The Bigger They Come, The Harder They Fall: 29ers Topple Yeti, Losing Streak, Curse, White Unis in Comeback 11-7 Win at Beautiful Big Rec

I remember this feeling. It's a faint, distant memory of a feeling, trying to be felt, like a radio signal straining to crackle through between two stations on the dial. And it's not just the feeling of victory, which, admittedly, is fantastic. Obviously people love to win. There's a certain otherness to it, an essence, out of focus, that ironically makes the feeling felt that much sharper. I spent my time after the game going up to many of you and saying that we didn't just need a pedestrian win, we needed that win. That win.

I've played, we've played, a lot of baseball games by now. Hundreds, literally. And we've played a lot of really good, really memorable games: the first championship clincher, Mike's Potrero Hill home run, Louie's no-hitter into the seventh, Zack's first shutout, Bob gutting it out in Oakland in Game 3. And more. All of them rich, happy memories of a winning club with winning synergy; guys leaning on each other in just the right measure and at just the right time. I won't hesitate to put this game near the top of the pile, not for a second. It was that good.

Like, all-time good. I guess it's not exactly fair of me to say that I remember this feeling, because truly I don't. None of us do. None of us knew what it was like to win in comeback fashion, down five in the eighth, after losing five in a row. Certainly we all know what it feels like to win, and win big games. Championship games. There's an indirect sweetness—I guess that's called bittersweetness—to winning when you really need it.

But none of us had been there before. Even in my ancient days on Egypt '84 (and I think I can speak for Zack's time on the Cleaners), never had I rode that many Ls in a row. It's kind of hard to do, statistically. So we were all in brand new territory, uncertain and unsure of how to play. I won't lie, the last couple games I sort of felt like a toddler when I would approach the field. That is, with a kind of dumb wonder, like am I doing this right?? Are we playing by the right rules?? What are we doing wrong?

I tried to write about it, hoping that one furtive issue might lend itself to discovery. I turned things over in my head (there's not a ton to do up by where I live), scrutinizing every maneuver, each move, each bat in the lineup. While there were a couple common dull refrains (pitcher being left in too long, possibly wrong pitcher to begin with, lineup being too static), in general it seemed easiest to chalk it up to plain bad luck. Which for someone cursed with the kind of analytical mind as I have—a cerebral need to have answers and reasons rather than open-ended questions—was just so god damn unsatisfactory that I'd be back where I started: toddler-like, open-mouthed, drooling and wondering what the hell was going on with us.

Thank you all for snapping me out of that stupor. I feel awake, alive, and aware now. And I can't wait to play more games. But that's in the future. Let's talk about yesterday.

With RMac back in the fold, there was little doubt who was starting. And it seemed clear immediately that the five weeks he'd taken off had done wonders for his already explosive arm. The pitches were crisp and true, placed well and with the kind of good pace that makes even our limp catcher's mitt respond with snap and a satisfying THWACK!. He looked rested, calm, and totally unfazed, setting down most of the Ghosties' biggest threats on harmless flys or weak groundballs.

Meanwhile our own lineup was having its own share of futility against a very, ahem, "hittable" pitcher. Everyone in the league must know by now that we have trouble against soft throwers. Apparently Yeti is no different. Through seven we had just barely been able to answer the Ghosties two runs, thanks in very large part to an insane dropped popup off my bat with two outs and the bases loaded, that popup landing dull and with a pathetic little plop between the mound and second base, a gaggle of Ghosties surrounding the sad little baseball and them all with their arms raised and turning to look at one another in total collective confusion. But we had tied the game.

As I stood there on first shaking my head, I got the feeling. That singular, giddy, enraged butterflies in the stomach feeling. The Baseball Gods were looking down on us, smiling, sweeping a giant infield-dirt-dusted hand across the sky, palm opened upward, intimating that, Yes: follow us, this way, this way to the Light, out of the Darkness of this wretched losing streak. Follow us my children.

