FIELD NOTES, WEEK ONE (cont'd)
Game four pitted a pack of hardened farmer assassins against witless, doe-eyed noobs. That's our Freedom Division! One minute you'll be watching two dockworkers exchange ineffectual body blows, and the next: somebody runs over a rabbit hutch with the Cub Cadet. Prior to the game, the Gardeners were dancing with Dryads and Ewoks. Gardener Rich explained to me in a kinda spooky mellow way how it was necessary to "turn over" the soil every so often.
"It's a trap!"
Then there are the Road Warriors. As they wandered out onto the field looking like a random assortment of jaywalkers, we got a frightening vision of the future that they come from: it isn't just an oil-starved future, it's a world where nobody gives a shit about anything. Where was Lord Humongeous? There was no Mad Max, no Gyro Pilot. This team had 8 people playing the Feral Child, + Mad Dog.
The thing about the Gardeners is that they don't give a shit if you're new to the league, or you need a little coddling. They have a farmer's work ethic about making hay while the sun shines. And on the rainy days? You do the dirtiest work you can. On this day they wasted no time in putting their shoulders to the plough. They put on an epic, poetic moonstorm of leaps and splashes. They were like Cirque du Soleil in muddy overalls.
Guerilla Gardeners: 22
Road Warriors: 0
East Side Blue Bloods vs BSRmadillos
soon this will all be Starbucks
This year marks an important milestone in the History of the League. Two-thousand-seven is the year that BSR has come as close to having an actual uniform as they have ever been. The next best muster of team pride that they have been capable of was the legendary Paper Mache Armadillo of 2005. YES, this year's effort is only a hot pink hat, but I've always felt that the best way to encourage was with praise and not with shame.
The weather and the intsensity were exhausting. I closed my eyes, just for a little while. The next thing I knew was surrounded by Land Rovers, tennis rackets, and hot milfs named Muffy and Cloe. Fucking Blue Bloods. Every once in a while a team strolls into the league with a whiff of aristocracy. We've seen this sort of thing around here before --it usually doesn't end well. A lot has been said about what kickball means or what kickball is about. One thing this reporter has seen is that this league doesn't fit well with folks who don't do their own laundry. Favors are easy to buy in this town. There isn't much you can't buy in Providence, but kickball is one of them. In the end: winning kickball is a dirty business that you can't pay someone to do for you. It's not worth the money. No one chooses to have their lives taken over, to scorn all else, to sacrifice everything to this league. Kickball. Chooses. You.
BSR played with tremendous heart. Someday I will discover what game they were playing.
Frail, double-lidded college dj's with brittle bone disease usually do not opt for sports as punishing as this one. The fact that they are even here is the stuff of tremendous documentary potential. But this league never went in for sentimental stories about valiant losers...unless they wear fishnet. The Ringer was astonishing, but the Blue Bloods never entertained the possibility that they would lose.
Cunning, Baffling, Powerful
vs Kings of Kickball
kings of queens
It's coming, people.
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