Ralston Cup Pre-Tourney Newsletter

I must credit and thanks my good friend and teammate, Scott Warnock, with this fantastic newsletter.  He has been writing these for our tournament for nearly fifteen years, and it never fails to capture the essence of the day...

The Boys of July? Al Classic will defend Ralston Cup they never brought home last year

Et un imbécile grands ruins August tradition. Each team faces key questions, some keyer than others

BERLIN, N.J.—At 9:30 AM here on August July 30, 2011 at Ralston Yards, the “original home of wiffleball,” the Ralston Cup Invitational Wiffleball Tournament will take place for a world-record 25^th year.

The tournament has been a staple of August in North America for a quarter century, but this year the date was changed to accommodate a big fool who, despite the digital vacation-booking and schedule synchronization capabilities at the disposal of most Western humans in 2011, failed to plan a trip to France, of all places, on the correct weekend.

The date change by Cup commissioner Paul, in a break from his normal pharisaical* (see Handy Glossary) rule, which has been marked by diktats and verbal pummeling, is another worrisome sign of a gentler Ralston Cup era.

Other signs abound. Enjoying the keg has become optional, thanks to the Falcons. A wiffleballer of old’s idea of venturing outward meant a trip to Clementon; now folks go abroad. Whilst at one time technology was a bottle opener that made a burping sound when you used it, now many players blog, whatever that means, spouting taradiddle. In them days, kids were rightfully despised: Rabid wiffleballers once berated a 12-year-old until he cried. Players now bring their little fellas to scamper around the Yard and take a few cuts: “Whee! Good try little buddy. Next year you’ll actually hit the ball!” Soon, the rascals will get trophies just for attending. Back in the day, dates weren’t moved around to accommodate the utterly incompetent; no one cared about your perspective;  wiffleballers not only pitched but hit uphill—in the snow.

Worst of all, Al Classic broke a sacred rule, forgetting the Cup last year, leaving it in the screened-in porch.

While it is the Cup’s silver anniversary, nothing special is planned. Folks will probably wait until next year for that, what with 26 being such a significant number and all.

Following is the annual unbiased, objective, eminently fair perspective on the teams vying for the Ralston Cup. Because this is an event driven by macro trends and themes that illuminate human nature, a kind of epic tragicomedy framed around a piece of orbicular plastic, this newsletter will ask a strong, poignant, sometimes rhetorical question facing each franchise. Read on.

The key question: Will the Ralston Yards proprietress demonstrate her significant sitzfleisch by not only tolerating the periphrasistic pleonasms of this publication but also enduring the calliopean, ululating gasconade that will again coat East Camden County in a hircine miasma?

Speaking of miasma, Al Classic’s Mordorites won decisively last year, marking their third title in eight years, which is the closest it gets to a dynasty lately. Five-time champ Gentleman Chris Scott sulked his way to a third MVP—and first in 18 years—smacking ten dingers while just avoiding having his nickname changed to “Diaper” in the National Wiffleball Registry. He should be $100 richer come game day (see below). Four-time champ McSpriggan brothers Mikey, a two-time MVP, and team marplot Brian “Bottom’s Up” Mac put aside familial and philosophical differences (“Let’s get drunk now!” “Maybe later”) to help their team triumph. Key question: This team has shown it can win, but can they return to the form that made them the idols of a generation of Berlin Auction-frequenting youths by embracing both kegdom and wiffleball supremacy?

Chris Matt’s Team has now been to the finals three straight years, so it’s no fun even talking about their overachieving and all that. They’re good now. In fact, even jejune Kurt has to deal with throngs of adoring fans; alas, his musical career did not prepare him for this. Chris “Chuck Howley” Matt may be rusty, as instead of training he spent countless hours writing on the InterWeb about the “tarts.” He covered all angles of this fascinating topic, including copious musings about makers of tarts, whom he calls “tartists.” Speaking of not training and pastries, Hayseed Butch will again use the tournament as a place to declare his commitment to fitness. Handsome, mysophobic Jason hit eight homers last year; he has reportedly mastered his “I know you’re watching me” wink while also perfect-ing a move with the bat, saucily slashing the air rapier-like. Key question: Are they better wiffleballers than tartists?

