Dover Sole

There is a playground game, or there was a score of years ago, which involves the contestants standing toe to scuffed leather toe with ink-stained fingers interlinked. The rules: the grip must be maintained and the feet must not move. The aim: to cause your opponent so much discomfort that they submit. The game is usually referred to by the word used to signal defeat. It is variously known as “Mercy” or at my primary school, for reasons that remain somewhat obscure, “Fish and Chips”.

There are two ways to win at Mercy. The first involves aggression, speed, making your opponent cry and the possibility of dislocated and/or broken fingers. The second involves a more defensive strategy coupled with a high pain threshold, a certain stoicism and the possibility of dislocated and/or broken fingers. If you hang in there long enough, the chances are that your opponent will get bored and go play kiss chase instead. This strategy is born from the knowledge that not every game is there to be won and a stubborn refusal to give in.

At 6.15pm there were 2 Tecumsehs. At 6.30pm there were 5. At 6.45pm, 8 plus one stranded at Vauxhall. Which is not the end of the world, (although residents of North London may beg to differ). Unless it’s your pitcher. The Tigers kindly gave us a few minutes grace and Shell emerged from the Southern Trains fan-unassisted oven that was the 6.31 from Victoria.

Having dispatched Aaron into centre field with the instruction to “make your self big and be everywhere” and flanked by Laura and Hils, it didn’t look too bad. And it wasn’t. At the bottom of 2 we were 6-3 down. As is so often the case, one bad inning did for us. But a few things need to be said apart from the headline score of 26-6.

We played some good, good stuff out there. A catch apiece for the girls and a couple for Aaron plus relay speeds that’d make a 100m runner blush and by the bottom of 3 the Tigers had been forced by the outfield to switch from fly balls to line drives.

Everyone had a good game on the field. The batting was always going to be tough with an auto-out. But we’ve lost to worse teams with bigger margins and a full team out.

Yes, we got mercied. And do you know something? So fucking what. Last night was much, much more about what didn’t happen. We didn’t put our heads down, we didn’t give it up and we didn’t let it phase us that we were a player down.

And, no, we didn’t lose the drinking either.

Citius, altius, fortius.

Pierre de Coubertin would have known whether la grammaire française dictates that “je suis habillé” requires a reflexive pronoun; a subject of some debate behind the dead ball line last night. He might even have felt a slight affinity with the mangled turn of phrase; his own most famous bon-mots often abruptly sound-bitten into a platitude for losers which ignores the very essence of sportsmanship.

Fortunately, those on the field were not to be distracted by the intricacies of the use of the perfect tense when referring to oneself. That is to be commended. Also to be commended were the catching of fly balls and backing up in the outfield, the stopping of the lead runner, the safe and solid hitting, the pushing round of the runners, the consistent pitching and above all taking our chances and holding our nerve. Not to mention the aplomb with which the customary 6th inning wobble was despatched.

To quote Monsieur de Coubertin in full (but in English) "It is less important to win than to take part; the essential thing in life is not conquering but fighting well”. Last week we played a good game and we lost knowing that we can play better and didn’t.

This week we played a better game and won. Even if we hadn’t, it would have been a performance of which to be proud. Individual performances aside, as a team we were mighty, and that doesn’t just refer to those on the field.

We have three games left this season. We’ve shown that on a good day we can beat the team ranked 3rd in the division. More importantly, we’ve demonstrated what we all know, that we are capable of playing like a 3rd division team.

I’m going to stop now. But before I do, the Panthers should get a mention for their sportsmanlike behaviour and their tenacity in a pub which earned them a draw in the drinking.

You Can't Go Home Again

There is a semi-obscure batting statistic - ISO - Isolated Power, it stands for. There are question marks regarding its usefulness for establishing the value of a player to a team, but some simple souls like it, because it's very easy to calculate. You take a player's slugging percentage (SLG) and subtract his or her batting average (AVG) . The result indicates how hard said player hits the ball.

Renewing what has become our most bitter rivalry, with the Kamikazes, the big black Tecumseh machine exhibited a different kind of Isolated Power; power in a vacuum.

