An Existential Crisis, Burbank, CA (March 16th, 2014) – Well, fuck.

This is easily the hardest column I’ve had to write since taking on the unenviable task of covering the Missouri Waltz softball team. It might very well be the hardest thing I’ve had to write, ever, and that includes my grade school book report for the world’s most boring biography (on James Madison, the perpetually frail and dull “father” of the constitution). My teacher made me rewrite it DURING THE SUMMER.

Last Thursday’s rout at the hands of Vandelay Industries was one of the more stomach churning defeats I’ve faced in my life (and my formative baseball years came on a shitty little league team called the Jedi Knights). Judging by the muted atmosphere of my Waltz teammates (which still feels weird to say), I wasn’t alone. For just that reason, it’s a tough task to venture back into the belly of shame, and stumble out with a column that doesn’t make you sick and kill you. Plus, it’s rather difficult taking notes in between rape, and my notebook was practically bereft of details or anecdotes from the epic lambasting that occurred at the hallowed Olive #2 field. I think you can forgive me for wanting to forget the matchup.

After a weekend of heavy drinking, and drowning my sorrows in nauseating piles of meat, I hoped to wash away the throbbing pain of victory, and take solace in the carnal pleasures proffered by Los Angeles. But, I learned it’s difficult to get hard after such an emasculating defeat.

This column will ensure we never will forget, transmogrifying the faint memories we have of the game, that are akin to the light scratches of graphite from a pencil tip, into harsh strokes from a Sharpie, permanently etched across our frontal lobe like a cosmic “L” sign. Hopefully, rather than exacerbate the problem, this article serves as therapeutic, a tool for motivation, or represents the bottom before a triumphant upswing, leading the Waltz to an encouraging playoff performance.

Before first pitch, everything was awesome. It was such a sunny, beautiful day in Burbank, and for a few minutes, all was right in the universe. It seemed as if Vandelay Industries might even forfeit, which had been a very real possibility for the Waltz coming into the game. A few of the squad got in a productive and effective mini-practice beforehand. *SPOILERS* Even TRUE DETECTIVE got a happy ending. Why couldn’t we?

But, it turns out the universe was merely playing with us, chewing us up and spitting us out, like a dog would a shoe, or your girlfriend would during oral sex. We just got snowballed. We were tempted with that elusive feeling of glory, blinded by delusions of grandeur, of playing with a makeshift roster and still finally announcing our presence in the vaunted C division (it should be noted again, that it’s the third highest division…of four) by beating a team that the Waltz’s arch-rivals The Goodfellas had smeared the week prior.

Instead, we were the (pap) smear.

After coming through in a pinch a couple weeks prior, I was called on again, along with a couple other super subs (Stacy and Jack), to replace SS Dan Bence, SP/Coach Jim Wolfe Jr., Alicia Pharris and Bret Watkins, among others. Jack would take the mound and bless us with his Happy Gilmore-like swing (albeit with slightly better results), and Stacy played a rousing game at catcher, rounding out a brand new battery for the early evening game. Stacy also had a nose stud, and hit it out of the infield, which was a feat for this squad. We all proved inadequate band aids for the massive, gaping, cavernous holes in the roster left vacated by the Waltz veterans, who all had “real life” obligations to attend to. The result was like trying to waltz without your partner. Awkward, lonely, and worse, embarrassing.

The weather was a factor early. It was almost too sunny (sorry east coast), as the glowing orb in the sky attacked hitters in the batter’s box, lending a helping hand in sending Brandon Klaus to the pine with a backwards-K to lead off the game. We didn’t realize it at the time, but that one at bat set the tone for what was to come.

Other than that awful fucking omen, the game started out innocently enough. It was 2-1 after 2 innings, and 3-2 after three innings, Team Seinfeld staked to a slight lead. Wolfman Jack was dealing, showing no ill effects from months on the shelf, and the defense, aside from a certain right fielder (me), was humming. Collin was a vacuum in the infield, pulverizing every possible defensive metric in his path. Charlie had the pleasure of catching three pop ups at 1B, which is sad (for the Vandelay Industries). Brant continued his stellar run in LF.

Stephen Leggitt added another homer to his gaudy totals, though if I was keeping score, I would’ve called it a four base error, as the left fielder misplayed it so bad he should be in NBC’s BAD JUDGE pilot. Of course, I also had my chance to misplay a ball that almost reached the infield of the other diamond, leading to a round tripper for the bane of my existence, the lefty leadoff man who either hit it over my head, in front of me, or in the gap, every single time (save for a late at bat in which Graham made an awesome grab at 2B). In addition, I practically misjudged or misplayed every ball hit to me, so that was nice, a harsh reminder of why so few members of the press make the leap to the other side. It’s a lonely road for a reason.

But even so, we were hanging in there, the bats lying mostly dormant, but still keeping us in the game, merely a run or two behind. Then…the fourth inning happened. The less said about the fourth inning, the better. It will remain a stain on our careers. The Vandelay club started to hit everything hard (ripping the condom off), making even routine plays difficult, and along with a parade of gappers, the errors came in bunches, and we limped back into the dugout down 15-2, in danger of being mercy ruled.

That would happen after the 5^th inning, but the Vandelay Industries gave us the option to play on. I’d say they were being kind, but they clearly just wanted to continue to rub it in, taking solace in being on the other side of a rout this time around. If there’s one thing you can say about every member of the Missouri Waltz ballclub, is that each one of us/them is a glutton for punishment.

And so we played to the bitter end. It’d have been brave and honorable if it wasn’t so sad. Innings would be lucky to last more than a few batters over the minimum. Rallies had less of a chance for survival than a Blockbuster. I got to hit 3 times in 7 innings, a pathetic total. Everyone on the squad got a hit, but not many got more than one, and rarely did anyone ever score.