I tried to follow. It didn't last long. The Gods had one more cruel test for us. Essentially as soon as we unexpectedly and undeservedly tied the game, things in 29erlandia began to unravel. RMac's once ripe, rigid pitches began to sag, sail, and miss the same glove that had for seven previous innings been their magnet. A batter was struck somewhat above the letters. With the Ghosties having gone up again, 4-2, it was time to make the call.

The call was . . . mixed. Miles bravely entered with the bases loaded but also pitched pretty much as if RMac had just decided to start throwing with his left arm instead of his right. Three runs later, we were faced with a 7-2 deficit in the eighth, six small outs all that separated us from another loss, a poison new link in the lengthening chain of defeat.

The Gods asked that we Believe. I struggled. But in a tactful pregame aside, Miles had encouraged, insisted really, that I stay positive. And as hollow as words like that can sometimes sound, they boomed here in the top of the eighth. I cheered, I whooped, I applauded. Drill led off with a walk. Sean followed with another. This is something. Scott follows with his own. This could really be something. And with that, Yeti and his Ghosties provided a platform. But the Gods had more to say: "Here, here is your chance. We can't do much more for you than load the bases with no outs and your 2-3-4-5 hitters coming up. We can take you no further. You must travel the rest of the way on your own."

We fucking traveled.

Jesse removed his catcher's gear and walked to the mound. Pat lined a single to pull us within four and keep the bases loaded. Rickey followed with his own RBI walk to bring us within three, himself becoming the tying run at first. Up came Large. A single would have scored two possibly, putting us down by just one and still with no outs. A walk puts us down two. A sac fly even makes it a closer game. Mike had other plans. Mike was after the

2009  IBIS WHITE AUDI A4 WAGON DRIVE OF THE GAME: I had asserted that the lineup be shaken up and I won't hide the fact now that I was unambiguously trying to coax Miles into moving around not only me but Mike, too. Miles refused, staying his ground and reaffirming his faith in Mike busting out of his season-long slump. I'd point out here that was probably a good thing.

With those bases still loaded, late afternoon heavy summer sun lying thickly about, a shifting but steadily growing nebulous collection of tourist and local spectators alike intently watching on, Mike took one mighty swing. A flat, swift swing, hands adroitly kept in, close to the body, imparting full and punishing force upon the unsuspecting ball.

It flew. My GOD it flew and flew.

The left fielder stopped for a moment, seemingly paralyzed by the sudden fearful recognition that this shit is not going to go well for you. In the next beat, he hazily lifted his glove before turning his back to the infield and running like hell. The ball sailed over and beyond him. The dugout reacted like a pack of rabid baboons given high-grade liquid cocaine*. Baserunners whirled around the infield, 90 feet at a time, a chalky carousel of belief and primal salvation. This is something now, isn't it.

Mike stood, triumphant, on second. The tying run had scored from first and, incredibly, we were celebrating a new, 7-7 game.

It was the hit Mike needed, and it was the hit this season needed, a wooden, violent shock to bring us all back to the land of the living.

***

After a pitching change, Bob moved Mike over with a ground out, and BC shot a loud tie-breaking RBI single to score him. We were ahead. Zack knocked a single of his own and it was up to me to try to add on, with two outs. I hit a low liner back up the middle, scoring BC as he slid into home, and we're up by two. RMac's contact on a grounder to third and resulting bad throw let in two more runs, and so there we were: up by four heading into the bottom of the eighth.

Zack's steady hand and dominant pitching, including an especially nasty breaking ball, dashed any lingering dreams the Ghosties may have had about their own comeback. Zack's typical sangfroid became the perfect complement for the excitement from the rally. With quicker than usual throws to third after every strikeout highlighting just how close the end really was, a popup to the infield finally did really end it. The game. The losing streak. The friggin burden that the middle of the season has been. Over with. Thank (baseball) God.