Uncle Mike’s Team, champs in ’04, were only a one-run semis loss to the champs away from the finals after a lackluster roundrobin. Dashing Uncle Mike spent the offseason merrily refining his translations of chess strategy to wiffleball. He promised a complex “castling” maneuver to enhance his team’s fielding. Failed vocal tartist Dat “Reno” Moore has continued his quest for personal development and self-control, although this castling/chess thing will push him over the edge: “Up two over…two? Argghh!” What fun global adventures has budding heartthrob Little Mike had this year? Tormented wiffleballers will surely know come Saturday night. What they didn’t know was that Little Mike hosted his own wiffleball tournament a few weeks ago: Nice of him to call the older players. Stalwart Uncle Bud will further his irenic mission in the face of all this madness. Key question: Can rook to f8 translate to wiffleball gold?

Three-time champs John Jr.’s Team won the longest game ever in last year’s quarters, an 18-inning victory over Paul’s. They are still tired. John Jr., who can be a little tetchy, reportedly will bring a claque of Berlinites misplaced through the decades by the removal of the peach orchards to cheer his team on. The return of Chris “Dino-Mutt” in 2010 helped this team immensely. He hit nine homers, pitched great, and somehow never lets anything bother him—including his own teammates’ tepid play. Ryan may struggle this year, not only because of his Sissyphean (sic) efforts to spout witticisms and parce qu'une partie de ce bulletin est en français, but also he must somehow come up with $100. Last year it was documented on the tournament chart for God’s sake that he bet Chris Scott against the Eagles winning the NFC East. Key question: Will Ryan pay up?

Paul’s Team, the winningest and most aged franchise, in 2010 solved their long-standing problem of losing in the finals: they lost in the quarters. If John Jr.’s is tired from winning the longest game ever, imagine this withered team’s state after losing: They are still limping and coughing. Ten-time champ and four-time MVP Pete, who is rumored to have once known how to hit home runs, could only gasp “Frankly….” Frankly, nothing came after. Paul, five-time champ and only Yard of Fame member, is looking forward to again rooting against his team in the tourney and criticizing Uncle Mike’s chess strategies. Andrew, who moved to Washington D.C. to be closer to John Runyan, was MIA until moments ago. He may not pitch, as he has tendonitis in his shoulder from waving at politicians. Speaking of being injured, eleven-time champ, four-time MVP, and 25-time cockalorum Scott follows last year’s hernia—which itself followed a torn tricep—with gout and a pulled hamstring. Key question: People say they’re done. They look done. They smell done. Are they?

Last year Blair and Billy/Rich were going to combine as The Blair Rich Project. Then they weren’t. Then they were. Then they finally did. This captivating drama was the most interesting aspect of their 2010 Cup. Building on that blandness, they’re back. Blair “Jacques” caused the Cup date to be moved. Now he won’t miss the event for his recipe-sharing tour of France: “La première étape, ouvrez la boîte de Spam." The six-time champ, who hasn’t hit more than quatre homers in nearly dix ans, can’t schedule a vacation around the one worthwhile obligation he has all year. Nah, we’re not bitter about it. The empty-headed micawber re-assembled a group of pierrots, including ’95 grotesque aberration title members Rich and Billy “Dirty Girl” Brown. 1995. Some current players weren’t even born then, and 98% of those who were around can’t remember that far back (Uncle George has a great memory). Rich was officially disinvited in 2010, honored that, but now rebelliously returns, so we do get to watch his uxoriousity-induced etiolation again. He supposedly spent the year weaving a jersey out of his wife’s hair. Eww. Further damaging U.S. international relations, “Dirty Girl” also went to France in the off-season, picking up grooming tips at the Paris Zoo, but even the French couldn’t help his wiffleball game. He too was hopeful, sadly, saying, “We're gonna try to try and do our best.” A friendly guy named Mike who’s in the family somehow is the fourth. Odd man out is Jim “Ichabod” B., who brings a fresh-scrubbed pleasantness to this team and wears goofy hats. He hit twice as many homers as the rest of the team combined last year, but he’ll sit the bench. That’s managing for you. Key question: Ce qui est là pour dire?

