BAD CALLS, BELLIGERENT BASEWOMAN NEARLY LEAD TO BENCH-CLEARING BRAWL
GNATS’ FIELD — It wasn’t just the game on the line with the hotly disputed seventh-inning call; it was much, much more. It could, in fact, have changed the trajectory of Pew’s Your Daddy’s entire season.
Win, and the Daddies would advance to 4-2. Win, and a hard-fought winning streak would extend to four games. Win, and the humiliation of the early season losses would dissipate. Win, and the Daddies could walk off the field — with a crowd of boyfriends, girlfriends and spouses looking on, no less — with heads held high. Victory has many fathers, indeed, but it has even more Daddies.
Lose, though, and the Daddies would fall back to middling status, hanging out with the stoner C students at .500. Lose, and the Daddies’ improved fielding, the quick thinking, the dead-on throws, the team cohesion, the marvelous contributions of captain ex officio Kavan “Long Knives” Peterson, would all be for naught. The acrimony and back-biting in the clubhouse would boil over to the Frog. The birthday celebration of Mike “Bones” Bolinder would certainly be called off.
So when the daydreaming first base coach from Softball With Chris Matthews called his runner safe in the top of the seventh inning, the Daddies exploded.
A game full of grievances came flooding forward. Oh, those Vox Global image makers—whatever their tenuous connection to Chris Matthews—really pushed the wrong buttons. First, an early-inning Daddies’ throw from the outfield to third (right in front of the Daddies’ dugout) was nullified. A dozen Pewsters saw the play right in front of them; the Cableman, of course, arrived too late. But the Punditocracy ruled him safe. Then, a flip from the pitcher to second met the same verdict. “The tie goes to the runner,” was the gospel according to these Matthewses. Trouble is, there were no ties.
And then there was the attack at second base. Rookie runner Mariana “No Cleats Needed” Gomez flawlessly executed a slide into second to get under a tag. But before she could get to her feet, the vicious Vox basewoman elbowed Gomez in the gut. Stuck underneath an opponent who showed no signs of moving, Gomez pulled out a move from her field hockey days: the jock ass-slap. That got the fielder’s attention, and she got back up with a pout. It did not happen fast enough, though, for Dan “The Crash Man” Vock. Seeing the cheap shot to his girlfriend (and fortified with liquid courage), he pressed the issue, with what can only be described as eloquent prose and intimidating gestures. But for the sage words of a few teammates, the night’s marquee event could have been Vock vs. the Voxes.
There was a reason, though, that the Pig Latin Propagandists were so ornery. When Ivan “Gray Beard” Sciupac led off the sixth inning, the Daddies were staring at a six-run deficit. Then, seven of the next eight batters crossed the plate. Gomez, for good measure, turned out to be the tying run. (Poor Richard “Dewey” Auxier, alas, was the odd man out in the sixth, after belting out the Daddies’ only home run of the day in the fourth.) By the time the sixth was over, Pew put up eight on the Voxers, and were hanging on to an 18-16 lead.
The anger on both sides only intensified at the top of the seventh. Shortstop Sciupac backhanded a bouncing ball deep in the infield, then whipped around and hurled the ball to Jeffrey “Cicero” Lehman. The trusty first baseman held his hand up. The ball hissed through the air then hit his glove with a thud. A half second later, the foot of the Vox runner hit the bag. It was a clean play, beautifully executed. And it didn’t matter.
The first base coach ruled his runner safe. The Daddies looked at each other in disbelief. Another bad call, and this time, the game was on the line. Pitcher Scott “Success” Clement threw down his glove. The torrent of expletives he unleashed echoed so forcefully, it stopped business in the West Wing. His chest puffed out, his face red, Clement menacingly approached the Matthews dugout. Deep in left field, his better half, Nicole “Murnum” Muryn, started toward the infield to either back up Clement or, more likely, to prevent him from doing anything dumb.
But Clement was not alone in his rage. A cacophony of complaints came streaming at the clueless coach from the Daddies until his teammates, too, joined in the barking, hissing and gesticulating.
Now, the agreement among teams in the Congressional Softball League is clear: The base coach’s ruling stands. But a corollary to that condition is that the coaches pay attention and rule fairly, lest their opponents also make egregious calls.
One of the faulty coach’s own teammates admitted that the call was bad, but said it must stand anyway. Bolinder would have none of it. “If he made the wrong call,” the veteran third baseman screamed from the dugout, “reverse it!” And just when the normally hot-headed Auxier, of all people, quieted his infield, one of the PR Pros walked off the sideline and intruded onto the field of play, approaching the Daddies, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Everybody, calm down! Just calm down!”
Somehow, the Daddies kept their cool, but it very nearly bit them in the ass. Only two runs back, the Hardballers played small ball for the next few batters. The offending runner advanced. When he came to third, Sciupac had an outside chance for revenge. But instead of chancing a dangerous throw to get him out, the shortstop held the ball to avoid an error. The next play, the rogue runner scored.
Thankfully, though, that was it. Pew put the game away with two more routine outs and did not even need the benefit of last ups. The teams lined up, and shook hands, without incident. The Daddies season was secure, and their victory, earned in the most trying of circumstances, was unquestioned.
Patres, as the Vox masters of mangled Latin now know, illegitimum non carborundum.
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