Even when we did, it was a chore, as evidenced by Collin’s innumerable adventures around the base paths. During some middle inning, when the game was well out of hand, Collin made the turn for home on a base hit. It was a relatively close play, but one made closer by Collin’s slide. Scoring standing up would’ve been more effective and safer. A straightforward slide might’ve been the best call, but Collin was wearing shorts that would make John Stockton blush, so instead, he dove head first, only managing to tap the special softball home plate diaper. The ball arrived around the same time, and he lurched again to grasp home, and did so, barely avoiding the tag. Considering Scruffy, the blind, deaf and incontinent umpire likely didn’t see any of it, the whole play likely didn’t matter. But it was one of the few successful and fun highlights of the game. In the final inning, Collin must have been hearing imaginary commands from Dustin Hoffman (“Run home Jack!”), as he turned a triple into a pickle between third and home. How you get a pickle in between 60 feet base paths is beyond me, but it didn’t end as happily this time around. He’s no Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez.

While the effort hasn’t lagged, it’s officially time to start worry about the Waltz offense. The Waltz were missing arguably their two best hitters (certainly their highest OBP men), but there is no excuse for scoring less than 10 runs in a softball game. Graham hit into 2 double plays, the pop ups came in droves, and everyone did their part in killing any momentum. We were like McLovin if we ever found a hole.

Nothing went our way, and even removing my defensive difficulties from the picture, the Vandelay Industries simply outhit us by miles, spraying lasers all over the field, taking advantage of our lack of a rover in the outfield. How do baseball teams play with three outfielders?

After the game, I was paid my fee, a crisp $20, which was less than what we lost by. I’ve never felt worse taking money in my life (but I did take it). The game hurt so bad, that no one wanted to stink up The Blue Room with our presence. The Blue Room is a place where 55 year olds make out with impunity. We were so bad, that we didn’t deserve Coors Light (and Coors Light sucks).

The Waltz went 5-0 in the D league. Now they’re 0-3, two games away from an absolute Jekyll and Hyde performance. It’s easy to get down after such a soul-crushing defeat, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Dan, Jim, Alicia, Bret and company, should return next week, and they have the ultimate motivator: the Goodfellas, and a chance at redemption and a sexy tale that even Hollywood couldn’t screw up. As Commander Peter Quincy Taggart once said (a lot): Never give up, never surrender.

The Burbank Gazette

Missouri Waltz, Week 7

By Andy Greene/Lt. Eckhart/Maury Chessel

Von’s Smelly Parking Lot, Burbank, CA (March 10th, 2014) – There’s a time in every person’s life when they have to look inside themselves, and wonder: is it worth it? Do I have what it takes? Am I fooling myself? Do I look fat in these jeans?

The Missouri Waltz ballclub may be asking those very personal and disturbing questions behind closed doors after their latest collapse, dropping to 0-2 in the C division, and 5-2 overall, if we want to make them feel better.

This week they visited the Cobras (1-0, 2-3, C division), hoping to position themselves as the illustrious Mongoose/Mongeese. But, as is often the case when a group of people attempt to be something they’re not, they looked like jackasses.

They hoped to at least be the Snake Charmer, with the ability to hypnotize the Cobra. Instead, they were lured and hypnotized by the Cobra themselves, becoming easy prey in the process.

The Cobras, whispering the mantra of their dojo (“Strike First, Strike Hard, No Mercy”) under their breath, and embracing the wise teachings of Sensei John Kreese, punished the upstart Waltz, in a low scoring 13-9 final.

Picking up after the 1^st inning, because someone mixed up the fields (I’m not smarter than a 5^th grader), the Missouri Waltz had pounced on the Cobras, staking themselves to a 5-3 lead, thanks to a litany of walks and singles. Once the press arrived, it was all downhill, leading many to speculate that I was the reason the team ultimately faltered. I think it’s poppycock, but excuses are the language of losers.

The lead held for a while, as the Waltz continued to tack on, thanks to a “HR” by leadoff man Brandon Klaus. In baseball, it’d be a single with a three base error, but his shot to the grass was misplayed by someone who clearly is not William Zabka, leading to a round tripper and many a pat on the ass.

While the offense was doing just enough early, the real story was Jim “Geronimo” Wolfe Jr.’s new wardrobe accessory: the beret, which I think is something John Wayne wore once. It’s also French, obnoxious and artsy, some words of which I could use to describe the enigmatic ace pitcher for the Waltz. As keen observer/2B Bret Watkins pointed out, he’s added a new compliment to his wardrobe every week. First it was the Wild Thing glasses, this week it was the Beret, and next week better be Randy Quaid. His new look and style would be the talk of the bleachers, leaving men and women alike swooning, if the Waltz had anyone to sit in them (I sometimes feel like I’m being paid to be a fan). Instead, the Cobras’ kids were being loud and obnoxious. Softball was invented so middle-aged men and women could get away from their significant others and their children. Keep the bastards at home.

Anyways, Wolfe had his pitching do the talking this week, including dropping down the Rainbow, freezing two batters. If a tie is like kissing your sister, striking out looking in softball is like fucking her in the ass with your parents watching. [Alternate sentence that doesn’t make me want to puke: Striking out in softball is one of the universe’s biggest sins to which we all inevitably succumb to, but striking out looking, like foosball and women, is the devil.] No matter how you put it, Wolfe struck two of the Cobras out looking, necessitating me spending way too long in the Word symbol database to try and find (and fail) a backwards K. Like so:  His stuff was so impressive, the sissy umpire gave him the most backhanded compliment the world has ever seen: “You would be a good pitcher for Glendale.” While Spielberg started Dreamworks in Glendale, the city is most known for killing dreams, the Hillside Strangler and for housing a cemetery where famous people are put under ground. Thanks blue.

