Archived Posts from this Category
Archived Posts from this Category
Listen closely. You can hear the gentle whirring of the turbine blade winding down. The thousands of beating hearts that, every Sunday, were a cacaphony of collective concentration are slowly simmering to a normal beat-per-minute. The collective breath of a multitude of warriors finally exhaling, the sweet release of cleats from aching feet, the stripping of blood-soaked gauze unwound from wasted limbs. Lower the flags, stop the clocks, file away the scorecards, and call your mother once in a while. Would it kill you to do that?
Kickball is over. I’m sure we all remember the Last Game, where we trudged around, heavy with the weight of finality and
Woah! We went out just as we came in – kicking, screaming, kicking more (and drinking). With the completely delightful addition of a Slip N’ Slide (thanks, Jordan!), sliding into home base became less of a chore, more of a mandatory slice of Awesome. Are we going to go out as a kickball team like a bunch of punks, a bunch of black-jean-wearing hipsters who are aggressively trying to look like they’re not having fun? But how can we not have fun when it’s just things like this:
You can’t fake it, people. And we didn’t.
Disputes. Anger. None of these things out of place at a kickball game.
The teams, divided into our groups of farewell and departure for two of the fairest maidens to enter our rennaissance faire of awesomeness, Elyse and Leigha.
It was a horrific match this time due to the fact that there were roughly 20 players on each time on a playing field roughly the size of a book of matches. No one quite knew the score, and that’s exactly how it should be. Also, I could take a turn for the melodramatic and lament the finality of all of this, use gravestone imagery, blah blah, but I’m listening to the Jackson 5, so go fuck yourself. If you want to cry, go watch Steel Magnolias or resolve to never see any of us again. Because that’s not happening: kickball is over, but the blessed social club that came from it all will never die, unless we all die at once. That’s why Jordan never purchased any field space inside of a missile silo or gasoline warehouse.
As much as it pains me to update this page for perhaps the last time, I can say that creating and maintaining this group of kickballers has been a joy. At the start of this series of games, we wondered where it would go, who it would bring, what would happen, and if we would have any foreseeable court dates because of it. While only thirteen of the total participants have ended up in the slammer because of this children’s game, EVERYONE experienced some certain level of euphoria that can only come with stumbling into a group of radical people. People like US.
I’d like to thank every single person that showed up for these games, because without each of you, we’d be a few yokels sitting in a field, waiting for something to happen (See: Nebraska in the summertime). Instead, friendships were formed, and that’s where we leave off. We have our Facebooks, Flickrs, etc, to keep up connected to one another. That’s the grand prize here, and we all won. Kickball may be over, but we all have each other, so let’s not let that fade into this good night (LITERARY REFERENCE). Let’s keep in touch with one another the best we can!
Special thanks overall to Jordan, who rented the field space and got this thing going. Props to Brendan for lugging the bases and beer, Buddy for being the most spirited mascot we could ask for, everyone for bringing smiles and their A-game, Beer for being our unofficial sponsor, and Golden Gate Park for allowing us to frolic in her most blessed fields. It’s been a wonderful time, and we’ll see each other soon. Be well.
love very much,
Everything was like Arkansas with this game: just a little bit bigger and badder for you. We had a perfect turnout of over 40 people, which of course we right away made one half hate the other half via careful propeganda and initiated a game of kickball. The handsome teams:
The Flamin’ Hots:
Attributes: Steam-powered cybernetic implants instead of legs enabling absurd kicking power, collective respect of early Brit-Rock movement, can change color to match surroundings if feeling threatened.
Non-attributes: Team enthusiasm fueled by coal, diesel, beer. Irrational fear of round, red objects.
Attributes: No developed sense of fear, complete drive to press on even if losing by over 15 points, integrity, sexiness.
Not-So-Greats: Allergic to water, must take breaks every 10 minutes to get advice from L. Ron Hubbard’s ghost.
The teams went at each other with the fury of veteran warriors, or as we say in the midwest, like “a real son of a bitch”. In turn, it yielded both an incredible match, as well as incredible bloodshed. I always thought the term “blood fountain” was a dramatic term until Sunday came, when I realized it was very real and just as horrific.
Somehow, the score marched past any sort of rational number and was roughly 32-23 or something insane like that. It means many things: we’re getting better at scoring, and the Spirit Of Kickball is slowly possessing us, each one, until our last match cumulates with all of us going completely mad. Only a few more weeks!
During the last run, starved for points, Team Envied went for running the bases as a collective. On the brink of dehydration, we stormed home plate like so many frothing-at-the-mouth Vikings, and in the process sprained Jordan’s finger. Jordan also sustained a kickball to the eye socket. It’s nice to see people make sacrifices for the game, though I think all of us could do with less blood next time.
There were several new faces and it was very nice to meet every single one of you: remember, our next game is coming up! Check the schedule, and show up and have some fun. It’s the easiest thing to do in the world because we’re all so friendly and nice and welcoming and good-looking.
