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Team OB

It was Sunday morning, the day after the hottest day of the summer (so far). Some tourists were cramming in their last hours at the beach, a few locals were taking advantage of their air conditioned living rooms, and a handful of us braved the sun to support our boys in the All-American game of softball.

The field is surrounded by fencing on all sides so I set up my beach chair in the shade of the trees outside along the sidewalk. Lathered in sunscreen, wide-brimmed hat on, water bottle in hand, I prepared for what my boyfriend, Zack, warned me would be a painfully boring softball experience. But it ended up being the opposite.

In Ocean Beach, the most popular village on car-less Fire Island, guys ranging from the ages of 15 to 60+ come together every summer for an annual softball tournament. There are no practices, only the official games that take place on weekends. It’s just a local, fun event, but the guys take these games very seriously. They keep running stats of all their players (posted on the official Ocean Beach Softball website - here) and the commissioner uses these stats to rank every player on a big board. Before the tournament starts, the team captains gather together in a locked room with this list for the season’s draft. Zack live-Tweets the proceedings, keeping all the players updated.

“There are certain things we tell him he’s not allowed to Tweet,” one of the guys said to me on the beach after a few of them recapped the funniest (non-Tweeted) comments from the draft room.

The current photo featured on the OB Softball homepage, “Close but no cigar”

The league used to consist of four teams, but in recent years, it’s grown to six. This year, they nearly had enough players for eight. Although most are from Ocean Beach, a few players come over from other Fire Island communities like Summer Club and Seaview.

I was there to see the 12:30 Blue vs. White game. Zack is 3rd baseman for the Blue team, winners of Saturday’s game. By this time, many of the morning’s spectators had migrated from the field to the beach, but there were still plenty of parents, grandparents, wives, and children cheering from the sidelines. A couple of the players from the morning games stuck around to see how the others would do.

The guys were all on the field, tossing balls back and forth while wearing jerseys that read “Ocean Beach Softball Tournament” with each of their numbers across the back. All of the teams have the same jerseys, just different colors. Some years, they dedicate a patch on the shirts to a local who has passed away, but this year the sleeves are clear.

In Sunday’s game, White emerged victorious making them undefeated in the first weekend of the tournament. One of their players, Ethan Langhaus, hit two triples during the game, a noteworthy feat. Blue team’s Morgan Salvan hit a three-run home run, ending his run around the bases with him teammates rallying around him in typical energetic-boy fashion.

But the best part of the game was definitely the comments, from both the players and the crowds. The shouts and boo’s at the umpire’s calls, local moms screaming for opposing fielders to “drop the ball,” players throwing hats down on the field yelling “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.” And of course, there were cheers, too, after great hits and catches. After one particularly outstanding play, someone screamed out to the player, “You’re my hero!” Softball players: modest heroes in baseball caps.

I was told the shit-talking (the best part) only gets crazier the more they play. It’s only the first weekend. Luckily, the opposition stays within the game. From the field to the beach, the guys switch from rival team members back into neighbors, all members of the place they call home.

mackthai

Nudist Club: Like summer camp, but naked.

Decided to try out something new for this week’s article.

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ispiritualdevotee-blog

I am a selenophile.

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insomewhereland

@insideoutinsomniac

insideoutinsomniac

Pluvio!

mackthai

The Opposite of Bangkok

From an airplane window, Vietnam is a land of colorful dots – different shaped homes with red and blue rooftops, clinging together in groups that lie separated by muddy green fields. I imagine being a kid growing up in one of those neighborhoods, running to the edge of town, out into the open grassy land, past the scattered circles of smoke rising from the Earth, to the center of my world. I could spin circles and see neighborhoods on all sides, seemingly close to one another from where I stood, yet not close enough to touch. From my spot in limbo, they are all far from me.