Because Wolfe’s eephus’ (eephi?) were working, the Cobras copied the strategy, putting in their double secret ace pitcher (let’s call him Cobra Commander), who specializes in illegal pitches and lollipops, neither of which the Waltz liked. Except for Wolfe, who deposited a single calmly into left field, took an extra base, then scored on two consecutive sac flies. If a tie is like kissing your sister, a sac fly in softball is like snogging your second cousin. You shouldn’t be proud of it, but you kind of are.

After three innings, the Waltz held onto an 8-5 lead. Their defense had mostly held up their end of the bargain, a far cry from last week, only allowing 2 unearned runs thus far. It was their offense that was underperforming this time around, a trend that would continue over the final 5 innings. Their frustration was summed up by 1B Charlie Back (and next week’s arm): “This pitcher is really starting to piss me off.”

Around this time, something unsettling drastically changed the game’s entire landscape: the umpire, realizing the Waltz had left their donut outside of the dugout, whined, complained and put it in the dugout for the team, due to precautionary/bullshit reasons. Who knows why, but this was the turning point of the game. As soon as the donut was put away, the Waltz kept putting up donuts in their half of the inning.

Before I backup that ridiculous statement with anything resembling evidence, let’s take a break to spotlight a player I haven’t talked about yet, in a new MATCH.COM sponsored sub-section I like to call: SQUEEZING IN ANECDOTES. Eric “the Wanderer” Patton, a reserved man who travels a lot, leaving his two delightful kids behind, entered into my heart for the first time this past week. Perhaps it was his angular and well-sculpted face, his firm handshake, or his hustle around the bases. Most likely it was his number: 142. The man is the Answer to Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything + 100. He’s Jackie Robinson + 100. He’s the inverse of Ken Griffey Jr., + 100. He uses three digits on his uniform, which is stupid and badass at the same time. Whether it’s an accident or by design or cosmic fate, it’s clear the Missouri Waltz are better for having all 142 shades of Eric.

As alluded to previously, the defense didn’t blow this week. The turnaround had many factors, including the benefit of playing against “the human double play” (AKA Marcus), but the overall stellar performance was symbolized by Brant Malan’s superb play in left field. By official count, he made 56 put outs in left field on annoying fly balls, which is a record (fuck Jacoby Ellsbury), and was all over the outfield, making the grass his bitch (and earning the unfortunate moniker of Lawnmower Man).

Inbetween inflating his stats while DH’ing, Bret Watkins is an amateur nutritionist, already angling for a viable career after he hangs up his dirty cleats. His game day diet included a cinnamon roll, a “healthy” salad to appease the woman, top ramen, and 2 shots of whiskey. They need to get this guy on the Biggest Loser. While the Cobra Kai’s have their mantra, Bret has his: “sugar [like greed] is good.” Judging by the outcome of their game, one of their mantras is more effective.

My favorite part of the contest, aside from embarrassing myself by talking to the other team, had to be Alicia Pharris’ at bat in the 4^th (?) inning. She took the maximum number of pitches one can take in softball (and while it felt like 17, it was more like 5), and worked one of the more impressive walks in softball history. For a team that prides itself on the free passes, this one will be etched into the annals of Waltz history. Considering the misogynistic pitcher apparently grumbled, “Take that walk baby,” the Cobras cemented themselves as arch nemeses…until the Goodfellas come to town.

In the bottom of the fourth, Collin rocketed a ball to 1^st that Charlie got handcuffed by, allowing 3 runs to score, and after 4 innings…the score was all nodded up at 8-8. You know what they say about ties.

While it’s easy to get down on oneself, or be discouraged, catcher Graham Showell doesn’t let that happen. He’s the squad’s cheerleader, the man who tells every runner to hold, but never holds back his enthusiasm and encouragement. In a dugout full of sarcasm and self-doubt, Graham Showell truly does stand out. It’d be inspiring if it worked.

The umpire continued to get distressed over the silliest things, admonishing Brandon for “tricking” the Cobras into thinking that a base runner was heading to second. But, as is the weekly custom, he also gave the Waltz the blown call that could’ve opened the floodgates, calling Wolfe safe on second when he clearly wasn’t, after a diving play by the shortstop no less. The call led to a run, as the Waltz continued to hustle and take extra bases, even in the face of the Cobra’s cannons in the outfield. The Waltz led 9-8 going into the bottom of the 5^th, sitting pretty, if by pretty, you mean Sarah Jessica Parker.

The Waltz wouldn’t score another run, which I hear is the point of softball. The Cobras know that…and after they had lulled the Waltz into a false sense of security…they managed to put together a rally, hinging upon the gangly Dominic, who was clearly the Rudy of the team. When he singled, the squad reacted like it was the first hit of his career, or as if he’d cured AIDS. The former is more likely true. After a plane from nearby took off, so did the Cobras Ringer, a late arriving stud of an athlete who blasted a 3-run mammoth shot, that was nearly Jim Edmonds’d by Brandon in left center. But it wasn’t, and the score was 13-9 after 5.

Inbetween innings, two kids in the stands were playing with sticks, perhaps simulating a lightsaber duel, or gay sex. Their mother, naturally concerned, ordered the kids: “Don’t whack each other with that.” These words don’t really describe the plight of the Missouri Waltz and encapsulate some jaw-dropping metaphor in the process, but needed to be thrown out there. And perhaps the Waltz unwittingly heeded this astute mother’s advice: they were too timid, cautious, careful, and not letting loose and whacking the ball with the bat.

Hoping to spur a rally, Brant cried, “Encouraging words here,” when the warriors returned to the dugout. Perhaps the Waltz needed more specifics, or weren’t familiar with the term. Graham started the inning off with a walk (when the count was 3-1, the grizzled manager said he would “kill him if he swings”), but the rally was snuffed out immediately, when Alicia’s line shot turned into an easy DP. It’s taking every fiber of my being not to make a DP joke.

