14 | david morini

san francisco gay softball league: post-practice speech before the golden showers vs. the CODs (acronym for creepy old dudes)


Okay, everyone! Thanks for showing up. We had a great practice today. Some good catches, some good hits. Tomorrow, at Sally Fields we’re up against another D Division team, the CODs. As most of you know they’re decent at catching but their runs are sloppy.

Jen will be joining us for tomorrow’s game via Skype. She’s in Boston for a dual-trip purpose: exercising her New Englander’s right to celebrate the Boston Marathon and completing her dissertation on debunking the urban legend of “scissoring” among the lesbian community. She would like to thank her teammates for pushing her into this direction and plans on returning to us with Holy Grail evidence of dispute. She will notify us as to the date and time of her defense.

A couple of notes: Jim, if your hat flips off while running between first and second, or any base for that matter, please listen to Idina Menzel and “Let It Go.” You were clinging to that thing like it was your wig and running like IHOP was about to close their all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.

Bob, you’re a grown-ass man and I need you to focus when you’re in the outfield. Yes, the flowers are pretty and yes, that was a fine piece of ass running by in a pair of shimmering ruby red short-shorts and yes, that bird looks like an aerial Easter bonnet but we’re playing softball, we’re playing a game where a bright green fluorescent projectile is flying at your crotch at some God-awful speed. No concussions on my watch. I appreciate it.

Dean, have you been practicing with those wiffle balls I gave you last week? No, they weren’t anal beads, Dean, they were wiffle balls. How many do you have? There were 12 in the package. Well, you got two more to find, buddy; maybe someone here can fish it out or you can bend over and we can take turns slapping you on the back. You know, like you were a broken vending machine.

So, after last practice’s debacle of speaking (or shouting) out of turn I asked that if you had something to say to please get it to me in writing and I would read your notes. We shouldn’t be lingering around the field or cutting into game time with our individual comments, grievances, accusations, séances, or boisterous exclamations of Braveheart-ian encouragements. I also did this because I didn’t want a repeat of what happened last week. Ginger is still recovering from the now infected gash in her leg. Unfortunately there was no footage to confirm or deny that the injury was perpetrated by a quick-tempered player with a shiv to the thigh but the suspect is adamant that the blame goes to a loose nail on the bench. Which, to me, sounds both like a truth and a lie, the shady queen.

Martin, please put your hand down. Not only is that bangle you’re wearing blinding me in the eye but, and dare I repeat myself, if you didn’t put it in writing then no one here is biting, mmm’kay?

Moving on! Oh! One more thing, the Switchhitter’s Ball. For you new guys this is a banquet to raise money for the league. Performers show up in their butchest—that immediately eliminates most of you— then you get an hour to prepare and show back up in drag. This year the theme is You Can’t Do That On Television and we’re signed up for a group drag performance. Justin is putting together a medley mix of Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl,” Jill Sobule’s “I Kissed a Girl,” and Geisha’s “Shit’n on You Hoe.” Interested parties, please see Ms. Justin.

Okay. I got a few messages from you betches so here I go.

Ms. Jonathan has a problem with our recent fundraising events. He goes on to say: I don’t appreciate being groped by leering, sick men while selling Jolly Rancher flavored Jell-O shots on a disco-lit tray. It’s not my fault I’m pretty with a sickening ass. I feel like Anne Hathaway in that crying musical she did with the corpse of Russell Crowe, peddling my wares for a shot at a statue of gold. I’m sorry. But I have dignity. I’m not like Kai over here who’s content at growing out a villainous mustache, waxed with dollar store Gorilla Snot, and wearing dirty jock strap. I’m sorry, Kai, but those mustaches were so five years ago. You’re always five years behind. Stop being five years behind on everything! The only people who are still attracted to that shit are basic. You’re catching basic flies with your basic honey face! Can’t we do something more sensible, more honorable like a bachelor auction or a handbag line? Is peddling raffle tickets and playing to the lewd whims of the gay incontinent the only thing we’re good enough for? I demand to be a cut above!

Ok. Some good points there, Jonathan. Speaking of raffle tickets: raffle prizes! We have plenty of the Bags O’Porn, which are now more like bachelorette party favors. I don’t need any more copies of Fisting For Fun Vol. 9, Jailhouse Jizz: The Revenge, or Thirsty Alley’s Hungry Escapades to the Buff Buffet: Kansas City Extravaganza. I got more than enough of those, thank you. What we do need are more gift cards from the likes of Starbuck’s, Outback Steakhouse, or even BBQ Wings and Sexy Strings Chicken and Lingerie. Thank you to Gary for those tiny bottles of Jagermeister and to Ryan for donating clippings of his pubic hair woven into a tassel attached to a key ring.