I don't know. I just relived it but it remains dreamlike. It seems as implausible now as it did then. And yet, we did it. If anything, this has got to show definitively that there really is no time at all to stop believing we can win a game. One brilliant stroke (and many other composite contributions) can completely rewrite the tone of a game. And hopefully of a season.

***

There were some pretty special defensive plays in this one, from right off in the first when a ball caromed off Zack's glove to Rickey, who threw a one-hop to first (the umpire later admitting that the runner was in fact out); my own diving stop on a grounder up the middle and tagging the second base bag with a naked ball before trying to complete a double play; Rickey again with a dive into the hole and getting up with enough time to still throw to second to erase the advancing runner there. All great.

But the VALENCIA ST BUFFALO EXCHANGE SHOE CLEARANCE PLAY OF THE GAME: is Pat's multiple grabs in the outfield. It's possible that to the casual fan who happened to stumble upon our game in the park these plays didn't look as impressive as the diving infielders. But that's why he's a casual fan. Before we started Pat made it clear he was going for the ball. That he was going to be calling for the ball, and if you heard him, clear the way. 

He did that. He took charge in a way most players are reluctant to do. He ranged for balls that are normally in no-man's land because nobody's quite sure who's going to go for it. He went for it. Here's to seeing more of that the rest of the way.

PLAYER OF THE GAME: Mike, duh. Were you paying attention?

*(Scandal of cocaine addict baboons; NCBI study of cocaine self-administration by baboons)

The losing streak. Beat it.

***

Here are your stats. Almost everybody jumped up. Some fun little races going on if you have the time to look carefully.

Fuck. That was fun. 

Thanks for reading.

This Is The End, My Only Friend, The End . . .

...by which I mean this has got to be the end of this losing streak. Looking at the stats last night, we won five in a row after our Opening Day loss to the Dealers. Now we've lost five in a row. There should be some kind of beautiful symmetry in turning things around while we face the Ghosties for the second weekend straight.

And we got close to winning this last one. In fact I'd say out of the mostly nightmarish losses in the last month and a half, this was the clearly the most winnable. We did what we set out to do at the onset of the game: don't give up first inning runs, and get on the board first. Oh buddy, was we ridin' high. A wave of ecstasy rushed over me when we had an early lead for the first time in forever, but that could also have been the cava, who can say really.

I'm wondering what the hell we did to piss off the baseball gods so much, because that lead just withered away behind extremely questionable defense (and, yes, hey! you guessed it: bad baserunning!). So I guess it's irresponsible to blame the BGs at all then. We are our own baseball . . . demons? Shit, I don't know, you try writing this stuff.

I will say, although it's often a chore (an enjoyable chore but a chore nonetheless) to sit down and spell these things out, it does help to process our team in a more thoughtful (how thoughtful it is is up to you really) and somewhat rational way. There are usually feelings during a game—or during a losing streak more accurately—that are complex: things beyond the scope of angst or frustration or disappointment that become even more difficult to locate after a few at Rock Bar. Occasionally, plopping down in my chair and forcing myself to go through this does help alleviate some of the psychic confusion that accompanies a rough spell.

Occasionally.

Not this time, though. I'm about ready, in fact I am ready, to throw my hands up at this point. I was turning it all over in my head last night. There's this sort of hokey casual street definition of insanity that goes something like "trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result." Your mileage with the truth of that definition will vary, to be sure. But let's pretend for a moment that it's at least a working definition.

According to that, we are like, batshit out of our minds crazy.

We have got to change things up. Don't take my word for it. The stats are at the bottom of the page (though I suspect most of you scrolled down to look there first); have a look and tell me what you see. I'm pleading with you: we MUST shuffle the deck. Beyond three or four guys in the lineup, I'd argue, am arguing, that everyone get a moved around a bit. Rickey and Bob are the only guys hitting over .300, and while batting average is kind of an old school stat that doesn't really provide a complete picture of a hitter, it is at least a snapshot.

