SQERBROYALAIRING

SQERBROYALAIRING

By Andrew Paul Grell

“You’re not really going through with this, are you, Stashy?”

“Tilly, love of my life, I certainly am. The season starts tomorrow. Nose-down is at 11:43 AM, the instant of the Vernal Equinox. Just like every year. I’ve got all the gear, I found a pick-up league just over in Hellespont, they said they’ll at least give me a spot on the slings. Nice dress, Til. Very spring. And was that a new brand of coffee this morning? Kona?”

“Yes, it was Kona. Stay on topic, Stashy. You’ve never played before. It’s not like you were a letter man in college playing Sqerb whatever it is. You’re going to hurt yourself and it’ll be me who has to carry you in and out of the bathroom. How did you find out about this stupid sport, anyway? And where is the ‘u’ after the ‘q’?

“My Dear Mrs. Robinson. You’ve known since New Year’s Eve that I was going to finally play Sqerbroyalairing starting on the first day of Spring. I’ve downloaded every book and video on it from Amazon. I’ve memorized the rule book. My kit has been in the garage for months. When you were at your conference in Sheboygan, I took some lessons and played a practice game. I made two sqibits. And now. Now. Especially now. This may be the last team sport. The rules since the beginning of the game called for any player getting closer than six feet to another player to be pink-carded. The spectators, of course, have to be in individual plexiglass enclosures because the sqibobbles move so fast. They tell me that in the old days, before ‘the glass,’ it was a mark of honor to get sqi-beaned.” Stashy moved to the taupe winchester, put his coffee down on the side table and folded his arms across his chest. The couple’s code for “argument over.”

“You’re a grown man, Eustace. You’re supposed to know what you’re doing. You’re good at your job, good at raising the kids. Maybe You’ll be good at this game as well. Come home with your sqiboychick or on it,” Tilly ordered her departing husband who smiled at her for actually doing some seminal research on his aspirational passion. “You’re not the only one who can look stuff up online, husband mine.”

The novice blew a triple kiss goodbye to his wife, left the split-level ranch and loaded his kit into the hatch of his ’18 blue Honda CRV, the one with real 4-wheel drive, not the one with the “A” that that looks like a four but is only all wheel drive. He sounded an audible backing out of the driveway, tested his brakes in the little cul-de-sac street before getting on the main road. Eustace pulled in at the Paris Baguette on the way to Hellespont to pick up some cheese breads and croissants for the team that welcomed him in. Before leaving the little strip mall, he affixed a magnetic sticker of the now-defunct Thessaloniki Goats, one of the first pro sqerbie teams in the United States, on his rear fender.

“Welcome to Hellespont, Mr. Robinson. It’s nice to welcome some new blood to the sport. Figuratively speaking, of course.” The greeter had a formerly athletic build and was wearing a slightly too tight warmup jacket that announced hm as “League Commissioner, and under that, Mickey Chiklets.

Eustace did a Vulcan salute which was returned in kind. Namaste protocols probably hadn’t made it to this part of the country.

“Stashy. Please, call me Stashy. Everyone calls me Stashy. Thank you for allowing me to fulfill a long dreamed-for wish. It’s just too bad it took a pandemic to get me here.”

“Think of it like that book, ‘On the Beach.’ One of the characters got to be the world champion Formula 1 race car driver because all of the better drivers were dead from nuclear fallout, and another guy—in Australia—got to be the President of the United States for the same reason. You might wanna fix yourself up; this is the only live sporting event taking place in this time zone. It’s being aired live and also facetimed. Sorry we couldn’t afford plexiglass, but we’ve got full-coverage netting and we’re making sure everyone practices social distancing. C’mon, let’s get you signed in.”

“Super, I can’t wait. Even if I’m only on the bench.” Mickey cleared his throat no louder than butterfly would clear hers. “Sorry, Mickey. On the swings. I shouldn’t have made that mistake since I’ve read, heard, and watched about Sqerbroyalairing, including that the off-field players get launched into the city by the swings. Where do I sign?”