I got a note from the Coach of Trans-Siberian Railroad, the F-to-M trans team, regarding gender pronouns. We, as gay men, casually toss “she” and “her” at other gay men like we toss someone else’s salad. This doesn’t work for TSR. “Damn, that girl got a run in her,” or, “she snatched that ball good.” Or, “that catcher, she got a filthy mouth.” They’re one of the boys so let’s treat them as equals. Yes, Rob? Yes, I understand the catch-22 here, that by not calling them “she” and “her” we’re sidelining them as separate but equal. May I remind you of Supreme Court ruling on Fox News vs. Comedy Central, you can’t have Bill O’Reilly without Stephen Colbert but you can have Stephen Colbert without Bill O’Reilly.

Oh! I just got a text from Ms. Jerod. Apparently she went home with some trick but misunderstood Castro Valley for Castro and Henry and now doesn’t know how to get back to San Francisco. She’s too scared to get into the trick’s pick-up as it has a Ron Paul for President bumper sticker next to another that reads: “If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you can read this in English, thank a veteran.” Ronnie, will you please drive out to that cattle battlefield and save Ms. Jerod the humiliation of hitchhiking back herself. You know she likes that good lipstick that takes more than a man’s filthy cock and a couple of Kleenex’s to get rid of.

Another note. This time from David. To the cunt-lick that almost ran me over with his brand new silver Audi while I was walking on the white man in the crosswalk; I hope you poke your eye out with your outdated Ray Ban sunglasses or choke on the boredom when you open your pleated khaki pant closet for the 7000th time. Because of you and tech-turds like you I can’t buy plaid cotton shirts at Nordstrom’s Rack, I have to go out of my way to find graphic print. I can’t even wear gingham! And you know who wears gingham? Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz. That print is ours. You’re blandifying this city, whitewashing it into whatever Ivy League college campus you microwaved your popcorn on. Take your filthy Star Wars references, stuff them in your birthday-day present Jansport, and Tweet yourself to some other town, because frankly, whatever you’re doing here can be done in Mountain View, San Jose, Gainesville, FL, fucking Moscow! I can’t do what I do in Moscow without fear of being thrown in jail or murdered but I’m sure they have some parking spaces that could be auctioned off or cedar boxes to mail your chic sandalwood beard grooming soaps in. I bet they have whole farms of swine you could innovate by lathering lipstick on pigs.

Okay. I don’t know what that has to do with the team, practice, or gameplay but this is why we ask for pre-written notes.

Whoever scared that poor little straight bartender at The Edge and sent him home crying like he saw Zombie Cher riding Cerberus in his sock drawer, I will find out who you are and I will deny you free drink coupons until he returns from the hospital.

The next note comes from Ms. Fernando. She wants to say how proud she is of everyone on the Golden Showers. She especially wants to congratulate Ms. Andrew for defying expectations and proving everyone wrong. We thought you were only a number to maintain our minimum roster count but the way you crowded that home plate and broke that twiggy Chicken Hawk’s clavicle, well, you’re an inspiration to us all. We will never hear the grisly snapping of a chicken wing the same again. Everyone, let’s give a round of applause for Andrew.

By the way, Antonio, we don’t get points, we earn runs. And it’s not home base but home plate.

Thom, there is no hugging in softball during a game. It’s a technicality. We will get an out. Save your enthusiasm for the dugout or the urinals at The Edge.

Finally. I want to offer some words of encouragement, as we get ready to play the CODs tomorrow.

Let’s grind those CODs into the dirt with the stiletto heels of our ANCESTORS and burn their bats in a heap in front of their weeping descendants then force them to wear the mitts of the fallen anchored around their sweaty necks until they ROT for ETERNITY!!! We shall eat the souls of our fallen ENEMIES as we crush their DREAMS of advancing towards ANY BASE while we laugh at their FAILURE!! Our Balls will fly like HALCYON with the thunderous crack of the bat! We will steal their balls from the reddened SKIES with our hawk-like clutches!! San Francisco CRUMBLES with boasts of our bravery emanating from our chests with every cheer and shout we collectively issue! Let’s make those CODs BOW before our POWER!! YAAAASSSSS!!! WHO’S WITH ME??!?!?!!!!

Good. Good. I’ll see you all tomorrow an hour before game time.

david m. morini graduated from the MFA Program in Writing at the California College of the Arts and resides in San Francisco. He served on the Poetry Board for Eleven Eleven and has been published in Beeswax Magazine, The Blink Zine, NameCalling.org, Monday Night, BlazeVOX, SHAMPOO, and Writing Without Walls. He tweets at @sarunikai and plays Left Field for the SFGSL San Francisco F-Liners. Go! Go! F-Liners!