Note: Brian Oliu is the Commissioner of the University of Alabama English Department Football League, located in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Here, Oliu revisits an e-mail sent to the English Department Listserv during a time where softball was attempting to domineer the poet-athlete landscape.
When I was in second grade, I wrote my first story in Mrs. Foreman’s class at Three Bridges Elementary School. The story, called ‘Homerun!’, documented an epic struggle between two forces: the Frogs, and the Other Team (which I can’t seem to remember the name of). The Frogs, scrappy underfrogs they were (like the French!), were caught in a championship battle they had no chance of winning. The Not-Frogs had the edge in every aspect of the game, including intangibles, which is the most-known unknown stat there is. The story (winner of the PEN/Faulkner award) described the drama flawlessly: the Not-Frogs scored three runs in the first inning, then the action is fast-forwarded to the bottom of the ninth. Before you scream “If the Frogs were so undermatched, why do they have homefield advantage? We must assume that the Frogs are the National League representative; what with their base-running and sacrifice flies to right field.” let me assure you that this game, despite seeming like it took place in a future where anthropomorphic beasts indulge in athletic competition, took place in the late 80s, meaning that homefield advantage for the World Series alternated from year-to-year, and how dare you question my genius! Do you doubt the research that went into ‘Homerun!’? !?
The drama, to be fair, was a bit back-ended. There was a significant part of the story that simply read ‘Nothing happened in the 2nd inning. Nothing happened in the 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, or 8th innings either.’, which, I admit, could’ve used a little more detail. (For example: the fact that if you can hit the Not-Frogs early, their bullpen can be erratic at times and you can get some baserunners.) But nevertheless, the story (which you can find in the Brian Oliu-wing of the James Joyce Museum in Dublin) lulled you into a false sense of security before bashing you over the head with the explosive and amazing conclusion, where the Not-Frog pitcher—always steadfast and yet to allow a baserunner all game–turns into Byung-Hyun Kim and gives up a series of hits with two outs, culminating in a six-pitch at-bat where the least-capable player for the Frogs crushed a 3-2 slider into the upperdeck, starting a wild celebration in Frogtropolis. It was like a Philip Roth novel, only better.
Looking back, I can’t understand why I chose to write about this event and baseball in particular. I was never a huge baseball fan—I was too young to remember the Mets winning it all in 1986 and my tee-ball team (sponsored by Whitehouse Cakebox – for all of your cake needs!) was subpar, even though our coach was all like ‘we’re not keeping score! it’s all for fun!’ but I KNOW YOU KEPT SCORE COACH! I would often swing the bat and hit the tee, not the ball, and the ball would tumble (tumble!) to the dirt. I just thought I was an expert bunter.
Yet the baseball narrative is and always will be the most exotic of the sports writing. Santiago and Manolin don’t discuss football while sailing around and being sad and symbolic about human psyche and growing old (sparknotes!). Nor does Stuart Dybek discuss the death of the defensive tackle, even though there is more chance for pain and suffering on the football field (he also talks exclusively about boobs, but that’s another story for another day, children). There is something attractive about the pitcher and batter struggle that is lost in football, apparently. Or, perhaps snooty writers can only use the word ‘barbaric’ to describe football (which it is, that’s what makes it awesome) and want to talk about the poetry of a ‘slider’ or a ‘swing’ or ‘Benny Agbayani’ which, you know, is kind of lame.
To that I say ‘C’mon assholes! Write more about football because football is the golden game and there is grace and style (have you seen B.J. Hollars be a tornado? He BECOMES the tornado, y’all!) and intrigue and more awesomeness than your nerdy old-timey glasses-wearing faces can handle.’ Perhaps the ancient art of writing about baseball as ‘the connection to the common man but not really’ is over and done with and we can get some football stories hitting you in the mouth like boom.
So this, my friends, is an invitation to come watch us
SUNDAY AT 10AM
and document the beautiful, beautiful game. Use some adjectives and find someway to equivocate it to the loss of the world, this beautiful beautiful world that we are losing, losing.
Yankees Suck,
The Commissioner
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This reminds me of my first published work (and by published I mean my teacher laminated and affixed a plastic binder) back in 3rd grade, also about a baseball team.
“Champs!” was about a little league team with players named for the position they played, i.e. First Base Freddy, Pitcher Paul. (Shortstop Sam & Second Base Steve were interchangable, which really helped to tighten up the middle infield. I’m pretty sure Third Base Frank, due to the difficulties I had with pronounciation at that time, could have subbed at 1st as well.)
Think the Frogs are up for a little exhibition? The Champs! are all in their early 30′s, with wives and mortgages and what-not, so it would have to be a on a Saturday when we can all get out of the house, but I promise a keg at the corner bases.
The team was invited to play the Cuban Little League All-Stars in Havana, embargos be damned. When they get there, they couldn’t understand why everyone was sick…turns out it was because they were playing in the Tropic of Cancer. Yes, my first literary pun.
Anyway, the good guys are able to stay well enough to win the exhibition in dramatic fashion. The story ends with the team being presented with a comically large trophy by none other that DJ Jazzy Jeff.
What the hell? Ok, the 3rd paragraph should be read last, not sure what happened there. Mrs. Meyer would be so disappointed.