After another scoreless inning for both sides, the time was now.

Or never. K-PO-1B-GO. Not nearly the sad 1-2-3 “comeback” inning of last week, but not much better, leaving the final tally to be 13-9, or 10-4 after the press arrived to ruin all the fun. Stephen thought to himself four times that I was the reason they had lost. I think the donut theory is more likely, but most likely? They were doomed from the start, unable to withstand the might of the Cobra Kai.

Graham, ever the cheerleader previously, said it all after the final out: “Well, shit.”

Well shit indeed.

Charlie Back’s favorite childhood toy was the Teddy Ruxbin (which explains a lot), and after the game, he felt like he had gotten raped by him, a delightful image. The Waltz, after the close defeat, debated whether or not they’d rather have been smoked by the Cobras instead. Dan Bence, ever the philosopher (and human embodiment of the San Antonio Spurs), silenced the chatter with a quote from his third favorite Batman villain (after the Clock King and Egghead): “There’s no true despair without hope.” Heavy, Doc.

While the rest of the team was shaken and battered emotionally, Collin took solace in his post-game ritual, which never wavers, win or lose: a lukewarm Perrier.

Lukewarm is how I feel about the Missouri Waltz’s chances going forward. The team has talent, guts, panache, but also is too streaky for its own good, and more consumed with stats and girlfriends than the glory that can come from domination on the diamond. While team chemistry and the clubhouse dynamic is dynamite…the Waltz record in the C division is proof enough that having fun doesn’t equate to having success. The upside is there: they scored over 20 runs while missing half their roster last week, and managed to keep a team to 13 this week. If they can put together all facets of the game at once, they might be waltzing their way through the playoffs.

Right now, Brandon is right when he asserts that they deserve the disrespect they’re getting from the C league.  Like Rodney Dangerfield, they’re ultimately too worried about getting respect, and being disrespected, than earning it. Next week against Vandelay Industries they have a tough test, but one that could go a long way in silencing their critic(s).

If the Waltz played as well as they sang Eddie Vedder songs or were as knowledgeable about the game as they are about FAMILY MATTERS, I’d be a helluva lot more optimistic. Guaranteed.

News & Notes

• When asked if this was her first Missouri Waltz experience™, Allie, a season ticket holder (sucks for her) of the Missouri Waltz, responded: “God no.” Those two words seem telling. Also, she’s a Pisces and said #99 (Brandon) is “mine,” as if she was a vampire lording over her human concubine. Or a woman.
• Many Fantasy Softball players had expressed concern over the condition and mental wellbeing of Stephen Leggitt after his Grade 2 concussion against the Scrubs. When asked about the incident, his eyes glazed over and he struggled to remember the incident. But, we do know that after having a sizable bump on his head last week, the swelling has reduced to the size of a bouncy ball. Of course, this diagnosis comes from Leggitt, who still may be experiencing concussion-like symptoms. Stay tuned on this developing story.
• The case of the missing waitress (Erin, to her stalkers) may have been solved. Wolfe found her in a Trader Joe’s parking lot, driving away, most likely because she realized a patron from the bar she worked at was watching her. She also apparently has started going to Pharmaceutical school, and only works at the Blue Room on the weekends. Her connection with drugs, and the Missouri Waltz ongoing substance abuse problem, might be a coincidence.

Last week, I began my odyssey into co-ed men’s softball, chronicling the lives and careers of a few motley men from Missouri. Here’s the sequel, which unless it’s EMPIRE, is usually worse than the original. Keep that in mind (and the state song of Missouri, below, in your ears) as you read on…

Poop-Smeared Jungle Gym, Burbank, CA (March 5^th, 2014) – What does Nicholas Cage, the Missouri Waltz and David Robinson have in Common? The numbers 5-0, baby (Cage is 50 years old and David Robinson’s number was 50, as if that wasn’t obvious). Or they did. After steamrolling through the D division and clinching the top spot in the playoffs sometime soon, Missouri Waltz rode high on victory (and Quaaludes) entering their first match up in the vaunted C division (note: there are still 2 divisions above it). In reality, the closest thing to Victory that the Waltz rode in on was Victory Blvd. They no longer share 5-0 with Cage and Robinson.

Now they share 5-1 with Ichiro Suzuki and Paula Abdul, after a 29-21 shellacking at the hands of the misleadingly named Scrubs. Well, I suppose it works if you imagine that the Scrubs would put on scrubs and take the opposing team to the ER in the nearest hospital after a good assault, maybe. Pretend that was a better joke (?); I’m no Superman.

Despite being undefeated, the Missouri Waltz weren’t altogether too confident going into the game. The Scrubs had “cleaned [their] clocks” the last time around, and the superstitious player-manager Jim Wolfe Jr., noted that they had “never won in this [3^rd base] dugout.” The dread for the next five grueling games in the C division practically burst from their pores like so much pus. All of the signs were against the Waltz, though signs had nothing to do with the fact that half the team didn’t bother to show up. That was because players didn’t read the schedule (or do so correctly), or the LA traffic, a convenient excuse. More likely, they were scared.

While the Missouri Waltz were lucky to field six players, the Scrubs had six players who looked like the Monstars from Space Jam (Shawn Bradley not included) warming up on the opposite foul line.

One homeless woman was the only person on the Waltz’ side of the bleachers. After an awkward conversation, it turned out that she was a husband for one of the Scrubs’ players named “Andy.” It was an unsettling glimpse into my future.

Before my impartiality was permanently wrecked, I interviewed the least talented man on the Scrubs team. Meet the garish C-RF, who will heretofore be known as Douche. He was “a little nervous” going into the game, but to be fair, it was a leading question and Douche bats twelfth. At this point, the Waltz had 5 players TOTAL in attendance, so I suggested he switch sides, which I think he thought was a come on. Douche.

