those latex hospital gloves? We'd only need the right hand side. Then, we could slip on our latex gloves before the ritualized handslapping begins and not only protect ourselves but make a powerful statement too: If we had lost, our gloves would say: "Sure you beat us, but we don't want your lousy germs." And if we had happened to kick butt, our latexed hands would announce "We Are the Victors: Do Not Touch." How about it?
That's about it. By the way, the nickname, Death to Flying Things, is still up for grabs for anyone in the outfield.
#7. Fulgent Star Rules
Hey Team:
In case I'm too hot to actually speak tonight, here are three simple rules for better softball. Whatever you do, don't let these fall into enemy hands
1. Don't swing at the first pitch, unless it's a good pitch. Swinging at a bad pitch is the number one cause of stupid pop-ups and lame-ass ground balls, according to a spokesman for the National Tub and Grout Association. They recommend that you be pretty discriminating about that first pitch. (They also recommend a bath in a well-grouted tub after the game.)
You only get three pitches in all, though -- so if the second one's in the neighborhood, go for it. Swing at the third even if it's bouncing up around your head.
2. Use both hands when catching flyballs or hard throws. The key is to give the other team only three outs per inning. Every time a fly ball pops out of a glove, we've given them an extra out. Using both hands will help keep the ball in the mitt. Plus, it will make you feel like a dorky kid, and isn't that what softball's all about?
3. Don't hurry your throw. Wild throws, bad. Accurate throws, good.
I'm sure everyone is up-to-speed on base-running rules, so to speak. Just in case anyone wants a refresher, here are some basic tips on getting to first base, and when to tag up. (Insert politically incorrect joke here.)
1. You can overrun first base...just as long as you turn toward the out-of- bounds area after you pass the base. You can't overrun any of the other bases (except home base, obviously) but you can slide.
2. If you're on base, and there are no outs or one out, remember to tag up on fly balls. Typically, your friendly base coaches will shout out conflicting commands -- Go! Stop! Come Back! -- unless it's too hot to shout, in which case you're on your own.
Also...a few words about the catcher's job. In the fantasy world I live in, the catcher's job is to intimidate the batter. Very easy to do when you're a woman and he's a guy. (I don't mean when you personally are a woman, which I assume is either A) pretty much all the time, or B) never. I mean when one is a woman.) Any little comment like, gee, that's a big bat, just before the pitch is released should do.
Baseball is so full of erotically-charged imagery...you know, the bat, getting to first base, the foul screen, the guy sitting in the stand eating peanuts. (He represents your Uncle Ned, according to Freud. Or perhaps he is your Uncle Ned.)
#8. The Most Fun Wins
Hey Team. I said, Hey!
Great game last night, folks! Truly fun. Driving home, I was reminded of the immortal words of baseball legend Yogi Berra, who once said, "You can see a lot just by looking." What reminded me of this wasn't baseball, of course, but the working girls along Broadway. But at least it got my mind off the game.
Anyway, we lost, but we looked great! And let's keep it in perspective. What really matters is not the score. What really matters is that the Pagong Tribe rallied and avoided Tribal Council, and that Dirk got his scrawny ass voted off the island. He's out a chance at a cool million, and I collected $1.20 in bottle returns. So I ask you: Who's the real winner here? (Answer: The real winner is that guy who talks into the coconut who's getting it on with the luscious Colleen on national television. Not that I'd trade a minute of my humdrum, workaday life for his youthful exuberance and island ecstasy...unless maybe they threw in a new car or an endorsement deal, and then it's hasta la vista, suckers.)
My point is that what really counts isn't what's on the scoreboard, since there is no scoreboard at Woodlawn field. And if there were a scoreboard, the main thing on it would be graffiti, corporate slogans and bird poop. No, what really counts is the scoreboard of your soul...where the bird poop is much harder to get off.
But, for all you future soon-to-be-filthy-rich CEOs trapped in a bottom-line, numbers-mean-everything world, the final score was reportedly 20 to 15 in their favor, overlooking numerous minor rule violations on their side, in return for them overlooking numerous minor rule violations on our side. (Hey! They were using our illegal bat! Let's keep that out of sight in the future!)
Anyway, it's like my elementary school gym teacher used to say before he was indicted: "The team with the most fun wins." You want the most fun? Start with this: They brought watermelon. We brought beer. Case closed
#9. The Dendrites Are Alright
Greetings Team
And a special hello to our troops overseas. I'm coming to you today with a serious announcement about last week's squeaker. (I don't know about you, but my joints are still squeaking from that game.)
Anyway, after careful consideration, I feel it is time for new leadership. It's time to step aside and let someone else pick up the reigns.
Accordingly, I hereby declare that I will not be buying the beer for this week's game. Someone else must step forward and assume that solemn chore. I will, however -- in order to assure a smooth transition -- bring the leftover wine coolers.
