Baseball (Not Completely) a Bust

I played my third official game this week with the ever-hapless McNeill's Brewers of Brattleboro, Vermont. We lost 6-3. The Brewers, formerly the Townshend Dam, formerly the Brattleboro Buzzards, are terrible. We've always been terrible, whatever the name. Which is exactly why I like playing for them. There's no pressure. Except of course the pressure I put on myself.

Last week in an unofficial scrimmage I was hitting the ball pretty well. I smacked a solid single I could hardly feel in my hands, which is a sign of a well-hit ball, and even the outs I made were hit pretty hard. (I don't mind flying out to the left fielder if I've hit the ball well.) This week, I had nothing. The only time I even came close to hitting the ball well was when I flew out to shallow center. Other than that, a lame ground out to short, and (of all things in our pathetic league) a double-play hit back to the pitcher. So frustrating.

But it was a beautiful day, playing on a nice field, situated in the mountains of Vermont. Baseball epitomizes the rhythm of summer, and I can't think of anything else I'd have rather been doing. As one player in the league was once overheard saying during a rout, "I'd fucking hate this, if I didn't love the game so much."