It was a tough loss, but a game that we'd have won under Marquis of Queensbury rules, having dominated for the first five innings. Unfortunately success in softball is measured by the somewhat cruder yardstick of runs scored.

Seth Harman, that was a sweet hit. You may have a future in this game.

Jennifer Alexandra Cruickshank, firstly, do you have a middle name which I haven't just made up? Secondly, you have absolute power, and my position is non-negotiable.

Tecumsehs all, may we triumph with the glass where (or at least reasonably adjacent to) we have struggled with bat and ball. I'll be thinking of you.

Singles

"Janet, you rock my world."

The events of yesterday evening, or those that I was privy to might serve as footage for a motivational video (hosted by Peter Purves) called something along the lines of There's No I in Team. In that spirit, I've attempted to come up with a headline for each and every one of my fabulous fellow Tecumsehs.

BREAKFAST AT TIFFNEY'S
OUTFIELD DUO FEAST ON TOOTHLESS TIGER PITCHING

RETURN OF THE SNACK
SNACK DADDY BACK IN BLACK, COOL IN THE HOT CORNER

LADYKKKILLER
GRAY-SON IN THE KAY-ZONE, ENDS IT WITH HIGH HEAT

SECOND COMING
J.C. FLASHES LEATHER, SWINGS SWEETLY AT 2B

TOO GOOD TAMMES
BIG CAT AT THE BAT, TIGERS' OUTFIELD HAVE KITTENS

TELL LAURA I LOVE HER
RICKY VALANCE DIES IN STOCK CAR, MISSES SMASH

YOU'RE NICKED!
SS NASTY WITH STICK, GLOVE

NO HARM, NO FOUL
SUPER SETH SENDS 'EM IN

WIPE THAT!
PAT LAMINATES ONE

BAD MEDICINE
DR GOODHANDS IS POISON TO TIGER PITCHERS, RUNNERS

THE TAXMAN COMETH
BETROTHED BEAN COUNTER PLAYS 40% OF GAME, 110% EFFORT

UP IN SMOKE
RELIEF CATCHER LEAVES TIGERS WITH THE MUNCHIES

ADRIAN'S WALL
CAPTAIN'S GRAND PLAN BAFFLES RELEGATED NINE

KIT KAT GOLDEN TICKET
EURO QUEEN IS BIG SISTER

Now I'm spent. Tabloid spent. But if ever evidence were needed that base hits and defence win games then we provided it. It was a pleasure to play in a game where everyone excelled, in every department. And a guilty pleasure to watch from the sidelines for the last three innings (which seemed to take forever).

Robbie Williams once observed that "You gotta get high before you taste the lows..."

Tim Booth says "If I hadn't seen such riches I could live with being poor..."

Ozzy: "Finished with my woman 'cos she couldn't help me with my mind..."

Only Ozzy has it right. If a gal doesn't have the answer to your mental health problem it might be time to ditch her for a psychiatrist. The other two have got it arse upwards. Surely the correct approach, in softball, as in life, is to slum it somewhat, at the bottom of the division, say, and then to emerge, de profundis, fully appreciative of your new-found success.

_________________W____L____D____F____A____Pts
Secret Agents - MI6----4--------0-------0-------98------24-------12
Sumatra Panthers--------4--------0-------0-------78-------55-------12
London Raiders C-------3--------1-------0-------70-------42-------10
London Tigers-----------2--------3-------0-------67-------72--------9
Tecumsehs---------------1--------4-------0------34-----100--------7
Saints Nu------------------1--------3-------0-------41-------42--------6
Kamikazes-----------------1--------4-------0-------45--------85--------6
The Mob------------------1--------2-------0-------40--------53--------5

We're far enough now from both Easter and Christmas for me to talk of miracles with impunity. We've conceded more runs and scored fewer than any other team in the division but are safely ensconced mid-table. And in a curious Pompey/Saints twist BB Guns, another historical rival, have a worse record than us and look favourites for relegation from Division II.

Carpe Diem!