 Al G’s Falcons won in ’06 but have mainly struggled since. Al “Blue Falcon” G. was terrible at everything wiffleball-related last year. This comment is not driven by meanness, because Al is nice. Pulchritudinous Rob “Pinkie” Spackleface fared well against any little kids in 2010 but was less effective against real players. After spending years fielding balls with his eye and other parts of his face, this year he will attempt the amazing feat of put-out by philtrum. The last two years they have gone with “Uncle” Ed and then Dave “The Stork” as their third. If you combine the two of them together and throw in some mud, you will be left with some mud. Key question: Can they find a third player to go deep in the tournament?

We will not talk about how Uncle John’s Team’s might do better if not for panjandrum John Sr.’s obsession with claims of his team’s unfair vilification by the media. (That’s called apophasis, in case you’re keeping track.) We will thus, as a good publication should, lead opinion in a more positive way. First, this team has a great runs/effort factor: They put so much into that one run last year! Uncle John serves as a custos morum in the face of the Cup’s excesses. People like that. “Uncle” Ed oozed onto their team last year, and he is a happy, well-built guy whose day will certainly come. Chris R. has transcended the destructive competition of the tournament. Red and blue state icon Uncle Bill “Brownie” is a beloved pitcher. Key question: Can they triple last year’s run total? (If so, and we believe they can, that will give them three runs.)

The winners get to keep the Cup all year—if they remember—and can wax thrasonically about their skills while opponents must, by rule, sit and listen. #

Handy Glossary

pharisaical: hierophant’s emphasis on strict observance of rituals.

diktat: an order or decree imposed on all by a hierophant.

taradiddle: pretentious nonsense.

sitzfleisch: the ability to tolerate something boring.

periphrasis: using more words than necessary.

pleonasm: using more words than necessary.

calliopean: piercingly loud.

ululate: to howl or wail.

gasconade: boastful talk.

hircine: a strong, goat-like odor.

miasma: noxious emissions; an unpleasant atmosphere.

marplot: one whose interference compromises an undertaking.

jejune: dull; insipid.

mysophobia: an irrational fear of dirt.

 irenic: promoting peace or conciliation.

tetchy: easily annoyed; oversensitive.

claque: a group of people hired to applaud at a performance.

Sissyphean: when spelled right, an endless, unachievable task.

cockalorum: a self-important or boastful person.

micawber: an eternal optimist.

pierrot: a buffoonish character in French pantomime.

etiolate: to become pale, weak, or stunted.

philtrum: vertical groove below the nose and above the upper lip.

panjandrum: important or, and this is crucial, self-important person.

apophasis : allusion to something by denying it will be said.

custos morum: a guardian of morals; censor.

Handy Glossary Glossary

hierophant: chief priest of a mysterious cult or group.

thrasonical: bragging or boastful.

Ralston Cup Champs                                     MVPs                          Home run leaders (1998-2010)
1987-Pete, Scott, Blair 1988-Pete, Scott, Blair        1989-Pete, Scott, Blair 1990-John Sr., Chris R., Uncle George, Chris Scott 1991-Pete, Scott, Blair    1992-Al, Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott 1993-Paul, Pete, Scott                        1994-Paul, Pete, Scott   1995-Blair, Jim, John Cane 1996-Billy, Bill Sr., Bill A., Rich, Dan 1997-John Jr., Ryan, Rob 1998-John Jr., Ryan, Rob 1999-Paul, Pete, Scott, Andrew 2000-Paul, Pete, Scott 2001-Paul, Pete, Scott 2002-Blair, Jim, John Cane 2003-Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott, Scott 2004-Uncle Mike, Little Mike, Pat                   2005-Pete, Scott, Andrew, Uncle George 2006-Al G, Rob S, Greg C 2007-Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott 2008-John Jr., Ryan, Chris Dino-Mutt 2009-Chris Matt, Kurt, Butch, Jason 2010- Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott	Scott (unofficial)              Pete            Blair            Chris Scott            Scott        Chris Scott        Scott         Paul        John Cane        Rich        Ryan        Rob         Pete        Pete        Pete      Blair       Mikey      Pat      Scott      Rob S      Mikey      Chris Matt      Kurt     Chris Scott	1) Scott                 87                      2) Chris Scott        70                      3) Rich                   51                      4) Mikey                51                      5) Pete                    50 Home run leaders 2003-10 1) Scott                  52 2) Dino-Mutt        43 3) Mikey                35 3) Greg C               35 5) Rich                   33 5) Spackleface     33