“Right here, kid.” Eustace was about to remark on that “kid” but he noticed that most of the players were in their 50s and 60s. The form had the usual spaces for contact info, emergency contact, and next of kin. There was only one other line: Every player had to signify that they would not, under any circumstances, ask why there was never a “u” after a “q” in anything Sqerbroyalairing related. The newly-minted team member signed away his right to ask questions and followed Mickey to his designated swing. They both smiled at the crowd coming in, all properly social-distancing in the tiered seats behind the perimeter lines of the playing field, “the city.”

 The vendors showed up in force as well. Snack service resembled those sushi places that had plates circling like airport luggage carousels. Only here in the Hellespont minor leagues, it was bags of peanuts, cans of beer, and hotdogs on hooks depending from a clothesline. Food went clockwise, the money cups returning widdershins. A microwave tower truck showed up with camera equipment that looked like the same vintage as in the movie “The Fortune Cookie.” Suzie Sporter from ESPN showed up with Keith Hernandez reprising his role as color commentator. This game was definitely going out wide. The big surprise was when a head appeared in the announcer’s booth: The league clearly spared no expense for this game and hired Hank Azaria to call the game. Stashy finally got the awe-struck little boy expression off his face and sat down next to his swingmate.

“Hi, I’m Judy Segal. I got drafted by my uncle, the commissioner. I bronzed in women’s Javelin in 2016 in Rio. I’ve never played; I hope I don’t make a fool of myself. Is it true that this is really a Russian game?”

“Eustace Robinson. Stashy for short.” The neighbors both did a passable Vulcan salute. “It started out that way. In Russia it was Gorodki. Gorodki means sticks. But in Sqerbroyalairing, the stick formations are for the defensive line. You’ll be trying to knock them down. I guess I’ll be trying to stop the other team from doing the same thing to us.  A warm body on the field. If I’m lucky enough to get into the game.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”   A cheer went up when the crowd saw that Brockmeyer was going to be calling the game. The actor invited everyone to rise for the National Anthem, and there was an even bigger cheer when the singer, Rosanne Barr, walked to the middle of the city. And for the first time in his life, Eustace Robinson was able to participate in this act of patriotism in uniform. The visiting Volga Boatmen were introduced on the field, and then the home team Goats.

“This is me.” It was after the second play that Judy’s warning light went on and she was launched into the city. She made short work of the Boatmen’s Lobster, Star, and Cannon “towns of the city”, allowing the Goats to make the first and second goals. The still-virgin Eustace gave her a thumbs up when she returned to the swings.  On the fifth play, the Goats wound up in a tangle and three players had to leave the game. Stashy saw his light flash and wound up on the field. He munged getting the trash can lids on, but eventually found his footing. He successfully was able to defend his team’s well and watchmen towns, robbing the Boatmen of a goal. Judy returned the thumbs up he had given her. But on his next flash, he allowed the machine gun emplacement to be knocked over and the Volga crew evened the score. “Brockmeyer” announced half time, and Stashy got his racing pulse almost down to normal, until his phone rang.

“So, Husband mine. You’re looking good on TV. The chiron on the screen just announced that almost a third of every TV in the country is watching you. Doing pretty good for a first timer. Who’s your new pal? Should I be worried?”

“Maybe. That’s Judy. She’s our Angel of Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

“Listen, Stash. I’ve been going through the rules. The Sqerbroystick can only be used for hitting, and the Sqerbiatic can only be used for catching. But there’s no rule against using the Gorodki bats for striking things that aren’t skittles. They probably didn’t think to put in a rule because those bats were for knocking over the towns, not for getting goals.  Go get ‘em, tiger!”

There were four minutes remaining in play. Eustace was given another chance on the field. As he was launched, instead of the trash can lids, he grabbed Judy’s Gorodki bat and knocked three sqibobbles over the Boatmen’s line and into scoring territory and would have kept going but the ref finally blew his post horn. The matter was referred to the Bunker in Chelsea for a ruling. Tilly turned out to be correct; Stashy’s play was upheld and the team kept the lead until the final post horn blast. Suzie Sporter was declaring this game to be the greatest change in sports since the origin of the forward pass in football. Eustace called his wife back. 

“I can do anything when you call me Tiger, Honeybunch. Any thoughts on a new Spring Launch next year for me?”