The rest of the Scrubs weren’t fazed by the task at hand. They started the year in the B division, after all, though they went 2-3 or 1-4 (clearly they don’t take their stats as seriously as the Waltz; in fact, stats are the only thing the Waltz do take seriously), and found themselves seeking redemption in the C league.

The outlook was dire. Mere hours from a torrential downpour the likes LA has never seen, the Waltz thought they might luck into a postponement. Instead, “ghost runners” were being discussed as a distinct possibility, and they had 3 minutes to get more players, and weren’t even close to fielding a full roster.

While it takes two to tango, and the same to Waltz, this was softball dammit, and the Missouri Waltz were one shy from being able to play at game time. Thanks to a tremendously tolerant/stupid umpire, and one bystander having the heart of a lion, the Missouri Waltz were saved. Yours truly was drafted into double duty, the first press-player in the sport’s history, breaking barriers that Bob Costas never dreamed of and even Jackie Robinson could only speculate at. Maury Shessel (my codename, an absent member of the roster) had arrived, just in time to allow the Waltz to get mostly crushed over the next 7 innings, and play catcher in a tie, slacks and dress shoes. It was the crowning achievement of my sporting career, except for that one time I shattered a wood bat (Ichiro replica, ‘natch) during a session at the batting cage.

After such a hectic and nerve-wracking start, the Waltz looked hapless. Prior to first pitch, Wolfe had intimated that his arm felt “shaky,” remarking that his arm felt better last week. Considering he’s the (only) horse on the staff (and pitching every game), it was natural to speculate about rotator cuff injuries. It’s exactly the kind of encouragement you want to hear as a catcher, and it was prescient for what was to come.

The Scrubs certainly didn’t need a Kickstarter Campaign to get on the board early, as they ambushed Jim Wolfe’s achy arm from the first pitch on, scoring 7 runs before we could get off the field, and we tried every chance we could get. The rout seemed on, and the embarrassment was in full force, considering everyone on the team exited the field prematurely (a personal problem for many), believing it to be 3 outs. It was just 2, allowing for another run or two to score afterwards (my notes read: “We suck at everything”).

But enough about them; let’s talk about me, the reason they could play/lose this game. With one measly run across in the first inning, I crept up to the plate, trying to emulate whatever routine I once had, and shaking the doldrums out of my bones, that had lain dormant for 4-5 years of baseball inactivity. The drama was akin to Casey coming to Bat, or any time Roy Hobbs steps to the dish in The Natural. Unfortunately, there was no literal tearing the cover off the ball, or broken lights (the field didn’t even have any). I struck out on three straight pitches (counts start at 1-1; I snuck a foul ball in there), suffering sports’ biggest ignominy. It had been years since I had played baseball of any kind, but seriously? I’m sorry.

You know what else is sorry? After two innings it was 13-1, and it felt even more insurmountable than that, as if perhaps forfeiting due to an insufficient number of people would’ve been a friendlier fate.

Then, we stopped sucking. Well, at least on offense. Our defense was looser than Snooky’s hoo-ha, but more on that later (the defense, not hoo-ha’s).

In the third inning, the Missouri Waltz bats came alive with a 5 run rally, and the Scrubs could only counter with a pitiful 3. That was just a warm-up for the top of the fourth, when the Waltz lit up the diamond like they were competing in the Missouri Dance Festival. 9 runs were pushed across the board, including a homerun by Jim Wolfe Jr., bringing the deficit down to 1 run. Lest us not forget, that the Waltz wouldn’t have come close without a ridiculously favorable call on an infield fly that prolonged the rally, when Graham Showell mistook a measly pop up to short with a homerun; at least, that’s the only thing I can come up with (aside from a Black Sox situation) for why he’d take off with the bases loaded, one out. Somehow the ump called him safe at second on the double play, and the rally bore on, much like this article. The umpire gave the Missouri Waltz chances upon chances, and they completely ignored them.

The MVP for the offense this day went to Bret Watkins. The man was perfect on the night, reaching base all five times at the plate, pairing a couple of walks with three hits, including the first grand slam in the history of the Missouri Waltz. Watkins OPS was equivalent to a certain press-player’s number of total bases (3). If Watkins 3.000 OPS was a legitimate entrant into the annals of the MLB statbook (and even if we were playing baseball, small sample size considerations would have to be addressed), it’d be more than double the record for OPS by a player (Barry Bonds, 2004, 1.4217, at the ripe age of 39). League officials suspect “random” drug testing might hit the Missouri Waltz hard in the coming weeks, considering Bret Watkins’ grand slam was the first extra-base hit he had all year. Suspicious. Plus, it’s his walk year and the confidence he has about the playoffs is insane/arrogant/stupid: “Write this down: I will hit 7 grand slams in the playoffs.” I’m going out on a limb here and predicting that Joe Namath, he ain’t.

The Scrubs didn’t lie down and take it, instead countering with 4 more runs of their own, including several “homeruns” that were merely gap shots that dribbled to the ends of the universe/grass field. GET FENCES BURBANK.

The Waltz had one more outburst left in them in the top of the 6^th that gave them a satisfying, but fleeting lead (that I don’t remember even happening, but so sayeth the scorecard). In the inning (or it could’ve been the fourth, I was playing), newly anointed cleanup hitter Alicia Pharris (and noted Taurus) hit a blast over the left fielder’s head, who was caught cheating in on the ball like the sexist pig that he is.