And, of course, I will remain captain, which means you need to email me and tell me if you're going to be there tomorrow night, so I can put together a lineup.
FYI, I've decided to scrap the "Red Dog"/"Blue Dog" platoon system. It was just too confusing. If I've learned anything, it's that ballplayers like to keep things simple and clear. So, instead of Red Dog/Blue Dog, we'll have two defensive lineups Thursday evening -- "Unit 57" and "The Dendrites." That should clarify things immensely.
Finally, there are those who have suggested that we need a tad more practice. (Who is this Tad character? I don't remember him being on the team. Besides, what we really need isn't more practice, it's weaker opponents.)
Anyway, what say we all meet at Woodlawn field for an hour of hit-around and fielding practice before the game? That way, we could be in top form and/or exhausted by the time the real game begins.
#10. Nothing Like A Woman
To: The Hey Team list
From: SS
Lack of women has been a problem plaguing man through the ages. Just imagine how world history would be different if, say, The Isley Brothers had found a really bitchin' female singer. Certainly they could have given Peter, Paul and Mary a run for the money. Or, to go back a little further, if Noah had been a woman, the ark would have been, I don't know...cleaner, perhaps. The same might be said about the bottom shelf of my refrigerator for the entirety of 1985 -- another example where the lack of a woman made a shocking difference.
(Not to belabor the issue, but it occurs to me that lack of a woman was also behind the nasty Ace Hardware incident in the mid-70s, which occurred when my girlfriend wandered off to look at wallpaper samples instead of keeping an eye out for the store detective as planned. The less said about that, the better, I guess...but I will say that whoever wrote that insipid jingle about Ace being the place with the Helpful Hardware Man is full of crap.)
Anyway, in this day and age, one has to be sensitive to all issues of gender. There are those who believe there are no longer two sexes, but rather seven distinct gradations between masculine and feminine. (There are also those who believe that fire is a liquid.) Nothing is nailed down the way it was in what historians call America's Golden Era (i.e., 1985).
Take The Babe's home run record, for example. We thought it would last forever, then everything changed: Today, no way would a ballplayer be nicknamed "Babe." And you wouldn't talk about his tators. [Editors note: Baseball slang for home runs. Not what you were thinking.]
Interestingly (or so I assert), the latest revisionist theory says The Babe's home run record still stands. Here's why: His record shouldn't be judged by the raw number of dingers hit in a single year, but by his percentage of all home runs hit in the league. Ruth hit 60 home runs in 1927, or 14 percent of all home runs hit that year. But in 1920, Ruth hit 15 percent of all home runs hit in the American League -- although his raw total was only 54. For McGwire or Sosa or Ken Griffey Jr to reach that percentage, they'd have to drill about 150 4-baggers a year.
All of this proves that statistics mean nothing, and there was no finer example of that than last night. The official score was something to something, but it doesn't matter because they were lacking a woman and we get the "W." It's on display in the lunch room; remember to polish it nightly. (The rules, as you recall, require four women per team. They had only three. We had our regular three -- plus a Mystery Woman who showed up at the last instant, putting us over the top.)
We also set a record for Injuries Per Inning and threw the ball around the infield like the Flying Karamazov Brothers high on Ben Gay. Or perhaps I should say Arnica Pain Relieving Gel from Boiron. (Ka-ching!! Product placement fee!) But none of it matters because we won before we even got up to bat, thanks to our Mystery Woman, and MVP who turned out to be Jennifer Bradley. (Okay, I admit I was hoping the Mystery Woman would turn out to be Uma Thurman...but a win's a win.)
Thanks, JB, and to all of you who played last night and are still alive to tell about it.
Next, a week off. Spend it listening to "Nothing But A Woman" by Robert Cray, and using your Arnica Pain Relieving Gel from Boiron. (Ka-ching!!).
#11. Practice?
Hey Team:
Since it's a beautiful summer day, a number of us were thinking: Why not get together and hone our softball skills to razor-like perfection? Or at least pull a few leg muscles.
Anyway, four of us are up for a practice session tonight from 8:00 to 9:00. Any other takers? Let me know within the next four hours if you'd rather:
1. Sit on your lazy butt and watch TV tonight while the world passes you by, or
2. Join the cool practice session and earn big bucks!
Disclaimer: The earn big bucks part is a lie.
#12. Practice, Shmactice
I know most of you are probably on tenterhooks wondering whether there will or will not be a practice tonight. Most of you are probably also wondering what the heck tenterhooks are.
Actually, the word comes from Captain Arvil Tenter of the Virginia militia who fashioned little pieces of curved wire to hang up his skivvies (after washing them in the river) just before the Second Battle of Manassas. He was later bitten by a poisonous snake.
Since they were made out of barbed wire, tenterhooks are extremely sharp. If you're going to use the word, for pete's sake don't say "tenderhooks." There's no such thing as Tender Hooks. Except in pop songs. And in romance generally.
