July 7, 2011

Originally Titled, Roger and Casey, Sitting in a tree, So much L-Y-I-N-G; Now Titled, I won a huge softball game, so screw Roger and Casey: A Three-Part Saga

Below, in a rare, unedited post, you will accompany me on a wild journey through my brain on an insane Wednesday. I started this post as a comparison between Roger Clemens and Casey Anthony (and, in part, Barry Bonds).  I did not have any time to finish it or post it during the day.  After work, my softball team won a ginormous game against the first-place club, and we went out to celebrate. Once I got home, after a few drinks (and by “a few,” I mean too many), I was in the mood to write.  So I finished this post. I finished it in a completely different, and at times questionably coherent, manner. I debated whether I should just delete everything about last night and finish the original post, as intended. But I decided against that. So for entertainment value and posterity’s sake, enjoy...  

Part 1. Somewhat serious comments about Casey Anthony.  [Written at 9:30 a.m., on Wednesday, while sitting in court]. 

Before I get to Roger, the purpose of this post, we should just acknowledge the ginormous legal elephant in the room – the acquittal of Casey Anthony, from which I am still reeling. Like really, a jumble of emotions, which – don’t get me wrong – seems irrational at this point. It is over.  The fat lady (or blind jury) sang.  But there are still so many questions.  I am curious as to why Casey’s parents left the courtroom immediately after the verdict was read, without emotion, and without congratulating their daughter. The statement released by their attorney was almost laced with shock and disgust.  As some smart person pointed out in the comments yesterday, does she plan to just go home? You know, to the father that sexually abused her for years and the mother that perhaps left the pool ladder up and contributed to the death of her daughter (with visits from her brother, who allegedly felt her up)?  What bullshit. 

I abhor the thought that she will be released; that Judge Perry will let her off with time served for the false info convictions. I wonder how Jose Baez spent the best night of his career. I am angry that he will profit from this disaster of a trial.  That he will obtain fame and fortune for allowing a murderer to walk free when he did just about everything he could to show her the electric chair.   I hope that Casey will go the way of Amy Fisher and O.J. Simpson, social outcasts and pariahs who repulse the general public.  I think that the only way she can rehabilitate her image is to hibernate for at least a year; if she tries to profit before then, she will be crucified (even more so than now).  I can’t wait for her first interview, because I can’t wait for her to voluntarily submit to questioning; I have no doubt that she will continue to lie.  I crave details, knowledge, answers about the last moments of Caylee Anthony’s life. Answers we will never ever receive.  I am still stunned.

I have received a bunch of emails about yesterday’s Casey post. And I plan to respond to them here at some point soon.  But for now, I will just say this: For the life of me, I do not understand how she beat the manslaughter charge.  I mean, the jury totally rejected the prosecution’s case; they came back with a verdict immediately and they didn’t ask to review any evidence. I do not know how it happened, but it did.  As noted on HLN, these must have been the same 12 people in Florida who thought that hanging chads were a good idea. Acquittal on child abuse, I totally get; there was no evidence that Caylee was ever mistreated.  But there was evidence, premeditated or accidental, that the child was killed (i.e., her garbage-bagged remains tossed in a swamp and duct-taped together).  Casey Anthony was the only person linked to that set of facts (I never bought that George was involved; he was ready to kill himself or Casey’s friends because he could not bear life without his granddaughter).  There was no other suspect.  And the prosecution offered us a treasure trove of evidence to prove it; to demonstrate that any other conclusion defies common sense. The jury ignored it. If that circumstantial case cannot bring about a conviction, I am not sure that anyone will ever be convicted without fingerprints or bodily fluids tying them directly to a crime.  And that is really disheartening as an attorney.  It is like saying: DNA is all that matters; felons, keep your spit in your mouth and the jizz in your pants.  And that brings us to Roger Clemens.  Because DNA/physical evidence is going to play a major role in the U.S. vs. The Rocket trial.