Dan Bence rebounded from his worst performance of the season last week with a 4 for 5, 4 R, 4 RBI day at the office, and one of the few players on defense that didn’t look like they were running from the cops. Wolfe continually preached patience, swearing that the Scrubs pitcher would walk anybody and everybody if they took the first two pitches. He might’ve been right, but most of us didn’t bother to find out (with the exception of noted walk enthusiasts Graham Showell and Watkins). Wolfe never walked either, but he also went 5 for 6 with 4 RBI, so he’s forgiven.

Then again, offense wasn’t the problem. Brant Malan sprinkled on two hits of his own, driving in 3. The less we speak of their offensive performance the better, but Charlie Back and Showell at least showed up, which is more than I can say for many on the Waltz roster.

Which is as good a segue as any to pimp my own stats. After an unsightly and embarrassing beginning, I went 3 for 4, with 4 RBI, and a whole lot of liners placed gloriously in-between shortstop and third base. Decent, but as the highest paid (read: only player on salary) “athlete” on the team, more was needed, especially with the drop in quality (and delay) of this column this week. Whoops.

Stephen Leggitt had the shortest RBI in baseball/softball history, with a tapper that landed inches from home. His reward? A softball to the dome. He technically reached base due to the error on the throw, so the RBI shouldn’t count, but we’ll give it to him in exchange for the bruise. He wasn’t so lucky later in the evening. Entering the game, the lefty masher was 19 for 22, which I hear is pretty good. Then he popped up, ending his consecutive plate appearances with a hit streak at 12 (which tied Wally Dropo’s MLB record). In fact, he went 3 for 6 in this game, delivering more outs than he had in the previous 5 games combined. After his adventure in the 1^st inning, speculation was that Leggitt was legging out a concussion, which isn’t recommended or effective. The Waltz didn’t follow the league mandated concussion protocol, and likely will suffer some sort of punishment in the coming days. Of course, perhaps their foes in the C division might take care of that.

But as I’ve pussyfooted around so far, defense was the problem this game, as there were at least 10 errors or extra bases given due to poor routes, lackadaisical play or being afraid of the ball. The Waltz were, however, playing a man down in the outfield, without their customary and key Rover position, and in an outfield that ends as soon as the parking lot, that’s a big deal. It’s also an excuse.

The lone highlight in the field, aside from a diving catch by Leggitt in center (that was trapped, according to the Scrubs, though I kind of bought the assessment), was that shortstop Dan Bence apparently called the next pitch: a liner right at him. Unfortunately, he also called the outcome of this game correctly: a loss, and that the club’s six game winning streak (dating back from last season), would end. Insert cunning insight about self-fulfilling prophecies here.

Even so, with their defensive lapses and inconsistent offensive output, the Waltz had all the momentum…until the Scrubs pummeled another 9 runs down the Waltz’ throats (what are they, the Bang Bros?).

Because of the earlier delay of game (thanks to a lack of players), the umpire was close to calling the game after 6 innings, because the next game had to start (for the ESPN18 doubleheader). Things looked dire…but the Waltz somehow managed to retire the side in the bottom of the sixth with ONE MINUTE to spare, before the game would’ve ended then and there (because the Scrubs were the home team and softball is for pussies/drunks).

So the Waltz had a glimpse of hope, and Lady Fate appeared to be on their side, with 3 outs to deliver a gargantuan 9 run comeback, crafting a brilliant sequel to the game two weeks previously against the Bad News Beers when the Waltz roared back from a 12 run deficit in the final inning (Heathcliff Slocumb must’ve been closing). It would’ve made for a terrific story, an even better column, and a triumphant arrival into the C division, trumpeting the cause of new contenders for the throne of mediocrity.

Instead, the bad news arrived at the Waltz’s doorstep this time around. You’d be forgiven for mistaking their “last gasp” effort in the 7^th for choking on the proverbial dick, as the Waltz limped to the finish with a 1-2-3 inning, an undignified softball rarity.

As alluded to previously, in whatever kind of derivation of softball we were playing, each count begins 1 and 1. To alert every player of this situation that is common knowledge to all, an umpire can yell “one to waste.” This oft-used phrase could’ve just as easily described Waltz’s attitude toward the game.

Because “the Cheetah doesn’t always get the mongoose, but he always gets a beer,” (QUE?) several of the beleaguered Waltz team retreated to the Blue Room for shitty beer representative of their performance. The team’s mood would be aptly, and dully, described as “excited” and “angry.” They were disappointed by the loss, but were encouraged that they had stuck with a C division team, and more hopeful for the future than they had previously. Again, this is a team that lost by 8 runs and played defense worse than Gary Sheffield (when he played 3B/SS).

But they came out of the game with fire in their loins, and new enemies to add to their shit list, because if anything, the Missouri Waltz play softball in order to collect new people to hate, like they’re Pokemon cards (except no one hates Pokemon cards). Hate is a good motivator, especially if you’re a Sith lord, or aiming to become one, and hopefully the Dark Side will serve the Waltz better next week.

Before the players got into their respective cars and drove off into the night, the Waltz were greeted with an inspiring sight: the awkward and uncomfortable visage of a middle age makeout sesh at the bar. While Middle Age Makeouts (dibs on band name!) are embarrassing and uncomfortable for the rest of the world, for those in the moment, exchanging their juices, it’s absolutely necessary. It’s life, it’s passion, it’s beautiful, it might even be love; it’s certainly a reminder of youth, just the reminder that this Missouri Waltz squad need with their next test ahead.

