We Are Going to Get Our Asses Kicked

Those are the first words I think on Saturday mornings, at least the Saturday mornings that the CP Shadows actually play softball. And yes, I mentally italicize them, per house style.

Last year, we got into a groove—show up, get our asses kicked, go for pizza. This year has been more difficult, because the 6-hour wedge softball drives into the heart of my weekend has been dulled by one delay after another, either for weather or for a holiday. We haven't played since April 26, and it has been bliss, weekend-wise.

But now it all ends. Barring a weather event such as Capital Weather Gang is getting all in-a-bunch about, we're gonna face the National Press Club TWICE tomorrow. Last year I tried to unnerve the Press Club bats by shouting "Rich Little!" and when that didn't work, "The Unforgettable Fire," because, adapting Stanley Bing's advice to encourage a business partner to order bacon and eggs at breakfast, I figured a reference to a commonly cherished childhood album would trigger all sorts of reveries on their part and maybe they'd become too distracted to knock us down like French prizefighters.

It didn't work. And I will try it tomorrow, too, but only for old times' sake. Adieu, weekends without softball, adieu.

Photo by Express' Holly J. Morris