Green Valley Vipers ‘storm’ Silver City

Special to the Green Valley News

The Vipers — this all-new senior softball team (isn’t that an oxymoron?), with worn-out bodies hiding under an alias and flashy uniforms — wound their way to Silver City for this Labor Day weekend tournament. The contest joined teams from the Southwest — mostly Tucson, but also Las Cruces and El Paso, for the prestigious winner’s trophy.

The games began at 1 p.m. on Sept. 4, scheduled to extend into Sunday. But (as you will read, you’ll see that I tend to blend life into music; luckily, my only character flaw), something happened along the way.

The vicious and venomous Vipers, in their snappy scarlet/black/white jerseys and white hats with the snake logo, watched manager Jerry (Boomer) Brotz walk to home plate for the coin toss. He lost, of course, and so we got revved up and burst from the dugout to bury the POW team from Tucson. I overheard someone in the stands say, “Sure, they’re pretty, but can they play ball?”

There’s a nasty name given to a game where one team is 10 runs ahead after five innings. When the Vipes could only cook up six runs and POW rang in 18, it was a “mercy” finish. Euthanasia enters the scene to save one team further humiliation. No, we didn’t hit, but we passed our quota of errors.

Humiliation may not be strong enough to describe the abysmal “effort” put forth by your heroes. They trudged off and awaited the 4:45 p.m. game. Which never happened. The mountains vanished behind dark skies, and steady rain ruled the rest of the day. Teams tripped back to their hotels to await the Saturday events, at 8, 9 and 10 a.m., adding to the city coffers for lodging, food and drink.

Saturday morning. Snazzed out in their black shirts, white sleeves and red numerals, the serpents found some snap and slammed to victory over the tough D&D team from Tucson, 19-16.

But the engine/transmission slipped from fifth gear to first, and they went in the tank to the Phoenix Firebirds, 20-19, in the last inning. Leather gloves sounded like garbage-can covers as they failed to make the plays.

Still, 19 runs ... but wait. The game-ending play was made by the Vipers at first base, when the Firebirds’ runner failed to touch the bag. Sadly, the umpire didn’t see it that way and called him safe. The rest is ...

I’m convinced that, in another life, he rode into Northfield, Minn., with the James-Younger Gang.

The last game turned into another giveaway, this time to Tucson Wolfgang. The reptiles’ iron was a-hummin’ as they drilled the ball all over the Astroturf outfield, hitting the gaps, the balls banging the fences, and they ran like something in their anatomy was on fire.

Yes, they thought they were fireproof as the last inning played out. But, leading 23-20, misplays brought them down, and they stood stunned as the winning run scored and the Snake-eyes had dropped it, 24-23.

Twenty-three runs and you lose? Can I get a witness? Un-American, especially on Labor Day weekend. So ended Saturday, with your boys at 1-3, looking like Sisyphus pushing the boulder uphill, with clouds again forming for the Sunday tilts.

Sun-day didn’t quite come up. Darkness reigned as they took on D&D again, this time in steady showers and soggy poly-turf. Water splashed as the ball skipped between the fielders. But D&D felt something cold and reptilian sliding up their black stockings. The Vipers bared fangs, hissed and snarled to a last-inning thriller, slapping hands with a 16-13 win.

Now get game-faced for another tussle with Wolfgang. The outfield soon became saturated, along with the athletes, but runners felt like kids again. And it lasted into the top of the second inning, with the No. 2 hitter at the plate for the snakes. Leading 5-2, they could taste the sweet honey of victory, and with steely eyes, he glared at the pitcher.

Suddenly the umpire, in Spanish and English, declared it a washout, rain coming in sideways, obliterating the scene, turning the environment dark, then black. “Enough!” he shouted, looking, in his gray beard, like a modern-day Noah, thinking about an ark.

Flashes of lightning seared the skies, and a hitter, holding an aluminum bat in the air, shuddered at the raw power of God. Sure, it was whipping rain, but the game was really called on account of fear.

Players and their ladies, even spectators, huddled in the pavilion, drinking coffee (some cups laced with suspicious Irish brew) and shivered in their wet blankets. Someone asked, “Did you see that first-base coach with an umbrella? There’s no umbrellas in baseball!”

We waited for the tournament director’s decision: play or call it. Grumbles from the players reverberated their thoughts: Head for the barn. Especially when one opposing player slipped on the way to first base, snapping his ankle.

Was the money worth it? What money? An hour later the order, probably from God, came through: “Dopler says the sky is locked in. We’ll finish it some Saturday in Tucson.” Cheers rang as the soaked folks headed for cars with heaters, dry clothes and, ahem, hot brandy.

Okay, I hear the question gnawing in your cerebellum: If that’s the case, why then did these Rhodes Scholars travel 450 miles, round-trip, spend $500 on gas, food and lodging, when the few other teams could’ve simply come to Tucson? That did buzz through my enfeebled brain cells. But hey, it’s tradition: a Labor Day getaway to the mountains and out of the pizza oven for a brief respite.

Still, gladiators will don their armor, bandage wounds, pop something to cut the pain, and lace up their spikes whenever the bell rings. Perhaps they hear the hope and redemption in the old Bob Dylan song: May your feet be always swift, may your heart be always strong, and may you sta-aay forever young. Or do they see the sun sinking, setting in their eyes, the stars beginning to blur? Time is tight and every game counts.

We lost two soldiers, Claude (Pepe Le Pew) LaBarre and Jim Dickey, to injury on the slick base paths. Unable to play the field, they fought on with bats, base-hitting and hobbling to first base, waiting for a pinch runner. Hearts like Secretariat.

We peered through the pelting gully-washer, knew we’d scratched and clawed to a 2-3 finish. We looked in the eyes of our teammates, heads raised. I’m not ashamed to say we passed out more than a few hugs to guys who didn’t know what it meant to quit. We ran through the rain, laughed at the pain.

All our warriors, bemedaled of tunic for gallantry and valor in this muddy combat arena, are men I’ll dive into any foxhole with. As it’s said, they gave what they had; anything for the boys. This is the way the lineup went:

Steve (Cannonball) Heath, batting a ridiculous .888, or 16 hits out of 18 at-bats, roaming the outfield like Roberto Clemente. Wow. I saw him board the train for Cooperstown.

Some arrogant geezer who calls himself, and wants to be called, Linedrive, at .833; Bob Donnelly, .667, and a monster fielding performance; Dennis (I want to call him Dion and the Belmonts, but he may have heard that one, so I’m going with Hefty Lefty) Dion, .778; Rick (shaw) Keagy, .765; Billy “The Kid” Kerr, .648; Claude LaBarre, .688; Bob (Big Cat) Kelly, .750; Gale Van Hoorn, .813; Jim Dickey, .572; Dale Matsel, .750; and, batting himself last (!) Jerry Brotz, .833.

Now these numbers are past gaudy, and why we didn’t sweep the thing is over my head, like several fly balls. But 61 runs on Saturday, emerging with but one win? Who’dathunkit?

Senior softball will always be a lesson that transcends simple athletics competition, and it’s called Life. Dig down, find it; reach in and come out shining on the back end. Learn it.

So between now and whenever the tournament kicks in again, try to find a breath. And if you can’t get to Tucson, catch us on ESPN. We’ll be the guys in gray. As in hair.

John Ledford is Green Valley’s poet laureate of the softball diamond.