News & Notes:

• Big Mama’s and Papa’s Pizzeria was the official pizza of the Missouri Waltz (before it was cool), until Ellen DeGeneres made them too expensive for the rest of Los Angeles.
• The quest to find Erin, the mysterious (and still missing) Blue Room Bimbo (will she…BRB?), remains unfulfilled, just like many of the sex dreams the team has had about her. Did she move on to another softball team? Is she serving up tasty treats to the Goodfellas (“I thought they’d never shut the fuck up” she purrs, rubbing Art’s temple)? We need Marty and Cohle on the case.
• The Missouri Waltz team likes porn. All of them. Most asked to be off the record as to their favorite ones, though Tera Patrick and Lisa Ann were mentioned.
• Dan suggested there was animosity between the teams before the game, because the last time they played, the Scrubs had talked about the St. Louis Cardinals playoff game, which many of the Waltz squad had DVR’d and didn’t want ruined for them. I feel like spoiler courtesy doesn’t extend to sporting events. There certainly is animosity between the teams AFTER the game, though.

Since last week, I’ve been the beat reporter for a Burbank Men’s softball team, called the Missouri Waltz, bizarrely named after the state song of Missouri. This is (only the beginning of) their (long, rambling) story.

Piss-Stained Park Bench, Burbank, CA (February 23, 2014) – Coming off an unfathomable last inning, whopping twelve run comeback against the Bad News Beers last week that put the rest of the ‘D’ division on notice, it was fair to wonder if the Missouri Waltz would be box stepping past another wily opponent this week. Was the veteran ball club worried about a letdown?

“A coach is supposed to say no,” Coach Wolfe wheezed, “but I’m going to say yes.” Of course, Coach Jim has been known to cry wolf(e), and is as much a coach as Scott Brooks is. We “will probably lose to them,” Jim continued, as if he wanted to make my argument for me.

You’d have thought spirits would be high (but that was just Zack) following an indelible moment and achievement that likely will rank alongside their wedding day, the birth of their children, and their first anal sex experience, but you’d be wrong. Negativity is the norm for the Missouri Waltz, and as evidenced by their unbelievable 12 run outburst in the bottom of the 7^th inning last week, they “loosen up when behind,” which is exactly my sentiment in the bedroom.

Charlie Back getting comfortable in his new position.

Part of the muted atmosphere likely surrounded the dark, troubling fog swirling (this time not supplied by Zack) around one of the squad’s best players: Shawn Wines. Following a mysterious (and suspect) food processor accident, the hulking 1B and RBI machine (his totals ranked third on the club entering this past week’s contest) has been placed on the 15-day DL, coupled with an upcoming surgery date with Dr. James Andrews. Coach Wolfe speculated that his absence could be felt for even longer than that (though let me be the first to remind you, that Coach Wolfe is not a doctor, nor has he stayed at a Holiday Inn, even if he could afford one), and that Wines might be forced to watch his dear comrades from his hospital bed for a while longer. With perhaps a 60-day stint on the disabled list looming, it’s highly doubtful Wines will be celebrating with his teammates any time soon, putting the pressure on replacement Charlie Back. Considering how superbly Mr. Back dealt with his new job description for this game, one might wonder if he’s Wally Pip’d Shawn, or if he perpetrated the accident to get his chance in the spotlight.

With many of the players’ wives and girlfriends sick and the disturbing fingers of the flu threatening the clubhouse, Doctor Coach Wolfe feared the worst, ordering mass inoculations for the entire team (and threatening Burbank’s tenuous city budget in the process). He forgets that women are weak, and the Missouri Waltz, if anything, are a group of men, buoyed by alcoholism and fortified by stale bread found at local hot spot, the Blue Room. But, even so, they found their 10^th man sorely lacking in the stands.

The crowd favored the visiting team, adding credence to longstanding rumors that the Missouri Waltz are (collectively) ill-equipped to pleasure a woman off the field. Season ticket holder Renetta (and photographer) was making her first appearance at the venerable ballpark this season, bringing along newcomer Sarah, who found herself “titillated,” though mum’s the word on who or what titillated her.

Tonight’s opponents were the Bang Bros., the losers of a 10-9 boxing match in preseason that went down to the final out, a competition so memorable that many on the Bang Bros. squad couldn’t remember it. The Bang Bros., a team named after what I’d imagine Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco’s post steroidal and coital business venture to be, were a first year squad making up for a lack of experience with a wealth of young talent. Unfortunately, their name isn’t even clever: it’s literally a porn site.

The nubile team entered the match with a 2-2 record, unfazed with the daunting task ahead of them. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure if some of them even knew they were playing baseball, or if they got lost on the way to Home Depot. Racism aside, their hearts were in the right place, as exemplified by rising star and talented dirt “artist,” Adolfo, who hopes his whip-quick release and cannon for a right arm at third base will make his lofty goals come true: “to get a job, get my house and car paid for…you know, the American dream.” He repeated the mantra of the American Dream several times as if I misunderstood (or as if he was Willy Loman), but I believe it was he that misunderstood. The American Dream is a lie, a fabrication, only a reality for the white upper 1%. Hopefully his gifts with an oversized baseball can get him there.

While the bats took a couple innings to heat up, the Missouri Waltz flashed their enviable hustle early on, routinely thieving the extra base and taking advantage of the lackadaisical outfield play of the Bang Bros. To be fair, who likes playing the outfield?

Things quickly soured, however, as the Missouri Waltz proved to be their own worst enemy early on, much like a bad and should’ve been forgotten show starring Christian Slater. Their hustle soon morphed into indecision, as evidenced by Stephen (unfortunate last name) Leggitt’s cunning impression of a deer in the headlights between second and third base (this author notes how difficult it must be to find themselves pickled inbetween the 60-feet base paths in the unforgiving, but simple, game of softball). When asked if Stephen’s embarrassing gaffe would have negatively affected their relationship if they had one to speak of, Colin’s girlfriend Isabella (a good sport) answered simply and to the point: “Yeah, probably.” After the miscue, Stephen was found screaming “Don’t look at me” in the dugout, an order we were more than happy to follow.

The next inning, Michael Bolton look-a-like Graham Showell showcased his ugly “no-look” fielding technique at second base. While somehow effective, it was an eerie harbinger of what was to come.