Part 2. Mini Interlude regarding Roger Clemens [Um, written under the influence at midnight on Thursday]

Wait, you know what? Fuck Roger Clemens.  I am not invested, in any way, in his trial.  Definitely not like Casey.  And, considering the topic, you would think that I’d care more. I do not.  He deserves whatever is coming to him, because he brought it all upon himself.  I idolized him.  I saw his “last” game ever in Yankee Stadium in 2003 (but then he broke my heart when he un-retired in a matter of like three months).  I saw his real “last” game at the Stadium again in 2007.  But ever since January 2004, when he signed with the Astros, I have thought of Roger as a dumber, cockier, more obnoxious version of Brett Favre.  Which says a lot. Instead of Crocs, he probably jerks off in cowboy boots. With stirrups. And, really, I don’t care what happens in his trial. But I was sort of amused when his lawyers argued in court yesterday that Roger Clemens is “not a scholar of linguistics.” As if we misremembered. 

Sigh. I will talk about Roger at some point, simply for the significance of the trial (and because it is SO different than the Barry Bonds situation and I find that fascinating), but for now, we are going to talk about other things.  Because it is 12:07 a.m., I just got home from softball, and I am quite drunk and extremely happy.  That is the real reason why I cannot talk about Casey or Roger at the moment. But rather than edit this so it makes sense or has any sort of central theme or coherence, I am just going to go with this, as written.  You’re welcome. 

Part 3. A Drunken Ode to Softball

I am ecstatic because my team won a huge game tonight.  Since April, I had planned to keep a running diary of my Central Park softball team – mainly because: 1) we are awesome; 2) my team is eclectic and hilarious; 3) it is my absolute escape from life.  That plan went to the wayside. Tonight, oh tonight, deserves a recap and some color commentary.  But first you should understand my place on our reigning championship club.  In June 2006, my first summer in New York (after my first year in law school), I was laying in Central Park, reading My Sister’s Keeper, in a bikini.  I had not even started my first job yet.  I had never been to the Great Lawn, and I was shocked – positively shocked – at the number of softball fields.  It was like I was in heaven.  This weird, lush green island in the middle of a concrete jungle, filled with SOFTBALL fields. I badly wanted to play and had no idea how to get involved.  So, book in hand, I sort of moseyed up to the first field in front of me.  I approached the pitcher/captain – who looks exactly like C.C. Sabathia – and asked if they needed any players for that summer. I said, specifically, “I know that I look ridiculous, but I promise I can actually play softball.” And then I jotted down my email and never expected to hear from them again.

But then I did. I received an email from C.C. a week later. And while I was nervous to play with some random-ass group of New Yorkers, it was most definitely the best decision that I have made since moving here.  We are a rag-tag, diverse, competitive but fun, team. We have ex-minor leaguers, P.R. executives, sorority interns, arguable alcoholics, and soccer moms.  They are undoubtedly my favorite group of people in New York.  And I have played with them every single summer since 2006, even though I am the only person on our team who is not a member of their P.R. company in some regard.  They all welcomed me and made me feel like part of the team from the very first game I played.  They made me remember how much I love softball, how much fun it can be…I think I had forgotten that in high school and college. They have had a profound impact on my life, as ridiculous as that sounds.  When I moved here, I had gone through a lot of personal bullshit – mostly involving fallouts with college friends – and this softball team, who did not know me in any way whatsoever, was so welcoming, so much fun, and so refreshing. 

I have always said that softball, or little league sports in general, have given me a gateway to making friends and finding my place somewhere, anywhere, no matter the circumstances.  I am grateful. Whether it was my childhood, or moving during high school, or my mom’s death, or college, or law school, or New York, every stage of my life has been transitioned, in some way, by softball.  I have a great appreciation for the game and for the concept of a team. Softball taught me to be a leader. It allowed me to bridge distances and awkwardness, because talent speaks louder than get-to-know-you pleasantries. And I was lucky that way.  But my Central Park softball team is different than all of the others that I have played on, too many to count, since I was six-years-old.  We trust each other and play as a unit and pick each other up; we have chemistry.  And tonight it showed.