Anyway, the vote is in. Here's the results:
Cool practice session/earn big bucks: 3Lazy butt/watch TV/life passes by: 437
We started with four people wanting to practice and suffered one defection. I count that as a moral victory. For the TV networks. They must be doing something right.
#13: Uma?
A reminder: Our next slugfest occurs Monday at 6:00 pm. Let's get out there and win on a technicality again.
Added bonus: There'll be another Mystery Woman (new female team member recruited just so we meet the 4-women-per-team requirement) -- or so I'm told. Based on my shirtsleeve calculation of the world's population, there's a 1 in 4.5 billion chance it may turn out to be Uma Thurman. So dress sharp.
Since we're into the third game, this is also the time to surface any festering concerns or gripes, such as "I'm sick of batting ninth," or "I'm sick of playing rover." As you know my personal motto is "I love to see you smile." (Stolen by McDonalds, those thievin' bastards.) Seriously, let me know your preferences, so I can justify spending even more of the workday tinkering with the lineup.
Any questions? Everybody psyched? Can anybody explain why there are so few pop songs with the word Monday in the title? Let me know.
#14. The Fab Four Take the Field
Hey Team:
Monday night's bone-crunching defeat at the hands of Spirolina (what kind of idiot names their team after a form of seaweed?) led me to ask some difficult questions. Such as, Who's taking home the empties? And, what policy should guide our team in the future: strategy or whimsy?
Most would say, you gotta go with what got you there. Certainly, whimsy has gotten us a long way, so why change now?
But being a softball captain isn't about following the crowd, unless you mean the crowd of squad cars that's usually headed toward Woodlawn Field. Nope, I've decided it's time to make some changes.
In the past, we've had infielders and we've had outfielders. I've decided that's too limiting. So here's what I propose: An infield, an outfield and a midfield.
I know it's confusing, but try using this mnemonic aid: The infielders will play the Infield. The outfield will play the Outfield. EXCEPT for the Rover. He or she will play the Midfield.
Ingenious, eh? But wait. Not only do I propose an Infield, Midfield and Outfield system, but I further propose shifting around on batters, and daring them to hit to the opposite field. (I also propose whining "Cheater!" and "No fair!" if they do.)
But hey, instead of telling you what I mean, let me show you.
Below are some rare aerial photos of Shea Stadium, showing how John, Paul, George and Ringo took the field against some of the great cultural icons of our time, just before The Beatles historic concert in 1965.
(Not many people know that The Beatles played softball to relax before big concerts. Most people associate softball with the Kennedy family at Hyannisport --but in fact the Kennedy clan stole the idea from the Fab Four. Camelot indeed!)
Rare Photo A: The Beatles Line Up Against Right-handed Hitter George Bernard Shaw.
Despite his lefty leanings, Shaw was a right-hander who tended to pull the ball. So Paul hugged the line in left, while John and George shifted around, daring Shaw to hit into the Red Zone in right field. Ringo was The Beatles' rover. He's seen here playing Midfield -- and violating the Outfield Arc Rule. Even though Shaw popped up, he was awarded first base because of Ringo's violation.
Rare Photo B: The Beatles Swing Around When Lefty Oliver Hardy Takes the Plate.
In all honesty, Hardy wasn't much of a threat to pull the ball, due to the fact that he had been dead for nine years. But the great thing about The Beatles was their consistency. They swing around anyway and leave a Red Zone in left field this time. Note how Midfielder Ringo has roved all the way to the other side of the field.
Although not pictured, the Fifth Beatle, (Brian Epstein) also figured into this strategy. The first time Hardy came up, The Beatles would swing around as pictured. If the comic genius somehow managed to poke it into the Red Zone, Epstein would make a note on his solid gold scorecard.
The next time Ollie came up, Epstein would holler out to the boys in code. "Lucy In the Sky," he was often heard to shout. That would be the signal not to swing around. They'd still play an Outfield and a Midfield, but they'd play him straightaway. After Epstein died, the hollering chores were taken over by Ed Sullivan.
There's one situation in which the Infield-Midfield-Outfield system breaks down. That's when a Dube (a Player of Dubious Ability) steps up to the plate. In that case, all outfielders become Midfielders -- being careful, however, not to violate the Outfield Arc Rule.
Here, The Beatles position themselves for "the British Marilyn Monroe," actress Diana Dors, star of Death Takes A Holiday. Dors, who was feeling her oats that day, promptly drove the ball over their heads for an inside-the-park home run. Maybe she wasn't such a Dube. Maybe the boys were just moving in for a closer look. Nevertheless, it's a good example of the Dube Defense.
(FYI, the politically correct term for a Player of Dubious Ability is P.D.A. Out of respect for the other team, let's try to use that during the game. Unless we're losing, and then who the hell cares.)
Rare Photo C: The Beatles Mistake The British Marilyn for a Dube.