The flight attendant with heavy white makeup and fitted red garb flashes lipstick marked teeth. Thank you, have a good day. And so we are cast out into this new world. This world somewhat resembles Florida’s palm tree speckled roundabouts, but it’s filled with buildings that look like Mediterranean villas squeezed thin and stacked side by side on a bookshelf. Beyond the cast iron balconies spilling over with vines, heavy wooden double doors are propped slightly open, giving us a glimpse of the yawning, barefoot lives inside. The tree lined, winding streets give it an air of New Orleans and it smells much better than Bangkok (later edit: most of the time). Women in stereotypical pointy straw hats hand out donut samples and all the men don green war helmets, casting shadows onto their stone faces. It seems as if any one of them could have just stepped out from the 70s, brandishing a MAT-49 and removing his cigarette to spit on the ground at the mention of democracy.

But this does not happen. This is not New Orleans or Florida or the Mediterranean or Bangkok or 1975. Hanoi is a bustling wonder of its own right.

I’m used to losing track of time stumbling in the Bangkok streets where everything is a mystery. The truth of the city is sometimes hidden behind what it wants you to believe – or what you want to believe. The people sweep by quickly without a second glance. The kind of glance that is received is the slick smile of a young, thin Thai woman directed at a farang who she proceeds to whisk away to some unknown upstairs in the shadows. Addresses are often wrong or misdirected, the drivers will lie as if they know where they’re going, and every corner has a new alley or unmarked storefront that you make note to explore next time you’re around. But next time, it’s not there. Bangkok is a living, breathing creature – she’s unpredictable, forever changing, beautiful, exciting, and sometimes jarring.

Hanoi is quite the opposite. It’s an open book. The streets are numbered and orderly, even a dark alleyway lets you know with a sign hanging above that it leads to Little Hanoi Hostel or Fresh Seafood. If you find a clothing shop, expect the whole street to be clothing shops. The people here have nothing to hide. They wave you over to every gem and simply shrug it off if you’re not interested. Hanoi is a city that stands and says take me as I am. And we do.

After an afternoon spent tasting good, freshly ground coffee (finally) and pointing to random items on lunch menus (hoping that delicious meat wasn’t dog) we’re settled down on a bench next to Hoan Kiem Lake, home of the legendary giant gold-sword-eating turtle. The heat here is more bearable than what we’re used to, but trying to cross the streets is a death wish. A man tries to sell us pop up cards, but when we show him we already bought them elsewhere, he doesn’t complain. He simply sits across from us and tells us the history of his hat and how he learned English just by talking to tourists. He doesn’t try to solicit anything else, he’s just good company. A young girl around our age, pretty and makeup-less except for fading lipstick, sits beside us and asks if she can practice English with us. We talk about family and what we’re learning in school – she likes psychology, just like me. Sam and I already love the Vietnamese people.

We explore Hanoi’s open streets, into ice cream shops and past parks full of kids on roller blades. We watch them go backwards and jump off steps, 8-year-olds more talented than we will ever be. Men and women sit on corners peeling sugar cane, reminding me of chewing on the same treat in the back of a pick up truck on a Central American adventure with my family, years before. I wonder if they would taste the same now, but I didn’t stop to try.

Later on we circle back to Hoan Kiem Lake to see the tree lights turn on as the sun sets. We skirt the edges of the reflective pool on the lookout for the mystical giant turtle, cousin of the Loch Ness Monster, who supposedly pokes his head out of the water every once in a while, but, alas, not for us. He’s the only thing in Hanoi that lurks quietly hidden under the surface, the only thing not waiting in plain sight. His secret gives us something left to be discovered.

mackthai

Loving Hoi An so far – it feels like Disney World (Epcot, at least.)

sem-defeitos-deactivated2024081

underdevelopedandoverexposed-de

Purple lipstick makes all the difference

insideoutinsomniac

my roomie’s a beaut ;)

mackthai

Our knees tapped the gummy underside of the tables at the Manville Diner on a snowy afternoon. The building looked like it could function on wheels, but the inside atmosphere was refreshingly warm. The waitress had a familiar face and poured our bottomless coffee quickly.

"I'll give you a minute," she said, buzzing away, because she needed a minute.

The plates were overstocked with heavy eggs to fill the empty stomach. Yolk to line an empty chest, whites to mold the heart. Phones sat in the middle, no touching game. All was well.

I stared out at the slowing falling snow and wished all was well.