The Munt for Cold October

As you may know, I play in a Sunday league as well. I am nothing if not adulterous. After our Thursday game, I had to conclude that this new breed of sportsman; the Kickballer, was made of tougher things, a throwback to the greatest generation, we were tight with our trophies, the rain wasn’t an obstacle it was an ushering in of new strategy. (Rain = kickaway). But Sunday I was inches from the park when I received a text message. It was one of our own, retracting her lament of absence because the games had been cancelled due to weather.

Frustrations aside, I had time to contemplate my positioning in the athletic world, and what it meant to play Kickball, or any co-ed recreational sport for that matter. There was a time where I thought to play seriously, you had to admit a few things: you were never getting a professional contract so you were playing for fun; you risked injury, roughed work on 3 hours sleep hungover for the love of the game. That you played co-ed sports, and with the patriarchy being what it is, no Basketball-dream was ever going to pull you to the promised land of professional sports. And that because of this love, come hell or high-water, snow or rain, 90-degree heat waves or the 5 day mist-storms that give everyone the flu, you were going to play regardless.

But Sunday was cancelled. Sunday, unlike Thursday, plays on two grass fields. I’m no Botanist but does grass absorb the water? Shouldn’t our fields be resilient like we were? I will concede some points. For those who aren’t aware, I should point out two things:

1. I am a die-hard Yankee. I feel that being born here means we’re of a higher bloodline than most other people. And if you’re not from here, take heart that you had to good foresight to move here. We live through shit weather on a regular basis. We eat seafood, we have basements. American runs on Dunkin – think of that arrogance. New England runs on Dunkin, we just believe the rest of the world should be like us.

2. Our league rep (who shall remain nameless) is from CA. I’m sure every day here looks like a “call the game, the weathers miserable” day.

Can I fault a man of such dimensions? Being the open locationalist that I am, I’ve come to expect as much from those who think 70 degrees demands a sweater. But we’re talking about a national interest here. There’s an honor is reefing with a solo cup, there’s a pride in walking through commercial traffic in sherbet-colored knee-highs, and who wouldn’t want to walk around with the MVP belt this season. I know I certainly aim to in all aspects of play.

But if we’re prepared to defend our way of life and culture in the herds in Harvard Square, I believe we should too defend our right to damn the weather patterns attempt to prohibit us from play. We’ve been resolute in our determination to never go another week without something to look forward to, we’ve been stalwart in circumventing the prohibition that still lingers in PC-Cambridge’s public land, and here too we should take a stand. A stand against perfect conditions and manicured fields, a resistance to government intervention for our alcoholism, and a stand against giving up the only thing that gives us hope in our otherwise miserable so-this-is-the-real-world lives.

Stay hungry Hippo’s, and kick away.

The Brow