There you have it. Got questions? Keep 'em to yourself. And see you at the game.
#15. ConeheadsTeam Advisory: In tonight's game, a big, honkin' orange traffic cone will be placed 30 feet behind second base to mark the boundary described in the Outfield Arc Rule. (Placed by me. Where I got the cone, no one knows. But if there are any traffic accidents in the construction area outside our office, I know nothing.)
Important: When the other team asks why a big, honkin, orange traffic cone is in short centerfield, the correct answer is: "Cone? You mean David Cone? Or what?"
That should break their concentration. See you tonight.
The Fulgent Star Cone, shown here with a plush Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle for proportion only.
#16. Dead End Willy's
Okay, another loss. This one was the heartbreakingly close type, as opposed to the Whupped and Pummeled variety. Hey, don't think of it as softball. Think of it as a smorgasbord of victory and defeat.
(When do they serve the victory part, you ask. But that's just it -- it's a smorgasbord, see. They don't serve anything. You have to help yourself. Get it? Help yourself...like a self-help sort of deal? Whatever. The precise score, in case you don't already know, was: Us, something; Them, something plus one.)
Yet despite what the scorebook says, I can't help feeling that we've turned the corner. Unfortunately, it's the corner of Despair and Desperation. Perhaps you're familiar with the intersection. Down the street is a bar called Dead End Willy's. Official slogan: Where Dreams Go to Die.
Inside, the jukebox is already playing country and western songs about our defeat. ("...I've got a hole in my heart / bigger than a traffic cone....") The entire roster of Spirolina sits at the bar, watching World Series highlights from 1963. (Those guys will watch anything. I told you they were dull.)
Upstairs in a private room, The Big Man counts his money. In my fevered imagination, The Big Man is played by Jackie Gleason, or -- if you insist on casting a non-dead person -- John Goodman. The room is the headquarters of the Portland Advertising Softball League. Gleason/Goodman is the guy who calls the shots. He decides who wins and who loses.
Next to him on a divan is his girlfriend, BabyDoll, (played by Uma Thurman). The carpet is red, the floor is red, her toenails are red. Every so often The Big Man glances at a corner TV. He's watching replays of our Monday night game: Chuck's catch, Casey's dash, Andy's dive.
The Big Man smiles. "I like this team," he says to BabyDoll. "They have heart. They have moxie. They have a big traffic cone."
At this, BabyDoll snorts.
"Okay, not really that big," says Gleason/Goodman, backtracking. "But not what you'd call small either."
What's your point, BabyDoll asks (speaking for all of us, I'm sure). Her voice is as smooth as a Brinker-to-Lavey-to-Hood double play.
"Simple," The Big Man says. "I like Fulgent Star. I think I'll let 'em win one."
BabyDoll gasps. "But, Big Man -- what about The Poobah's curse?"
Gleason/Goodman roars, knocking over the table. "I told you never to say that name to me again!"
Downstairs, The Poobah enters Dead End Willy's. The Spirolina players begin chanting: "Poo-bah! Poo-bah! Poo-bah!"
At that very moment, a garbage truck backs down the street, making that distinctive beeping noise scientifically designed to wake up a seven-year-old boy, who is scientifically designed to wake up me. So I can't tell you the end of the dream. But I can tell you this:
We're playing again tonight. And we're due for a win...I can feel it in my bones, unless that's the continued onset of old age.
Anyway, with tonight's game in mind, some baserunning and basecoaching tips.
1. When calling close plays, no more Mister Nice Guy. Ditto Mr. Timid Guy and Mr. I-Wasn't-Really-Watching Guy. The point is, from now on, if someone's not clearly and obviously out, we call 'em safe. In other words, (and this comes straight from the Big Book of Sports Cliches), "Tie Goes to the Runner."2. The Runner should always be Casey. Or someone who runs with the same determination.
3. I always thought it was "Thai Goes to the Runner," which explains my crazy baserunning.
4. What fascinates me about Uma Thurman isn't her brains or her body. It's how the vowels in her last name perfectly repeat the vowels in her first name. U-A, U-A. Some guys meet a gal and immediately begin assessing her stats (Runs Batted In, Home Runs Against Lefties, Lifetime Tringle Percentage). Me, I'm a vowel man. Show me a girl whose name replicates vowels and I'm hooked.
And now the sad news I've been holding back:
I have been sentenced to Re-Education Training tonight: My gruesome task is to sit in a dark room and watch through a two-way mirror as normal people react to ads, until I learn how normal people think. What this means is I won't be there, unless the room is really dark and I can sneak out without anyone noticing. But I'll send a deputy with the cone.
Whether I'm there or not, I have a good feeling about tonight. Let's get out there and win one for The Poobah.
#17. Shellacked
Since I'm going to California for a couple days, an abbreviated game report follows.
The Contest:
Combative ("You want a piece of me?") Mediavs.
Peace-loving, Poetry-reading Fulgent Star.
