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.