If I weren't lagging as usual, I'd already be on my way to Central Park for the 4th annual Pop Punk Softball convocation, which each year seems to attract a bigger so crowd, so much so that there's talk that we'll have to reserve at least two diamonds for next year's event. Founded by Jonnie Whoa Oh and artfully shepherded these past two years by Rich Grech, the day's festivities attract people from up and down the East Coast and even the Midwest.
As soon as I shave and otherwise prepare myself, I'll be there myself, and if you're wondering why I'm stopping to blog about it now instead of being on the train already, well, let's put it this way: last year I made the mistake of showing up on time and ended up getting picked to play in one of the games. This is something that wouldn't have happened if anyone had known of the undistinguished, nay, shameful softballing and baseballing record I compiled as a young boy. I was the kid who, when it came time to choose sides, not only got picked last, but was often the subject of bitter arguments between the two teams, to the effect of, "Why do we have to him on our team again? We always get stuck with him. You guys should take him this time."
How did I do last year? Well, I didn't make any fielding errors; thankfully the ball never came near me. No throwing errors, either. In fact, as it turned out I never touched the ball, not with hand, glove or bat, though I did take a number of what I thought were picturesque - albeit ineffectual - swings when I was at the plate.
So today I expect just to hang out and watch and socialize, and leave the on-field heroics to those better equipped for them. I'm not saying I'd be any better at it, but I'm hoping someone will get around to organizing a Pop Punk Soccer tournament one of these years. I'd probably still suck, but at least in soccer it's a little easier to make it look as though you're doing something worthwhile by running and flailing about with the requisite degree of franticness. Even Aaron Cometbus, ever suspicious of pop punk renaissances and the like, said he'd come along for that.
As soon as I shave and otherwise prepare myself, I'll be there myself, and if you're wondering why I'm stopping to blog about it now instead of being on the train already, well, let's put it this way: last year I made the mistake of showing up on time and ended up getting picked to play in one of the games. This is something that wouldn't have happened if anyone had known of the undistinguished, nay, shameful softballing and baseballing record I compiled as a young boy. I was the kid who, when it came time to choose sides, not only got picked last, but was often the subject of bitter arguments between the two teams, to the effect of, "Why do we have to him on our team again? We always get stuck with him. You guys should take him this time."
How did I do last year? Well, I didn't make any fielding errors; thankfully the ball never came near me. No throwing errors, either. In fact, as it turned out I never touched the ball, not with hand, glove or bat, though I did take a number of what I thought were picturesque - albeit ineffectual - swings when I was at the plate.
So today I expect just to hang out and watch and socialize, and leave the on-field heroics to those better equipped for them. I'm not saying I'd be any better at it, but I'm hoping someone will get around to organizing a Pop Punk Soccer tournament one of these years. I'd probably still suck, but at least in soccer it's a little easier to make it look as though you're doing something worthwhile by running and flailing about with the requisite degree of franticness. Even Aaron Cometbus, ever suspicious of pop punk renaissances and the like, said he'd come along for that.
4 comments:
I'd be happy to organize a pop punk soccer match. Pat started playing again in Berkeley, and I might join in one of these days. This, of course, would have to take place in the east bay.
I seem to remember you getting a hit last year.
You remember with great inexactitude.
I'm all in for Pop Punk Soccer, if anyone flies me in.
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