Why Don't We Do it on the Road (1.43)

Having played poorly in a poorly umpired game at Clapham Common South the team repaired to The George to participate in Quiz Night. The quizmaster is a charming blonde dreadlocked fellow of a certain age, who, in spite of his advanced years, has moved with the times, including a Name That iPod round among the usual pot pourri of Current Affairs, Sport and Questions About Canada. The Tecumsehs appropriated an entire corner of the pub using a technique that might be best described as Aggressive Colonisation. And then we took it home. Our record now stands at 3-0, meaning that we are marginally better at answering trivia questions than we are at playing softball in the Fourth Division (12-2). Next week we return to the friendly confines of Clissold Park, swapping traffic fumes for swarms of tiny biting insects, and defeat (on the diamond) for certain victory.

Golden sunsets and black storms

Spell check is a treacherous thing. For one thing it converts "Rhiannon" to "Rhino" which is unlikely to endear one to a member of any Human Resources department, regardless of the actual dress size of the recipient. In a similar vein, predictive text renders "Smirnoff" as "poisoned" which is, after several months testing Russian vodka on behalf of the Tecumsehs, I can confirm, entirely accurate.

There is, as the Tecumseh server proved a couple of weeks ago, an inherent danger in relying on technology to perform even the simplest of tasks (or at least relying on it to perform that task only once).

It came as something as a surprise therefore, when we discovered some time ago that Micosoft Word's spell-checker feels compelled to change "tournament" to "torment". As with many Microsoft products, it's not entirely on the money. "Torment" does not really do justice to the Tecumseh day out at the LSF First Ball. A draw and a win interspersed with beer and homemade pie does not really qualify as a terrible, heart-rending time. The day after, and the day after that, now that's torment. Sunday is a day of rest. Especially after a softball Saturday. It is not a day of cricket or charity bicycle rides. You nutters.

In the absence of a suitably qualified North American to step up and take the traditional tournament random facial injury to a Canadian, Kat bravely supplied both a change of nationality and anatomical part to seal the bruise of the day award for the Tecumsehs for the third consecutive year.

It should be a source of enduring shame to the more filthy minded of the team that it has taken fifteen years in the GLSML to develop the antithesis of all motivational chants. The Raiders may have a fully choreographed cheerleading squad, but on the 13 May 2006 a new battle cry was added to the Tecumseh repetoire. Anyone thinking that Give me a "T"/Give me an "ecumsehs" was wearing a little thin will be relieved to hear that this week at the top of the Tecumseh top 40 is a new entry; Jane Culpan feat. Shell Grayson with Who put the cum in Tecumsehs? (Seth did) (the extended 3rd innings batting collapse remix).

It was somewhat fitting, especially for the men behind the plate all day, that the evening should be spent in Crouch End, where Laura showed herself to be a true Tecumseh by blagging chips from a reluctant management and Seth resolved the great potato stand-off in the most decisive of manners, leaving Culpan chipped at the post.

Are you talking about classical music? How gay are you?

Last night I learned a few things:-

There is more than one Fiona Shaw.

Bode's Law describes planetary orbits (although I may have known this and simply forgotten it.)

The decision that the Tecumsehs were to compete in an organised league was made in The Spread Eagle public house on Parkway, NW1 (ditto above parentheses).

Ah, The Spread Eagle, there we were headed. Eventually. This is not part of the list of things I learned.

Certain of our number have developed a taste for fabulously expensive Belgian Beer.

Jen has yet to provide full disclosure vis à vis the substitute pitch snafu; I am left with little else to report of a political nature.

As for the game itself, well, it was a woeful sixth inning what done us in. Otherwise, not having been party to last week's goings-on I have to say that it felt like we had improved a little. Our relief pitcher afforded no relief to the opposition, and our rookies shone again. There were more people on base, the fielding, that one ghastly inning aside, was exemplary. We were perhaps spent before the game started, having already covered more ground than the Duke of York's armies and this began to take it's toll on a heavy, gritty surface, as things wore on.

Next week it's our near-forgotten foes the Sumatra Panthers, to whom we have never lost a league game. They will, presumably, be aware of our results to date, so the extent to which this psychological advantage will stretch is debatable. They're jolly nice, and call themselves "Panthers" as opposed to "Kamis". The attractions of playing at Clapham South are manifold, though none are softball related. It'll be a laugh, even if it's another broken rung on the ladder that descends towards inevitable relegation. The beer, I seem to remember is pricey, but we won't let that put us off. Get a pass and come where the fumes from the A205 nobly and sweetly recommend themselves to one's senses.