Moving the order around also helps to keep our opponent on their toes. When they play the same exact lineup every game, they know little bunches of shifts in a row. Changing that up makes them get creative in different ways, and may catch them by surprise. That can be the difference in a ball being caught or not, which itself can be the difference in a W or another L.

All I'm saying is, it's the easiest thing to change and what's the harm? We hardly have anything else to lose, really. It's time to change things up, guys. And what if that really were the spark we need so desperately? Anything else would be, well, crazy.

Yeah. You know, I'll wear this one. I will. In the sixth, with plenty of time left to close a small gap of three runs, I unexpectedly lead off with a hustle double over the third base bag. That's runner on second, no outs, and your 3, 4, 5 hitters coming up. You're definitely thinking you're scoring here. But you'd be wrong on this day.

Rickey hits a looping line drive to center, and I, for some reason (could have been Craig yelling "TAG!" ((but no excuses from me))) went back to the bag. At least to bluff a tag and get a throw. But the problem there was when that happened, the ball came in to the cutoff man at short, who then back-doored me and poof! no more runner at second an one out, but bases empty and two outs.

This is the funeral I'm holding for that rally I killed. I try to hold myself as accountable as anyone else. Most of the time.

But I'll be damned if you don't see me trying to gnaw and scratch my way out of this subterranean hell this coming Saturday. I'll be like a Viet Cong comrade with a long series of interconnected tunnels digging my ass out of here, emerging, victorious and smiling, into the forecasted sunshine of Saturday's game.

You do not want to repeat BotB.

Here're your stats.

I've not cropped out the team totals column at the bottom. Uh, have fun checking those out. I'll add that one of the hallmarks of a good hitter, or one with good discipline, is having more walks than Ks. We are ... not doing that as a team right now. Little things to work on, guys, little things to work on.

* I'm not writing any player of the games or plays of the games until we're back in the win column. We're gonna lose as a damn team right now, just how we win as a team, as so totally trite and cliché and dad-vice as that is. Let's win a game and we'll get back to shout-outs.

**Andy hasn't gotten back to me with an A'sC so we'll have to wait til next time.

Thank you for your time. I'm gonna put on some underwear and a shirt now.

Happy visual!

NEXT GAME

Oakland Ghosties

@

29ers

Sat 22 July

Noon

Balboa
BIG REC

Cleaners Soil 29ers, 7-0, Prolong Losing Streak

I honestly—I mean totally, completely, not-just-saying-it-for-emphasis honestly—cannot imagine what possibly motivates The Cleaners and their rotten braintrust to design their team this way in this league every single season. Until the hired goons get bored, that is. They are the tackiest team out there, and it's not close.

I also don't believe for one single second that they "just happen to know" all these unsmiling, unjoyous automatons. These guys are the amalgamation of every 80s movie bully you've ever seen, come to life, unflinchingly throwing baseballs past the league's lineups while The Cleaners' very own defense sits on its heels, doing nothing, looking dumb.

Did you notice that almost no one on the Cleaners defense even gets in the ready position? Did you fucking notice that? I did. They're like, "Why even bother?"

It's gotta be great to play behind one of these guys, man.

I mean, really though. Think of all the people you know. Think of the all the people you know who would be willing to commit to the admittedly arduous PCHL season. Like, make most the games, not even all the games; most of the games. How many people do you have in your mind? Now, how good are they at baseball? As good as more than half the guys on that Cleaners squad?

Am I supposed to believe that by total stupid coincidental luck, the members of the Cleaners all just so happen to know a dude who, yeah man, I mean, I think he might be able to come out and play, I'll ask him, lemme see, OH SHIT yeah dude I meant to tell you he's pretty good, like he wants to pitch mostly, is that cool? And, so, what? This just happened like, five or six times to all the current players? They phoned-a-friend? While the shitty/cool/interesting players they used to have had the common sense to distance themselves from whatever the Cleaners are trying to become now?