               

                                      Team records (1998-10)

                                      overall        r. robin       tourney       r. robin runs

Paul (98-)                       86-36-3       63-27-3       23-10                389                 

Al Classic (98-)               75-40-1       62-30-1       13-10               381     

Al G Falcons (05-)           33-23          26-18          7-5                  145

John Jr. (98-)                  59-49-3       52-38-3       7-11                  265

Blair (98-08)                   54-40          42-31          12-9                  268

Chris Matt (98-)             56-58-2       45-46-2       11-12                 269

Blair/Rich (08-)              10-15          9-12            1-3                    69

Billy (98-08)                   40-44-3       36-34-3       4-10                  187

Bud/Mike (98-)              38-73-1       31-61-1       7-12                   193

John Sr. (98-)                13-86-1       8-78-1         5-8                      80

Yard of Fame Inductees

2006-Paul

Players not invited back

2009-Rich

25 Years and Going Strong

This year marks a quarter century milestone.  There is a group of you who will be thinking, “Oh, Pete’s going to give us remembrances of our high school glory days.”  Indeed, this summer was my 25 year high school reunion.  It was great to see folks from a life almost forgotten, even if just for a brief time.  Having so many recognize me while I stood, slack-jawed, because I just couldn’t place the face with a name was interesting.  Have I changed so little in 25 years?  Personally, I feel like a completely different person, but that’s not really the case at hand.

This is about a much richer anniversary.  It is a landmark in time that I marvel at every year.  2011 is the 25^th Annual Ralston Cup Invitational Wiffleball Tournament. 

Indeed, I’ve been hosting a tournament to play wiffleball on the same weekend every summer since 1987.  The fact that it has moved this one year to accommodate a single player, and you know who you are, is astounding and gives some insight into the event and the players.  First a quick history:

It was summer in 1987 and my friends and I from high school had just finished our first year away at college.  Most of us hadn’t seen each other at all and I was lamenting not seeing the guys in so long.  So my dad suggests a day playing wiffleball.  Invite all the guys over, pick teams and play.  “What a great idea”, I thought.  So, I made some calls and got half dozen 3-man teams together.  It was a great group of friends, uncles, and cousins.  We played in my back yard in Berlin as we did for years growing up.  We got a trophy, a box of balls, some new yellow bats and a keg.  It was a great day, enjoyed by all.

Since that fabled day so long ago, the field has grown to nine teams.  Players have come and gone, but the tournament vibe has been consistent.  It’s been amazingly consistent.  This is a group of men (there are no women allowed in the yard this day) that come together for what could be considered the purest reasons.  We gather to verbally hammer each other all day while sweating in the sun with a beer in one hand, a cigar in the other, munching chicken and peanuts, and scratch and claw our way to be last winner of the day.  It’s shocking how hard men will play in order to have their names inscribed on a 25 year old piece of plastic.

We play on a field that gives even the best players fits.  There are no bases to run, but rather hit for “distance” to get base hits.  Home plate is about 45’ from the back of my parent’s house.  The higher up the house you hit, the more bases you get.  The roof is a home run.  There are two patios; one screened, one glass, with a large garden in the space between.  There are bushes, rocks, and chunks of drift wood around which to navigate.  Home plate itself is an 8” wide piece of twenty year old wire shelving that I tore out of my closet one year.  One strike and you’re out.  One foul and you’re out.  A ball caught anywhere, even off the house and you’re out.  And to top it, it’s slow pitch…and the pitcher is only 23 feet from the batter, so better stay on your toes.  Because of the incredibly close quarters, I’m sure there is some cheesy hyperbolic reference to Thunderdome to be made here, but I’ll allow you to fill in that blank.