Quantity of Runs Scored:
Them: HugeUs: More than usual, but not huge.
Evidence of Personality Disorders
Them: Alarmingly largeUs: Just the normal psychoses and neuroses, plus one player with advanced TCF (traumatic cone fixation.)
Silver Lining:
Steroid Man Playing for Combative Media Refrained From Starting Neighborhood Riot (Barely).What I'm Doing To Recover From this Shellacking:
I'm going to Disneyland!
The next game, if memory and the left over wine coolers serve, is Wednesday. See you there.
#18. Onward to Victory
News Flash: Wednesday We Will Win.
(And I'm not just saying that to be alliterative. If I were, I would have thrown in something about Wicked Wizards With Weasels. Who Worship Wild Women. Wait -- Wild Woman Writers Who Wrestle Wealthy Wabbits. Whatever.)
To the contrary, the News Flash above is based on my patented research method, which consists of sitting around waiting for e-mail to arrive. And arrive it has, from the league office. Revealing that this Wednesday, Fulgent Star plays the last place team in the league!
That's right: I'm pleased to say we're not dead last. We're second-to-dead-last. And proud of it! Team.com, our Wednesday night rival, has a record even more dismal than ours.
So -- finally we catch a break. And just in the nick of time, as far as I'm concerned. After last week's dismemberment by the steroid-enhanced hands of Combative Media*, I was beginning to hear some discouraging comments from team members. Such as:
1. "Defeat is beginning to lose some of its luster for me." Well, sure. Everything fades.2. "The cone must go." Hey, give the cone a chance. It's still new on the team.
3. "No, you may not raise baby octopi in your tub, sir." Okay, this comment wasn't specifically from team members so much as from our hotel clerk in California. But it was still discouraging.
4. "How will you be taking care of the charges, sir?" No one in Southern California ever asks you to pay for anything. But every five minutes someone politely inquires about your charges...as if you had a bunch of cub scouts in tow that you were responsible for. How will you be taking care of them? Or, say, like you had a slew of inch-high infant octopi in your charge. Acquired through a highly informal, one-sided "loan" program from the Long Beach Aquarium. And yet, the minute you suggest raising them in the tub, they look at you like you're a leper. That's why I hate California.
Anyway, to the topic at hand. We play Team.com Wednesday night at Woodlawn Field in what the networks are billing as The Battle of The Last Place Titans. Game time is 6:00.
*Medically accurate footnote: Steroids don't enhance your hands. In fact, one sign of steroid abuse is huge biceps and dainty hands. Next time you're chatting with former Seahawk and millionaire steroid-abuser Brian Bosworth, check out his teacup sized hands. And tell him I said hello.
#19. The Spoils!
Where I come from (the Epsilon sector of Alpha Centauri), we have a saying: "To the Victors belong the Spoils." Since Epsilonians don't really have mouths, we don't actually say this -- we kind of grunt it out in a Morse code of squeaks and clicks, like dolphins. (In fact, we're the ones who taught the dolphins how to click.) But you get the picture.
Anyway, Victors we are. I was told the official score of Wednesday's game against Team.com several times, and believe me, it was something like 32-9, or 27-8 or 29-7. I don't remember precisely. But it was one-sided and we were on the high side.
Way to glow, Fulgent Star! Our second big win of the season. Let's keep it going.
So, on to the spoils. Certainly, you deserve a rich bounty after our winning performance. However, in lieu of a cash bonus, which I know you would just squander on trivialities like food and shelter, I've attached something of more lasting value: a lovely framable portrait of Dick Cheney holding his hands in the universal sign for "I'd like to help, but I can't." Feel free to use this as your new screen saver. (And if anyone from the legal department of US News & World Report complains, you don't know me.)
Cheney, of course, is the next middle-aged rich white man to sit drooling outside the seat of power in the White House, filling up Lyndon Johnson's famous pitcher. Which really wasn't filled with spit, by the way -- that was just a nicety provided by a reporter cleaning up LBJ's more vulgar version. Actually it wasn't even LBJ. He just repeated it famously. Have I lost you yet? Anyone still with me?
Anyway, as Dick "Desert Storm" Cheney told the GOP convention Wednesday night (and here I must paraphrase, as I fell into a deep slumber the moment he began speaking): "Bombs Away!" Or was that the gods whispering every time Brinker stepped up to the plate?
Either way, we had a great night at the plate and a great night in the field. As coach, I'll never forget the elation of being carried off the field on the shoulders of my grateful, cheering team members, unless that was just a dream I had later that night. Which would explain why Britney Spears was there, and dressed so inappropriately.
Also, we've had a lot of new faces lately and it's really helped. Thanks to all of you. I won't name names, because I'd have to go out and look them up in the scorebook. But please keep coming.
Next up: The Will Vinton agency, creator of the California Raisins. Lets pound 'em into playdough.