The Cleaners players themselves have become so desensitized by the league's completely justified constant complaints season after season that they just demure, look away, offer a wave of a hand and a knowing, pathetic, sad snicker when you confront them. They kick dirt absently, clearly embarrassed but feigning a kind of toughness.

And I'd like to touch on that totally affected, "tough" veneer of having a, in Boof's words, "kinda honest, sorta working class vibe . . . you know? It's like a mixture of musicians, construction workers, and people who work in restaurants. But those are my friends, you know?" I'd at least point out that there is nothing at all honest about the way they are managed.  They elected to bat a 10-man lineup and deliberately sit long-term, albeit very bad, players in order to give more at bats to the rabid "mixture" they've concocted over there in the Richmond. How honest is that? Who does that?

Paul Bonanos. Their bench coach, I guess he is. He does that.

I pulled some quotes of his from the short PCHL documentary that Jason Maze of the Beers made. In a way, I wish I hadn't told you he said these things because otherwise you really would've have absolutely no inclination that they'd escaped his mouth.

• "It's way more important to have good relationships than hostility around the diamond, and a lot of more competitive leagues get that way." 

• "Our league has never really said no to giving someone of very limited skill a shot. I've seen some people out there who really haven't spent much time swinging a bat above Little League, and hadn't done it in a long time, and they did just fine."

• "It's a reason to do something healthy on Sundays."

And while I can't argue that these all sound like very nice things to say, if you know anything about the Cleaners at all, you know this is all dogshit. Utter dogshit. Perhaps the league has never said no to giving a novice a chance, but Cleaners management certainly has. 

Fuck them. 

And in the total off chance that any of them Google their team and somehow end up on this page, know that these are my opinions, Ray's. I play second base. I'm not writing for my team, although it wouldn't surprise me if many of them feel the same way. In fact, I know some of them do. Same as I know a hell of a lot of people IN THE ENTIRE LEAGUE feel the same way.

You see, it was different with the 29ers when we got good. Our talent was horizontally integrated. Everyone on our team had some skill, sure some more than others, but everybody brought something to the table. This guy got on base a lot, that guy had good outfield range, this other guy can hit the ball very far. But we always had the decency to pitch fucking normal dudes. 

The Cleaners went out and fucked all that up. They have a vertically integrated team. That's where a few dudes (although their roster of ringers now is at like, what? Five?) have all the talent, and use it to subvert not only the opponent, but their own god damn teammates as well. When a pitcher is that good, he doesn't give his defense anything to do. And he doesn't give anything for the batter to do. The talent isn't spread around at all.

And I guess that's the kind of league Boof and Paul and whoever else run that shitshow envision.

To which I say fuck that. 

PLAY OF THE GAME: Mike's insane ranging over-the-shoulder, though it was more just like over-the-body, catch on one of their smashers' little foul floaters. Just threw that first baseman's glove out there at the perfectly-timed moment and snagged it right at the end. I had a front row seat for it and felt like I needed to rub my eyes afterward.

DRIVE OF THE GAME (What does Scott even drive?): Scott's very sick oppo line drive. It was the only really hard-hit ball off Whatever His Name Was (despite someone yapping about how "hittable" he is. Ugh ...) and it moved Cam from first to third and looked set to start a rally when . . .

BOTTOM OF THE GDMF BLOG: Goddammit Cam. Seriously bro? Our only start at a rally and you go and get picked off on third? I'm sorry man I know I'm supposed to be going easy on new guys but I really suggest you spend some time on YouTube looking at baserunning videos cos that's a real area in your game that needs like, great and very quick improvement. I say it out of love for the team and no, that's not the reason we lost, but dude. You gotta get that shit together. 

I suck at batting and don't even get on base anyway so it's not like I'm perfect. But I gotta call this stuff out when it's becoming truly problematic. 

See you all tonight. Stats tomorrow.