Cheers!

Through a half-full glass, darkly

It was 24-2 to the gays (whoever designed those uniforms was straight, presumably). Our ladies defended immaculately but softball, like most sports, is a game of momentum and after some first inning miscues on the right side of the infield we couldn't get things going with the bat. Things got out of control at the end as the Raiders relaxed with a lead, but I think, despite Wednesday's solid professional performance from the opposition we should be optimistic about the return fixture. We'll be less anxious, there'll be less of a disparity in terms of quality practice between the teams, the Raiders will be pushing for promotion, one might suppose, and will have all the pressure on their shoulders. We didn't survive for the last two seasons purely because of blind luck and scoring shenanigans. That said, a brief perusal of the rest of the week's results suggests that perhaps the softball Gods are gazing down at us approvingly, in spite of our woes at the plate.

Do me proud on Wednesday. I'm counting on you. And remember:-

All I do each night is pray -
Hoping that I'll be a part of you again someday...

Run To The Hills

Re: last night's outcome - if it was expressed as a mathematic equation, with our score of "2" a known variable & their score the unknown variable, the equation would be best expressed by multiplication rather than by addition or subtraction. Or exponentially (a dark thought).

Moving on: there was much to take from the pitch in celebration. In Canadian ice hockey fashion, awarding three stars after each game to stalwarts - only we're going to forego the naff tradition of awarding prizes to the opposing team - the following were standouts last night:-

1st star - Hillary. A revelation at catcher, snaring two foul balls and reducing grown men to tears, bats trailing between their legs as they slunk back to their bench. Wonderful to behold.

2nd star - Shell. Three punishing catches in left-field, one a foul ball snared after a long run, play that pushed hitters out of their early swing comfort zone. Fantastic consistency.

3rd star - Kat. For snagging a low line drive from her perch at second at the top of the seventh, a certain extra base hit taken away. Hitters should think twice about challenging her athleticism.

Honourable mention - Adrian, for pitching a sterling game, consistently in the strike zone and forcing hitters to swing. Marvellous stuff.

Hopefully run-scoring accomplishments can be celebrated next week...

Laz

Вода капля камень точит

It is 1559.2 miles from Moscow to Clissold Park. The interweb told me, so it must be true. At 10.02pm local time yesterday evening Moscow and N16 shared a balmy 21 degrees Celsius, if not much else.

The population of Moscow is similar to that of the Tecumsehs; a fair few locals, a few expats, a smattering of those who have been here forever and a guy in the corner quoting Marx. There are ducks in Moscow, but disappointingly, no wild bears padding quietly amongst the crazed maypole dance of Lada Sputniks and Zighulis on the MKAD.

In 1971, besides the first plaintive wails of Cymru's first dual-boxered son, the Russians completed the first space station, the imaginatively named DOS-7K. One can only assume from this that all the decent project names had been reserved by Len Deighton some years previously.

Pravda also reported the death of pensioner N. Khrushchev in a single line somewhere on page 23; a demonstration of how the mighty can fall.


His headstone can be found in Novodevichy Cemetery, where the white half symbolises the good that he achieved and the black the bad.

Reports that his encouragement of the Germans to build the Berlin Wall provided inspiration for Elton John's tribute, Nikita are unconfirmed, but if true definitely belong to the dark side.

May the 9th is Victory Day. It is therefore unfortunate that the Tecumsehs' next match falls on the 10th. However given the Tecumseh tradition of being late and staying later, I am sure that this will not pose too much of a problem. The outfield's a bit dicey when filled with tanks.

In the words of Nikita: Мы вас похороним!

