Fear and Loathing in Bristol

Wiffle and ridiculousness stack the anchovies on cynicism and dormancy with an extra helping of cheese
Regular Season
Game Date: 
July 17, 2010

I stumbled, well more like fumbled, through the gates of HST's main entrance on the sunnyside of eleven, unsure if it was the continuation of the previous mess or the start of a new one. I knew, with great certainty, that there must be a game of wiffle to be played by the distinct lack of players on the field. The pitch of play, void of pedestrians of the petroleum based ball, had a lone, sad soul pushing a grass cutting device and audibly bitching about the day. "Wifflers, fuckin' wifflers, nothing changes."
I took a seat along the left field line, the customary placement of press credential welding people, and popped the top off a bottle of happy thoughts. I was sure that this was to be a big story, no a massive scoop, otherwise why would the LowPress send all of its staff on full access to travel funds, what with its impending doom and destruction.
striking
The groundsman had long since pushed the mower into a tree and I was into my 3rd or 4th thought of happiness when the Chicagoan Cartoonist, Bris Lord, made his grand entrance. He had ink dripping from his sideburns and looked as if a wiffle leach had sucked all the color from his face. Cartoonists never cover a seemingly inconsequential game of plastic without a few pills to combat bites of terminally angry bugs.
dom
It was something like noon or two or something when the cartoonist emerged from bushes having failed to keep all of his breakfast on the interior. At this precise moment, the Frenchman, Femy LeBouche, made his way towards the press box. I was suddenly struck by the awful realization that every single user of the LowPress was gathered in one place without a drop of internet to be found. Would the site cease to function without activity, was there really to be a game, what did it matter? I opted to not worry much about such pathetic details and cracked another tasty beverage.
frenchman
The Frenchman insisted on reciting poetry, an obvious ploy to confuse the cartoonist and thieve the Miller Lite. The Cartoonist had visited the home of Chin Music weeks before, intent on stealing the hand towels. When he found a stack of generic napkins in the commode, bleached nonetheless, he proceeded to lift the next most appetizing thing, the three Miller Lites. Little did he know, and how could he really when you consider the situation, that those sad looking beers were the only remaining liquid from the Holy Matriwiffle, next to godly.
loonnnn
It suddenly became obvious that there was wiffle being played and let's just say I was stunned. While my sources are less than stellar, in fact mostly they are certifiably insane, I had it on solid grounds that the wiffle would not happen due to the dormancy of the wiffle population. The going tall tale not only spoke of abstinence but also indicated that wifflers were ostracizing those that dared to play. Lampreys at least have the common decency to rip the flesh from their obsession when pulled away, these wifflers had proved to be even more demented than the lake's lowest creature. But wait, there was wiffle being played.
reflected
By my count there were only three sad souls on the field of play, The Black Cloud, Chin Music, and Lonichiro. Well at least the players dumb enough to perform the plastic ballet on such a heavy day were skilled in their craft; two former LowBallers of the year and a Cloud of anger, these were fine men indeed. I found the bottom of my happy thought and cracked another, The Frenchman was interviewing a spectator, frightening her with his questions about the Acapulco shirts. The French are always sure that wifflers favor the neighbors to the south, you can't talk sense to them, best to let them go and steal their Stella while they are not looking.
belly batting
As with most the games I cover, this display of dynamic wiffle seemed to be moving in reverse, I was fairly sure I heard the players state that it was the 2nd 2/3 inning. The cartoonist threw his empty bottle at the players and yelled, "straighten out this game of idiocy, you are all fools." You need to keep cartoonists well hydrated or risk them breaking glass over the head of a sober wiffler. I handed him another one of the Frenchman's Stellas.
hsting
In between the Frenchman's hysteric questions, I could make out the faint whine of wifflers discussing some sort of Summer Classic. Dammit, I needed to call my editor about that match, no not now, not on so many happy thoughts, I would get the cartoonist to do it. Editors can never tell if a cartoonist has been tasting the promise land or is just crazy, because, well, most cartoonists tend to be on the loopy loop side of sane. The wifflers continued to jabber about this classic that I did not have travel arrangements for and then suddenly they started to throw with their opposite arm, mostly the left-ish one. The Frenchman opened his notebook and excitedly scribbled some notes, spewing, "they, they are saving their arms, c'est la brilliant." I quickly stole the Stella back from the cartoonist and forced it into the hand of the Frenchman, we couldn't have this exuberance, this was the new wiffle of course.
sniff sniff
The game ended with Lonichiro hoisting a trophy of portions imaginary, having soundly defeated Chin Music and thoroughly humiliated the Black Cloud. It didn't seem that anyone cared about the outcome, it had come without any arguments, it had come without the participation of the wiffle masses, it had come without imaginary teams, and it had come in spite of a reluctance to take anything serious, it was brilliant and no one was there to notice. I stole another Stella and started to run for the corner. This wiffle is exasperating.
feet

Quote of the Game
Quote: 
Might as well toss. I'm already tossing.
Player quoted: 
Situation: 
when being asked if he wanted to start throwing or sit down and catch some air
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Member since:
6 June 2010
Last activity:
3 years 16 weeks

Tres Magnifique!

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