#20. Miracles vs Reality
Hey Team:
Hello and welcome to PAX-TV's hit series "It's Not A Miracle, But If We Bend The Truth A Bit and Spin It Just Right, We Can Make It Seem Like One."
In tonight's episode, a free-spirited young woman named Fulgia Star has just received a disturbing telegram. Okay, a disturbing e-mail. No, wait -- a disturbing Fed-Ex package. Her long lost uncle -- a man she barely knew -- has died in a freak accident involving a hydraulic lift and Britney Spears' grand piano.
Flashback to: Britney Spears dressing room. The uncle, a roady, is napping on top of the piano when Ms. Spears enters and accidentally activates the lift, raising the piano toward the ceiling.
If the trap door in the ceiling had been open, all would have been fine, sort of. The piano would have risen dramatically through the ceiling to the stage of the FargoDome with Uncle Harrell furiously twitching and snoring on its mahogany top. True, twenty thousand screaming teenagers would have been permanently traumatized. But that's life. Teenagers are going to be traumatized, if not by Uncle Harrell, then by Howard Stern or Internet Porn or Tipper Gore. It's a big ugly world out there.
However, as destiny would have it, the trap door was locked tight. As a result, Uncle Harrell and the piano were squashed against the ceiling like bugs. (This incident, by the way, is the basis for Britney's current hit, "Oops, I Did It Again.")
Anyway, they scrape Uncle Harrell off the piano and find a lottery ticket worth $20 million in his hand. This is chump change to Ms. Spears, of course, so she sends it to Harrell's only known relative, the free-spirited Fulgia Star.
Cut back to our opening scene: As the ticket flutters out of the Fed Ex box, Fulgia faces a moment of truth. Follow her husband's advice and invest it all in Accidental Asbestos Incorporated? Or follow her heart and give it to the Save the Whales and Feed the Orphans Fund?
Perplexed, she races to the beachfront offices of her husband, K. V. Ornery, but finds him occupied with a nubile surfer girl whose main talent is serving tequila shots without using her hands.
That takes us to the climatic shot: Fulgia on the beach alone, struggling with her personal demons. Greed or Idealism? Revenge or Forgiveness? Uma or Britney? (Wait -- those are my personal demons. Sorry.)
Suddenly the undertow has her. As the surf closes around her, all seems lost. Moments from drowning, she decides: Idealism! Forgiveness! Uma! (It was never close.) But how will she escape drowning and get back to shore??? (Cue the Enya soundtrack and bring up the angelic lighting as we move in for the miracle.)
Just at that moment, Dick Cheney is walking along the beach with his blind dog, Coney. Okay -- fair's fair -- Joe Lieberman is walking along the beach with his blind dog, Coney. Wait -- make it George W. Bush's babe-magnet nephew. And the blind dog.
Not wanting to get his hair wet, Babe Magnet is forced to stand by helplessly. But Coney the Blind Dog rushes into the surf! His keen sense of hearing tells him exactly where Fulgia is flailing! Going down for the last time, she grabs his collar! Take me to the Babe Magnet, Fulgia says, or rather thinks.
That's when the tsunami crashes over the beach, washing Fulgia, Coney the Blind Dog, Babe Magnet and Surfer Girl to a watery grave. The lottery ticket washes into the hands of K. V. Ornery, who uses it to buy a solid gold P.T. Cruiser. With the license plate ALL4ME. He makes a point of cutting you off every morning on the way to work. Music up and fade.
Moral: Reality bites. Also, we lost. Although if you bend the truth and spin it just right, we won.
The important thing is that they wanted to keep playing even though it was getting dark, and we stubbornly deprived them of that pleasure by invoking our right to quite after five innings. As we all learned in grade school, It's Not Whether You Win Or Lose, It's Who Quits First and Leaves the Other Player Stomping His Foot and Saying Phooey.
At least we got some great additions to the Fulgent Star highlight reel: Robyn throwing her bat. Kirsten timing her entrance to the microsecond. The bonfire of rejected ad concepts in centerfield, surrounded by viperous account managers. (Sorry...my personal demons again.)
Anyway, Wednesday we have another chance. We play at 7:30. It's our second-to-last game, so try to be there!
#21. Sucking It Up
One of my favorite baseball quotes of all time comes from Kirk Gibson who-- after sitting out the 1988 World Series with two nearly-busted knees --hobbled dramatically to the plate as a surprise pinch-hitter and blasted a historic game-winning home run for the Dodgers. Asked later if it hurt, he answered yes: "But I figured I could suck it up for one more A.B."
What I love most about that quote (aside from the irresistible combination of humility and machismo) was that the reporter was brave enough not to explain what "A.B." meant. He must have figured, "Hey, these are baseball fans, reading a baseball story. They'll know."
As a reader, I love that he didn't "write down" to me. Though why Gibson would have to suck it up for an Angry Butterball, I'll never know. I can only assume he was referring to Tommy Lasorda.