We have been playing so many years that there are now a handful of kids playing that were not even born when we started.  The oldest player is near seventy, and is still dangerous.  His physical game may have slipped a little in twenty five years, but by most is considered the penultimate heckler.  He can drive lesser players to madness, effectively changing their game.  And this is an important part.  Generally any player not active in a game is seated inches from the foul line armed with the aforementioned beer and food.  From that vantage point, the verbal assault is launched.  It’s exhausting for both assailant and assailed.

Men have lain flat out on beds of rock to catch a ball.  I personally put my hand through a window in one attempt…caught the ball, thank you.  Ribs have been cracked diving through fences.  There has been at least one trip to the ER for a split knee.  We played through rain so hard one year; the entire yard/field was 3” deep of mud.  One player tried to have his young brother play, but the little guy couldn’t take it and was reduced to tears halfway through the day.  I tried to award a sportsmanship trophy the first year, but there were no good candidates, so we switched to MVP along with the championship cup…that works out a bit better.  I once heard my own father, after hitting a game winning home run for our team, call one twenty-something player on the other team a dog dick after enduring the younger mans jibes for a whole game.  Yeah, it really is as great as it sounds.

It’s hard for me to convey the utter joy, excess, competitiveness and camaraderie that go on through the first Saturday in August each year.  It’s one day in a year that we look forward to all summer.  I suppose that someday a summer will come and go without a Ralston Cup, but I can’t see that far forward.  I started this when I was only nineteen.  I’m forty three now and my oldest son is twelve.  He is chomping at the bit and will be ready to endure the day in a couple years, with his younger brother not far behind.  I can only pray that when that day comes he and I and my dad will be able to play as the first three generation team.  I look forward to seeing all four Ralston names etched on that glorious decades old plastic cup.

Buckle Shoed Killjoys

I'm sick of America being a country so rooted in puritanical stupidity.  Drugs are bad.  Sex is bad.  Language is bad.  Freedom is bad…whoa, whoa, whoa…freedom is bad?  It certainly seems that way lately.  In a country as great as this one, a country whose very essence is built around the idea of independence, it’s baffling that we seem hell-bent on being the biggest wet blanket on the planet.  For god’s sake, a couple hundred years ago we started the whole nation with the Declaration of INDEPENDENCE.  And then promptly started telling each other what we are not allowed to do.

So let’s have a look at where have we landed?  We’re not allowed to have alcohol until the age of twenty one.  Really?  Alcohol is actually verboten to someone legally able to enlist, get married, drive or hold a job.  Do our pilgrim lawmakers really think that a sixteen year old is going to burst into flames the moment a bit of lager hits his lips?  Is young Jimmy going to lose his mind and spiral into a Wild Turkey flavored oblivion if he has a drink at his high school graduation?  Doubtful.  We should be teaching our kids that responsible consumption is just another part of life.  We are not going to build little chug machines just because our young adults have a beer now and then.  If anything, I believe we would be easing them into that part of adulthood better equipped to handle it.  I guess I should be grateful we’ve opened up this much.  We all know how well prohibition worked out.

Recently, in some states across this great land of ours, there have been laws passed banning smoking in privately held buildings.  I’ll repeat that.  There have been laws passed banning smoking in PRIVATELY HELD BUILDINGS!  Are you fucking kidding me?!?  How in the world can it be justified that a bar owner may not allow his patrons to have a cigarette with his beer?  We have devolved so far that we’ve allowed the government to dictate what happens in areas NOT controlled by the government.  That’s just great.  It needs to be our choice to smoke or not to smoke, depending on the owner’s policies.  If you don’t want to smell smoke while you eat, then don’t choose go to places that cater heavily to smokers.  There’s that pesky freedom of choice again.  I don’t even smoke and I hate that law. 

Technically, I can’t walk on the sidewalk in front of my own house with a bottle of beer.  It’s a crime to be drunk in public.  Having a single joint because I’m in pain can get me arrested.  Stopping at a red light at 4:00am in the middle of nowhere with no cars in sight then rolling through the intersection gets me a ticket.  I need a permit for even the slightest alteration to my own home.  I’m responsible for keeping someone else’s kids out of my pool. 