Things also got a little sexier with a girl-on-girl Drink-Off. Observe:
Hotttt. The title of this picture could have just read “peer pressure at a high school party”, but then again, it could have also read “AWESOME”. See you all soon!
Good day! In an effort to describe Sunday’s Mother’s Day game, I, uh
Moving on, it was a bit classier and a little more mature. I think the pictures speak for themselves in the amount of pride and daintiness we all exhibited yesterday. In addition, I
I know that some actions shots are around here somewhere.
The masses collected at Pioneer Meadows on Mother’s Day to celebrate the Mother of all Sports. The teams were carefully and randomly chosen, and the fruit of our labor was the MotherLovers vs. the Mama Said Knock You Outs. There was also one Real Mom included in the festivities, and her son Cameron was nice enough to bring a grill along. Thanks!
As usual, the kickball game started off tame but quickly, due to beautiful weather and boundless quantities of beer, evolved into something much more eloquent and hostile. Like watching a car wreck where all the occupants are wearing short shorts and enthusiasm before plowing into a busload of nuns, the spectacle of the sport cumulated in the MotherLovers beating the tar out of the MSKYOs, 11-4 or something like that. I normally keep an airtight record of the scores and innings, but I almost constantly stop doing that once I realize that it would make me a huge jerk and people would resent me for sucking the fun out of kickball. But look, let’s get back to it: who would not tremble under the loping strides of Ian? Case in point:
Not shown: pure fear bleeding off of the kickball.
There was much hustle and flow exhibited by each team, and I would say that they would have their own strengths, weaknesses, and special attributes, but we didn’t take any team pictures. Instead, all we have are the blissfully serene moments in time like so:
As usual, a merry amount of thanks goes out to every single person involved, which, if you showed up, means you. Thank you, as always, to Jordan for reserving the field and violating my persona space, thank you Kate for letting your camera be used, thanks to all who chipped in for beer, and of course, welcome to all the newcomers!
A reminder: no game next Sunday: we’re celebrating the Bay To Breakers run. After that, we’re back like a vertebrae, so we’ll see you then!
In the poetic, tragic dance that is kickball, there comes a moment where the player comes face to face with the ridged rules of the sport and needs to make a choice. It is up to the player, that valiant person forged from the trails and tribulations of kickball, to make a choice – defy the laws set by their brave ancestors, or stare into the gaping, bloodshot eyes of a children’s game’s laws and norms and say “to heck with your rules. I’m of a new generation – a generation that doesn’t give a darn.” This is how trails are blazed, how revolutions are initiated, and more or less how a car’s oil is changed, to my knowledge. This was also the case in a rather invigorating kickball game this Sunday, held at the beautiful Pioneer Meadows, named so because the bodies of seventeen pioneers are buried underneath it. What better way to honor the dead than to traipse merrily on their burial ground and break traditions?
First, slather on the makeup and tuxedos and meet the teams:
Team Name: Hordes of Angry Papillons
Strengths: Impeccable knowledge of art from Renaissance period, talking about feelings, 1996 hopscotch champions.
Weaknesses: Entire team wildly hallucinating almost constantly, too good-looking.
Team Name: Briscut n’ Grits
Strengths: Collective strength can overturn a semi-truck, relentless optimism, three team members have prior cameo history with ground-breaking “Charles In Charge” TV show.
Weaknesses: Team has no sense of cardinal directions, frequent uncontrollable lapses between speaking English or Portugese, dog mascot Otis not included in team photo.
These teams went at each other with all the enthusiasm of a new IKEA opening, and while there were no reported casualities, I am still not legally permitted to discuss the three deaths that occurred on the first kickball game, though I am certainly legally permitted to say that it was awesome, and I had no idea that a kickball could catch fire.
Regardless, in the 7th evening, tempers flared and morals questioned when a runner was rumored to be both safe AND out. The benches cleared, dirt was kicked, and eventually we handled the controversy with a grace and elegance of adults who respect each other: a drink-off. Two representatives were chosen, and the result was two shotgunned beers and one point fiercely fought for by team Briscuts n’ Grits. And that point was earned, ladies and gentlemen.
The total outcome of the game was team Bn’G coming out on top 10-6. At the end of the last inning, you could feel the collective disbelief that a group that I was team captain of actually won. But kickball isn’t about which team wins or looses. It’s about which group of arbitrarily-chosen people, at the end of the day, have more points than another group of arbitrarily-chosen people.
I’d like to thank everyone who came out to the field, as we could not do this without you all. Special thanks to everyone who chipped in for beer, helped drag stuff onto the fields, and to Jordan for reserving that spot in the park. If you’ve missed out on a few games, don’t worry – you’re never out of the loop, especially since the shape that best represents the San Francisco Kickball Coalition isn’t much of a loop, but more of an octagon. Think about THAT geometry for a while.
Tag your photos “sfkbc” on Flikr! Join the Facebook fan page! And come to our next game, which will be at the same Pioneer Meadows at 2:00pm. Bring those you love, and dogs, and a good attitude, and we’ll see you there.