At any rate, it's time for our last At Bats (in the regular season, that is). We play Tuesday night at 6:00 p.m., University Field against Waggler Estrogen.
Due to a pharmaceutical error, I believe I may have mentioned previously that this team is practically unbeatable. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I have now been told (by several of the voices inside my head) that many, if not all, of Estrogen's best players are vacationing, resting for the playoffs, in drug rehab, etc.
As a result, the team we'll be facing is barely a wisp of shadow of a figment of a team. Easy pickings, in short. As Captain Kangaroo once said in a drunken moment, referring to Mr. Rogers, "He couldn't find his bee-hind with both hands." Although possibly it was Pat Buchanan who said that -- I was flipping around pretty fast that night. Why Pat Buchanan would badmouth Mr. Rogers is beyond me, although I'm pretty sure corporate welfare was involved.
Anyway, it's our last game (of the R.S., that is) so come prepared to party! The cone will make its dramatic return! Piping hot clam chowder will be served in unlimited quantities! After every home run, local car dealer Scott Thomason will dance a brief jig in centerfield and donate a car to Portland's homeless community!
These are just some of the many special festivities that have been planned. True, none of these plans have been implemented, nor will they be, but it's the thought that counts, to quote from the Democratic/Republican (choose one) Plan for Revitalizing America.
Needless to say, Uma Thurman will throw out the first beer. What could be better? See you there.
The Cone, outside The Seger File World Headquarters.
#22. Fulgent Star Year 2
Hey Team,
It is with a mixture of anticipation and foreboding that I announce the arrival of this year's softball season. Also a mixture of tequila and some oddly glowing substance that looks eerily like radiator fluid. Which could account for the tiny imperfections in my recent memories.
Indeed, the last thing I recall, we were in the midst of our victory celebration, spraying champagne on the clubhouse walls and talking about a two-peat. And yet, for the life of me, I can't remember anyone named Pete on the team. Maybe it was toupee, not two-peat. Well, whatever - it's time, as they say in The Show, to cork the bats and dust off the old cone, because Opening Day is right around the corner and down the hall a ways to the left. Next to the office that used to belong to whosis. Or whatshisname.
This year, there will be some major changes.
First and foremost, I'm delighted to announce that we have at long last secured a filthy rich corporate sponsor. Not for the team, but for a major $2 million renovation to our field. This is a multiyear deal, payable at the rate of $2 a year for a million years. With a primo sponsorship opportunity like this, you can imagine that competition among corporate moneymen was pretty fierce. You can also imagine Uma Thurman furiously rounding third base, if you like, her delicate arms pumping like tan whippets (whatever they are), as your cannon-like throw from deep centerfield arches ever-homeward toward the dusky center of the catcher's mitt. But to each their own sordid fantasies.
Anyway, the sponsorship deal came down to two contenders: The World Trade Organization, Global Surveillance Division (they're trying to gain a toehold in the Portland market) and Joe's Hemp World and Sheetrock Emporium. (Marketing slogan: "Whole Lotta Hemp! And Sheetrock.")
In the end, Joe's Hemp World made the better offer. (Specifically. their offer was, "Spoze you stop callin' me 'fore I come down there and whup your scrawny ass." The WTO, in contrast, merely put me into automated phone hell. Thus was opportunity lost and history changed. Please make a note of it.)
As a result of this savvy multilevel marketing coup, you can expect to see some major changes in our little sandlot. Of course, you can expect a lot of things in life, as I've learned the hard way. (See Uma fantasy above.) But what's really gonna happen at the ballfield is this: Crack vials and condoms will be removed every third Tuesday. Unless Joe is busy jammin' that day. Or shreddin'. Or spliffin'. Or teaching his macramé class. In which case, no cleanup, but we get to keep and resell any crack residue we find.
Now on to the important news. I will no longer be your coach this year. True, last year was something of a rebuilding effort, but I had expected more patience from the front office. Indeed, I was hoping for some kind of accommodation, preferably one in which I was paid $3.5 million annually for not coaching the team. Unfortunately, my golden parachute failed to deploy. Most galling of all was the fact that Portland TrailBlazers GM Bob Whitsitt didn't have the courtesy to fire me personally - and when I called his office, some arrogant minion tried to insist that Whitsitt has no involvement in Advertising League Softball decisions. Right. As if. Said minion then essentially repeated Joe's offer in more legalistic terms, substituting "restraining order" for "whup your scrawny ass."
Coach or not, I will continue to be involved, of course. In other words, I expect to keep drinking free beer on game nights.
In addition to that unpleasantness, there are a couple of other changes you'll want to be aware of.
First, in keeping with the example set by the Olympics anti-doping initiative, Dick Cheney will no longer serve as League Mascot. Instead, the sanctimonious "I'd like to help, but I can't, I just can't" hand gesture will be made by the reanimated corpse of Lorne Greene.