My wife cannot sunbath topless in our backyard.  Whether she would or not is a different story, but shouldn’t she have that right, that CHOICE?  Where is the harm in that?  Someone might actually see a breast – gasp!  Guess what, they’ve seen them before.  I understand the need for clothing in general, but in your own little piece of the world how can the powers that be require what you wear?  It can’t be the kids.  Hell, most of them started life by feeding from the dreaded teat, let alone having seen one.  And isn’t nudity so scary in America because we as adults teach the youngsters that it is?  I know it’s a fine line between my argument and an all out nude fest.  Believe me; I wouldn’t want to see me in the buff walking through the local Acme.  But there needs to be a point where it’s not seen as disgusting.

We seriously need to loosen our ties a little.  I sense a tipping point coming where we will begin to strangle on our own uptightness, and it doesn’t feel good.  Excess is not always bad.  Marching to your own drummer is not always bad.  We just need to learn to embrace what is not the norm.  Live and let live.  It’s the only way we’ll progress as a society past the tight asses that came here in the first place.

The Once and Future Parent

     I am not, or ever have been, perfect.  I'll take a moment to let you recover from that....

     

     Way back when in school, brilliant as I may have been, I was not always the most studious.  Sadly, there was a time when even subjects in which I was very interested could not hold my attention when forced to study them.  I had athletic talent, but certainly did not apply myself as much as I should.  The drive to overachieve is something on which I never really had a handle.

     Also, knowing that hindsight is 20/20, I can see clearly now that even a modicum of application on my part may have alleviated one of my biggest "regrets".

An aside for a moment, if you please.  I feel the need to explain that when pushed, I would assert that nothing in my past is truly a regret.  I see how I could have done certain things differently, but dwelling on the “what if’s” is my road to mental torture.  I do not believe in fate.  I feel strongly that everything we do shapes the path of our lives and our current situation is whatever product comes from our history.  I am quite happy.  My boys are fantastic, I love my wife now as much as when we married fifteen years ago, and my circle of friends couldn’t be greater.  My family in general is more than I have a right to ask.  If my past was not as it was, then maybe my present would not be what it is, and maybe I wouldn’t be happy, maybe my kids wouldn’t be as special, etc.   Maybe, maybe, maybe…but that’s all I have.  So…

 Recognizing this shortcoming, but liking the life that I have, is it right to attempt to make my kids have a childhood any different than mine?  HELL YES!!  But, that comes with some caveats.  As adults, I think we can look back and see what our parents tried that did not work.  We also need to be aware of why our parents made certain choices.  I also know that I have absolutely wonderful parents.  I always thought so.  Even to this day I see them as mentors, friends and an example of how I’d like to live my life.  However, I do think I can build on the great foundation that they created.  I don’t know if I can improve on it, but my most important job as a parent is to try.

I see parts of me in both my boys.  Most parts I love, 'cause there's a LOT about me to love.  But there are times when I see bits of myself shining through that need squashing.  Whenever one of them doesn’t want to do his homework I find myself bristling because I know to what path that leads.  Whenever one of them slacks off at practice, more bristling.  When they let required effort stifle some creative en devour, I cringe.  When I realize they’ve been watching way too much TV on a sunny afternoon, bristling (unless it's something we're watching together - hehe).  I bristle because I want them to be the super me.  I think it’s because I also want to correct things about myself.  I want to distill my shortcomings out of them.  I want them to be perfect.

The most important thing in life is to be happy.  I've always been told that and I've always believed it.  Ultimately, that is everyone’s goal.  The problem is that when you are growing up, the being happy part is a here and now thing and not a life goal.  As an adult, I see overall happiness in a different light.  To achieve it, there needs to be things incorporated into life that don’t always make us happy.  Work (you may like your job, but you know what I mean), bills and time spent away from family are just a few, but we know they are only bits of life and not the entirety.  We know that by enduring the bits that are not so wonderful, life for us and our family will be that much better overall.

About now you are asking, “So what the hell is your point?”  Well, it’s this; be more thoughtful than you think you need to be when it comes to your kids.  You think you’re doing the best job you can, and you may be.  But when it comes right down to it, somtimes preparing them for life is what needs to take priority over their "here and now " happiness.