Home thoughts from a bloke

We won this corresponding fixture last year. The London Raiders fielded well enough but couldn't pierce or clear our infield. It is absurd to suggest that it's a must-win game, particularly as we have little idea of the quality of the relegated teams. But it's also obvious that we will need to win one or two of these 50-50 home games in order to stay up. I have a feeling that the three victories we managed last year will not be enough this season, and that the division as a whole will be more competitive, or less polarised, at least. The news regarding our female players is very encouraging. Ruth Heller e-mailed earlier this week to confirm that she will be available for the first few games. Which means that we could start the season with a distaff five as experienced as any of the opposition. We have great pitching. There are reasons to be optimistic.

Play up Tecumsehs!

Tecumsehs Announce Campaign Tune

It's "Good Fortune" by Polly Harvey. Learn the words and we can all sing along next time we're in the Defoe.

En Attendant Nelson

We couldn't get to first base, there being no base to get to. With Coach Emeritus and Acting Kitman Larry marked absent things looked bleak as Beckett for Vladimir, Estragon and Pozzo Tecumseh as they gazed across the duck pond into a chill Nor'wester. Blowing in from the East, to brighten everyone's evening was Jen, however, who is a slender shadow of her former, no less delectable self. Fear not, she is not recovering from a serious illness, but is merely a little malnourished. Lawyers are treated more appropriately in Moscow, it seems. We were also blessed by a quartet of newbies whose names I will now misspell without a thought to the consequences.

Kirsten is blonde and athletic.
Danielle is dark and athletic.
Marc is sandy-haired and laid-back.
Paul is dark and tenacious.

They all appeared rather more expert than the Tecumseh regulars by the end of practise.

I can reveal that the correct pronunciation of "Sion Tammes" is, prosaically, Sion Tammes. Our brand new international man of mystery also made a guest appearance and revealed the sorry truth about his forename, before wowing us with both glove and stick.

Thanks to all who attended, particularly those new teammates who made it a worthwhile exercise.

No schedule as yet, but there's a good chance that the first game will be on my 35th birthday, so don't forget the presents.

Springing Into Action, Wednesday 5th April 2006

Fort Shawnee, the team's Sunshine State offseason facility exists, for the moment, solely within the somewhat limited confines of this writer's imagination. But hey, at least it's not sinking. We were obliged, therefore, to assemble instead by the west duckpond in Clissold Park, a corner of N16 which is forever Tecumseh, for the start of Spring Training.

Tecumseh Spring Training serves as a test for Schrödinger's cat, in that it may or may not take place, and you never know for sure until the kit bag is open.

Tecumseh Spring Training serves as a test for Special Relativity, in that it is both protracted, taking place (assuming the cat's alive) over a period of weeks, and astonishingly brief, as only an hour or so of real time elapses while people are running around with bats, balls and gloves.

When we opened the bag this year we found my flip-flops.

Equipment guru Seth Harman had promised us some new softball gadgetry and did not disappoint. Among his box of delights were a green, overweight, soft toss softball, ideal for warming up on a cool April evening - I recommend those who haven't to try it - a still heavier black softball which explodes, presumably, when dropped and a batting tee. The batting tee closely resembles a giant sex toy such as one might encounter in a Ken Russell film, or a Nicholson Baker novel. It may be the rudest single object I've ever seen. The fact that it is occasionally necessary to grip the thing tightly near its tip in order to adjust its projection and angle of thrust just adds to the overall effect. Unfazed by the vulgarity of this jutting black form the team took BP, shagged some fly balls, fielded some grounders, and all in all looked free from rust. The evening was then enlivened by the appearance of Kat's flat mates who appeared to be anything but flat (in the sense of "lacking effervescence", before I 'm accused of chauvinism) although it should be noted that these two young women waited until we were in the pub before joining the practice leading some to question their absolute commitment to the team. Bygones, I say. Arsenal progressed to the semi-finals of the Champion's League and a young female priest in a dog collar and a flamboyant skirt got one or two of our former altarboys a little flustered. I'm hoping she's there again next week.

Sayonara.

Cut Your Hair

So, I put an ad on eBay in the hope of attracting some prospective lady Tecumsehs. eBay is advising that I lower my starting price, but I am of the opinion that a place on the roster should be prized beyond rubies. And I cut my hair (idiomatically, though Kelly is of the opinion that I might as well have done it myself). Those of you unfortunate enough never to have witnessed the Byronic magnificence of the other Miles mane are permitted to weep bitter tears. I've been feeling a little washed out since I had it done, and any smiting of Philistines is completely out of the question. Fortunately the Cheetahs were relegated last season. The top should have grown out a little by the time we next convene on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Seth has promised a new gadget. It's all good.