Player-Coach Jim Wolfe Jr. “spinning” it.

Characterized as a young team that would be “wrong to underestimate” by wily vet Dan Bence before the game, the cocky, poorly stretched Missouri Waltz did so anyway. What else could explain the 5-2 deficit they faced entering the bottom of the 3rd inning? After cruising through the first eight outs, a few poorly misplayed balls (the Derek Jeter comparisons made to Dan Bence only ringing true when it comes to his defense) and a underdog attitude befitting the anachronistic Chieftain images emblazoned upon their uniforms, the Bang Bros. transformed a sterling performance by ace pitcher Jim Wolfe Jr. into one that harkened back to the sweaty and washed up version of Tony Danza in ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD, a startling development occurring over the span of one half-inning.

After the 5-run two outburst, aided by Brandon’s misplay on a liner in the “game-changing” rover position, the Waltz managed to stop the bleeding, only trailing by 3 runs.

The tension was palpable, but the promise of a comeback was certain, lingering in the air like a virulent disease. With the bases loaded, Dan had a chance at redemption, but instead stranded the bases loaded and tacked on a second error. So, it didn’t happen then, but I was tracking the wrong redemption story. Perhaps motivated by the sheer fear of being a (poor) base runner again, Paul DanoStephen Leggitt rendered the possibility moot, thanks to two opposite field home runs (though I feel dirty calling anything a homerun on a field with no fences) from the slightly more likable Paul O’Neill clone. As he crossed home plate after his second round-tripper, the game was (mercifully, for the meager audience) over.

Zack in midseason form.

After the game, a 13-8 romp, the mood was dire for the (gang)Bang-ed Bros. One member of the squad, who wished to be kept anonymous, intimated he would cry himself to sleep. Another was having suicidal thoughts. It was a tale of a clubhouse divided, except on one point: they all agreed that the Missouri Waltz MVP was “the guy with the scarf.” There was no man with a scarf on the Waltz, but it was clear that Zack, the airheaded catcher, was the object of their affections, as he had been making a fashion statement all night with his red sweater draped over his shoulder like a stereotypical rich Dad from the Hamptons. Considering his mid-inning and inappropriate cigar break proved influential in turning the tide, permanently ending the back and forth battle, the Bang Bros. proved to at least know when they’ve been fucked. On the subject of Zack, who’s in a perpetual “drygh” state of experimentation, continually tinkers with his pregame routine. This week that meant 3 beers, a shot, and a bowl and a half. Considering the alarming upward trend of his intake, and the league’s forthcoming drug testing, he might be the team’s next casualty of war.

Following another sterling (and not so) impressive victory, the Missouri Waltz are (slowly) getting used to their “comeback kids” reputation. In fact, their penchant for the comeback victory has confused many in the clubhouse. Brandon summed it up best, his disbelief colored by the fact that he’s a “professional in choking.” Perhaps related, Brandon has pledged to watch Coach Wolfe in sexual congress, in order to help him pleasure a woman. At its worst, this experiment could do wonders for team chemistry, or at least their own. Interestingly enough (but not really), one could argue that the patience exerted by Brandon in the leadoff spot exemplifies the patience shown by this team, even when trailing. The man who makes David Eckstein look athletic, Brandon Klaus took more pitches in the game than everyone else has in the history of softball, combined, leading to two walks, a lawsuit from Scott Hatteberg, and a contract offer from Billy Beane. Sources are conflicted over the terms of the impending agreement.

What sort of future are the Waltz looking at?

While their patience should be applauded, one must wonder if one of these games, it’ll catch up to them, the comeback train taking too long to board, or to get rolling, derailed permanently at the station. The pressing (and disquieting) narrative going forward is whether or not the Waltz are ready for the ‘C’ division. They’ve clinched the playoffs with ease in the ‘D’ league (not that success in the D-league is impressive), but over the next five weeks, their mettle will be tested by the professionals in the upper echelon of the sport. Are the Waltz doomed to be a collection of motley Quad-A players, their careers embodied by the film title Failure to Launch? Or did they just need another year of seasoning? Many on the squad are entering their prime seasons (ages 27-29), further along in their development than a season previous, but just as many are fast approaching their decline phases (*cough* Dan Bence *cough*). Nobody on the squad expressed any confidence (what kind of self-respecting team would be happy with 2 wins?) in the matter, but of course, their negative attitude has led to a 5-0 sweep of the dregs of the Burbank co-ed softball league, so maybe pessimism is their fuel to (lucky) victory. Question marks abound, but rest assured, answers are cumming, and yours truly, a True Detective, is on the case. Next week’s match should prove telling, with more answers than a Josh Fox documentary.

News & Notes:

• Shawn Wines has been placed on the 15-day DL (foot), retroactive to 2/13. He’s eligible to return for the March 6^th matchup with TBA.
• A member of the press was accused of playing with the umpire’s sympathies (I’m unsure whom), thanks to a few debatable (blatant) missed calls favoring the Waltz squad. The Commissioner’s Office is looking into the controversy, with league action coming over the next week.
• The “hot waitress,” formerly (?) employed at the Blue Room, is still missing (or has been locked up by one of the players). If found, I urge you NOT to alert the Missouri Waltz team.
• Art, of the Goodfellas, has been seen carving voodoo dolls out of his feces in the Missouri Waltz’ likeness, in preparation for their upcoming contest.
• Smith’s girlfriend Isabella, when working for her high school’s newspaper (presumably as a high schooler herself), had to interview many of the star players on the sports teams to create trading cards. Each required a quote from the decorated athlete, and one she unwittingly published (being uneducated in the art of fellatio) was “Domer for a boner.” Historians are researching the identity of the player, but it’s likely Richie Incognito, who’s anything but.