What’s in a name? From the outside, the Poet’s Athletic Club on North Avenue in Baltimore looks like it might be a bar. I’ve never been inside it. One time me and Steph called to see what the deal was. Apparently it’s a philanthropy club for people who went to Poets High School. There isn’t poetry happening, but I’m thinking there might be shuffleboard. There is a positive but racist review of it at Yelp.
After a lot of social searching, the softball team I’m playing on this year decided to co-opt the name for our team. We feature writer bodies, so Poets Athletic Club works well. We also considered “Ballers,” “Aristotle’s Poetics,” “Phat Pitches,” and “Nuts and Berries.”
Other teams in the league are, “We’d Hit That,” “Butt Sweat and Tears,” “Multiple Scoregasms” and “Smack that Pitch Up.” Names that are funny but aren’t vile include “Jean-Claude Grand Slam” and — no, that’s the only one. There are two teams named “Saved by the Balls” and two named “Don’t Come on Our Bases” and three named “Master Batters.” There is only one “Top of the 6th Bottom of the 9th.” There are over 200 teams in the league. I’ll let you know how we do.
Go! Team. Bring on the Major Leagues. Boring Triple Play (for Sasha Fletcher). Best baseball catches of the world. Braves go 13-0 in 82. The Brothers K. She’s 9. Ambidextrous pitcher has 6-fingered glove. Mike Schmidt retires crying. Cap’n Jazz. This stupid thing. This amazing thing. Spaceman Bill Lee. Tinker to Evers to Chance. Merkle’s Boner. OK, the bird one. Prince and Cecil. All the Stars Came Out That Night. The poop one. Steve Bartman (fuckn Cubs fans). Mays. Jones. Softball.