Preseason preamble

Preamble, le mot juste, where Tecumsehs are concerned. Another offseason marked by complacency and inactivity is almost at an end. Spring is here, and a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of softball, as Tennyson observed, in an early, oft-o'erlooked draft of Locksley Hall. The AGM has been and gone. Attendance was spectacularly poor, to my certain knowledge only three Tecumsehs made it to The Rose & Crown. Shell, nobly, is claiming four showed up but has counted Seth twice, I suspect. "Right, so we've got Seth, Adrian, me and Seth, that's four!" If you were the mysterious other Tecumseh present please make yourself known and I'll stand corrected. Another explanation might be found in the diaries of Shackleton. On one of his Southward expeditions a strange psychophenomenon was observed whereby several of his fellow explorers, driven half-mad by blinding snow, were convinced that often one more person was travelling with them than they knew to be in the party.

Farooq is a new father, again, and we wish him luck in rediscovering the attendant joys of that happy state. From what I remember babies are like camels, in that they communicate their discomfort from both ends, in the most alarming fashion. Salaam, tiny Snackperson. Welcome to our troubled world.

In other news Lord Anthony Chanter has passed his umpiring finals and can now fly blue at the mizzen. TC did all this on the QT in order to avoid the customary pelting with flour and eggs. Barbara is said to so proud of her man that she is considering allowing him to introduce her to the rest of the team. Probably best to ensure Craig's not around when you do, Tone old mate, as he may start going on about the war, or what he still remembers of it first-hand. Incidentally as umpires are paid cash in hand is Tony likely to be pursued by members of his own department? I think we should be told.

Having perused Shell's minutes from the AGM I assume that it's "As you were" vis à vis coaching this year, with Head Coach Emeritus (and Danish correspondent) Nelson playing Bush to Doctor Goodhand's Cheney. Hope so. Over and out.

Danish weather update

In keeping with Tecumseh travelogue tradition, I'm checking in from Copenhagen, in town to interview Carlsberg's CEO. (A big moment for my little mag.) Their global HQ is atop the city's tallest building, above a working maltings. With the dust from the grain there's always an infinitesimal but real chance of an explosion, which would decimate the Danish brewer's braintrust. It's something that always crosses my mind as I rocket up in the lift to the 15th floor.

But this will change: this cathedral of brewing, where so much of the initial work understanding the mysteries of yeast was undertaken in the 19th century, is to be closed, a city centre site that is worth more redeveloped.

The site speaks of Carlsberg's family origins. The gates to the brewery are shouldered by four elephants, symbolising those of the founders' eight children to make it to adulthood. Two of these beasts are adorned with swastikas, etched in stone before the Nazis usurped these ancients symbols of Indian health. Admittedly, they are a strange sight in today's modernity and it's a somewhat brave non-PC decision on the part of the brewery to allow them to remain.

Otherwise, it's below zero and the city is quiet. The rainbow-coloured lights of Tivoli are on, but no one is home, its gates shut and windows shuttered. It is also snowing, the kind of snow that I like best, light, big flakes blown and thrown about by a gentle wind. It envelops the city centre in a blanket, muffling noise and creating a Christmas Eve stillness. The streets are empty.

Lazza

Howdy

Hey Tecumsehs!

Softball season is almost upon us. I invite you all to contribute to this diary of a year in the life of a shambolic recreational sports team. (Seth - if you feel the urge to contribute please use spell check). Please note that this blog is intended to be a mere supplement to Jen's mighty website. That said, I would love it if everyone chipped in. Even the inevitable workshy Tecumsehs who are planning to take themselves off to Equatorial Guinea for the summer.

Just go to blogger and get uploading. Your username is london_tecumseh and the password is shawnee (see what I did there?) If you're really keen let me know and I'll make you a member!

I look forward to hearing from you all.