Also note this important rule change. Before the third inning, batters with two strikes will be allowed to "Double Down,"(with advance notice to the league office), unless runners are in scoring position. After the third inning, left-handed batters on the ascendant team will be required to Double Down, but only in game situations where the score differential is greater than three and the pitcher's middle initial is F. This change is designed to add excitement to the game and bring back the crowds we lost to the Mixed Seniors Checkers Tournament last year. (For a more detailed explanation of "Doubling Down," see your rule manual, page 307, Section 1402(b) subsection C. Offer void where prohibited. Contains no known carcinogens. Chances of winning 1 in 4 million - ironically, the same as our chances of winning more than five games this year.)
There's also a change in the dress code. This year, spikes may be worn, but only by Britney Spears. As in years past, there is no leading off Ms. Spears.
Lastly - but certainly not least - even though I am no longer officially your coach, I have taken it upon myself to upgrade the team cheer. Last year's cheer ("Way to glow, Fulgent Star!") was good, but today's competitive environment requires constant improvement. So, for this year's team cheer, I propose the following:
- Whiskey then beer, nothing to fear
- Beer before whiskey, pretty risky.
- Tequila and radiator fluid, you're screwed.
I'm still working on the meter for that last line, but it's basically there.
Now to the details:
The season begins July 16. Presumably it will last for 10 weeks. Or so. Games will be played at Whole Lotta Hemp Field in Wilshire Park in NE Portland at the beginning of the season and at Sheetrock Stadium (location to be determined) for the second half of the season.
Here's what you have to do: If you're interested in playing this year, let me know in one of two ways: Stand on your desk now and belt out "Take Me Out to The Ball Game." Or just e-mail me. Either way, I need to know by the end of day Friday.
Thanks,
Scott
#23. Goodbye Fulgent Star
If there's one thing I hate, it's a softball player who can't stop reliving the past -- you know, that great catch from last year. That home run which would have won the game if the wind hadn't caught it and turned it into a infield pop-up. That kid in fifth grade who told the first dirty joke I ever heard while I was standing on second base, causing me to become confused and run the bases backwards. In other words, the kind of guy who revels in the glory of a past that never was.
Me, I much prefer reveling in a future that never will be. (See Uma fantasies too numerous to mention.) And speaking of things that never will be, it is my sad duty to report that there will be no Fulgent Star softball team this year. It is also my sad duty to write some urgently needed ads, but to hell with that. Fulgent Star shines no more. Thus ends a glorious era which included quite a bit of company-purchased beer and a few wine coolers.
Some of you, I know, are asking why. The rest of you apparently have no curiosity whatsoever or are simply too numb on painkillers to care. In truth, the story behind this turn of events is a long one, and too complex to relate here. For those who seek answers, all I can say is that answer-seeking is a difficult undertaking, best left to professionals. The truth is out there, but it's darting around like a scared goldfish in a very small tank. A goldfish hotly pursued by the grubby hand of a gleeful eight-year-old, you might say, which to the fish would look like some huge multipronged Loch Ness thing.
Genetically speaking, I think all goldfish carry an inborn fear of the flush, even though they don't know what the flush is, and never find out until too late. That's what makes 'em dart so aggressively. What I wonder is why they (e.g., smiley-faced PTA volunteers) don't flush these things right on the spot at the school carnival instead of giving you the little baggy to take home just because your kid tosses a hoop onto a cone from the distance of three feet. Why not just flush 'em straight from the school facilities, which are made from hardened steel and ceramics and are much more powerful, flush-wise, compared to these new low-flow devices homeowners are required to buy. That would save the fish a lot of torment. Besides which, giving baby boomers a goldfish in a baggy and making them walk about in public is simply too ironic bear.
Anyway, as I was saying, if you were dreaming of playing for Fulgent Star this year, you can flush those dreams right down your low-flow plumbing device. The story the front office is putting out is that not enough people signed up. But you and I know the real reason has far more to do with a mysterious briefcase full of cash and assorted hex bolts (mainly 5/8 inch, galvanized) left at the League Office by the strange new alliance which is slowly taking over America: the Cali Drug Cartel and Home Depot. Their depraved agenda, as revealed on the Excrement in Broadcasting Network this morning, is to destroy America's softball leagues, thus encouraging suburbanites to get high and do home repairs. But it won't work. Or maybe it will.
Summing up, I know you've all put your heart into this team, and I'd like to thank you all personally. But that would be far too much work, so I'm using this mass e-mail instead. FYI, there will be some kind of Enhanced Softball Event this summer, I believe, involving quiz questions and Tringle hats and running the bases backwards. Maybe on some Saturday in August. So we can all get together and pull a hamstring for old time's sake. Stay tuned for further announcements.
In the meantime, thanks to all of you. Have a great summer. And if anybody knows any good names for a terrified goldfish, please e-mail me.
Thanks,
Scott
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