I play a feisty left-center field and bat second for the Wolfpack. We won our first championship last year. This year, we have not been as consistent.  We are in second place, two games out of first. And tonight we played the first-place, undefeated team.  They were cocky assholes. Their girls were awesome (I tend to think that guys neutralize each other in coed leagues and teams are defined by the quality of their women players); I was genuinely impressed.  But they all infuriated me.  For example, in the fifth inning, I had an unintentional swinging bunt, which dribbled two feet in front of the plate (which I actually love, because straight bunting is prohibited. During my senior year in high school, after I had shoulder surgery, I could not swing. All I could do was bunt or slap bunt. So I perfected it. And then bunted, as unsurprisingly as possible, every single at bat.  And I batted .394. So whenever I can steal a bunt, I take it). I was safe. They all incessantly talked shit while I was on first base. And I could not respond, because we were losing that badly.  We were down 6-0 going into the bottom of the fifth, and then 7-2 in the bottom of the seventh. And we were all pissed.  It was one of those silent, angry, no-one-speaks-or-cheers kind of games. We had badly wanted to put this team in its place and we were failing miserably.

Bottom of the seventh.  Ex-minor leaguer leads off and gets a hit.  C.C. gets a hit.  “Big Will,” who looks like a member of Diddy’s entourage, gets a hit.  P.R. exec smashes a double. Down by three, man on second and third, no outs. Dude who rarely hits gets a bloop single. Top of our line-up.  Tiny elf with a lot of pop hits a single. Down by two, bases loaded, I am up.  The outfield played me in (like on the edge of the grass), which clearly pissed the fuck out of me. I wanted to mash it over their heads.  I did not.  I hit a hard grounder to short, which scored a run.  And the shortstop – I think this was the key to the game – did not go for the double play; he went for the force at third, leaving the tying run on second and the winning run (me) on first. One out. Hilarious high-level exec hits a single to center.  Bases loaded and hot married Mets fan is up.  And he hits a shot to right-center that is behind my line of vision, but seemed like a hard single.  I expected to stop at third, since there was only one out.  As I am coming hard into third, I am getting waved around (I later found out that the centerfielder bobbled the throw).  I am confused but do not hesitate. As my team later said, “I was barreling towards home and they were excited because they thought my plan was to fully take out the catcher, football-style.”  That made me laugh, because it was not my plan at all.  I planned to slide directly into the soccer-mom catcher’s glove and kick the ball away. I did not think she could handle the throw or the tag.  And I was right.   I knew I was safe, popping up with my arms raised and excitedly yelling “THAT WAS AWESOME!!!!”  And everyone poured out of the dugout, because we just miraculously came back from five down during last licks to defeat the undefeated. 
The best part? Our opponents were in such shock that they did not move.  Literally, just stood there, wondering why we were all celebrating and walking off the field.  They looked so confused as we lined up for handshakes, in total disbelief. God, it was incredible.  I know you do not really care about my extracurricular Central Park softball league, but this, this was the comeback of the motherfucking year.  It was so awesome that C.C., who never drinks, had a beer to celebrate.  It made me forget about Roger and Casey.  And like I said, that is the best part about softball for me – when I am on the field, everything else ceases to exist for two glorious hours.  But you know what? We still haven’t gotten to Roger. It is coming. Much like his conviction for perjury.  Until then, I have to go to bed.  A poor detained South African trapeze artist is depending on me to kick ass tomorrow. I wish I was kidding. So goodnight and good game. 

[Hungover editor’s note, 9:15 a.m.: That last line should probably read “good morning and good grief,” but whatever.  I hope you had fun deciphering this word puzzle of a post.  Think of it like sudoku…but not. I have to go attempt to be functional now.]

I just got home from work and finally had time to post this ridiculousness. Tomorrow we will go back to being, you know, sober. I hope you all had a better Thursday than I did. Let’s just say that the afterglow of victory was very much overshadowed by court craziness and hungover exhaustion. It is time for the Yankees, a cheeseburger, and to check on my fantasy baseball boyfriend Michael Morse Also known as my favorite time of day. I am secretly hoping that Derek Jeter does not get any additional hits tonight, because I am selfish and have tickets for tomorrow AND Saturdays’ games. As always, thank you all for stopping by CDTF and check back tomorrow.    


  1. What is it about writing about baseball/softball drunk? Just flows, doesn't it? Thanks Jill, that was an incredible recap - couldn't get enough. Please give us some kind of updates included in your daily posts as your season progresses.

  2. Thaanks for sharing that. Great comeback, great storu. You are short an AJ pie, but maybe that would go to the RBI guy. I suppose everyone has a story like this...if you don't you're unlucky. So glad you got the win.

    - Manhattan Man