I think I should tell you that I have been blessed. First and foremost with an incredible wife, amazing kids and great friends and teammates. Second and extremely annoying to all of the above, I have been blessed with an unnatural ability to remember the names of virtually every player I have played with and against over the past 40 years. On top of that, I can usually also recall the results, if not the actual scores of most of the thousands of games I have played in over those 40 years, and most definitely, the key plays in those games. This freakish ability allows me to fill you in on some of the more memorable characters we played with over the years.

The following Krushgroovers may have stopped playing years ago but we will never forget them.

Chris Boyman (Class of 1985) - aka Boingo, aka The Pillsbury Doughboy, aka Jaba The Hut, aka The Michelin Man, aka CB - Unquestionably the best singles hitter to ever play with the Krushgroovers and maybe the best to ever play the game for any team. Seriously. If you do not believe me, just ask him and he will tell you it is true but I must say he did have an incredible knack of being able to hit the ball anywhere he wanted. That was usually right down the first baseline if I was on first and right down the third baseline on the rare occasions when I had tripled. He was also probably more out of shape (hence most of his nicknames) than any other Krushgroover but he was remarkably agile and played a terrific third base. His love for sports was not limited to softball. I was lucky enough to be an usher at his wedding in 1984 and my main job was to bring a 19 inch TV. (big in those days) to the reception hall where he was getting married so we could watch the Giants playoff game. Chris was getting married at a former private school that had been converted to a wedding hall and did not have any televisions. If that was not enough, the groom and all his ushers played football in the mud and snow prior to the wedding. One of the ushers had not known about the football game (in retrospect I am disappointed in Chris that the invitations did not mention the football game) and showed up in his tuxedo. Undeterred, he played, made 2 diving catches (I warned you about the freakish memory) and was covered in mud. It took us 30 minutes to wash out his tuxedo pants in the old fashioned sink in the boy’s bathroom and then even longer to dry them under the little hand dryer. Best part of the whole day was when the Rabbi was asked when the wedding was finally going to start and he said “in 1 minute and 43 seconds (the exact time left in the game) unless the game goes into overtime”.

Brian Lynn (Class of 1984) - aka Bri. Sorry no more interesting, exciting or fun nicknames for Brian. None would have worked because he never needed or wanted a nickname. He was quite possibly the best all around player we ever had and unquestionably the quietest. Picture a recalcitrant John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. He and I were co-captains of the BU team in 1983 and despite our vastly different personalities ( I assume it would not shock you to learn I tend to talk a bit) we became close friends. Brian had played baseball at Harvard before law school and was our left fielder and clean up hitter. All he did was hit vicious line drives to left field, catch everything hit to or near him and he had a ridiculous arm. His throws seemed to stay at the same height from the moment they left his hand until they smacked into my glove on a cutoff or play at second base. Brian played every game for us from 1983 to 1999 in the same Harvard baseball hat and same pair of jeans with holes in each knee. Nowadays, we would never let a teammate wear jeans and we would tease an opponent to death if they wore them but back then we just thanked Brian for showing up and let him his do his thing.

Steve Curwin (Class of 1985) - aka Curby, aka Norbi, aka Cur - Smooth fielding, good hitting lefty outfielder who was the central figure in one of the funniest and cruelest moments in the history of the Krushgroovers. We were playing in UVA’s huge Spring softball tournament in 1988 or 1989 and we were destroying every team we played. We must have “mercied” (meaning we were up by more than 15 runs after the 5th inning) the first 5 teams we played and had probably outscored those 5 teams by a combined score of something like 100 to 5. In other words, we were averaging 20 runs a game which meant everyone was killing the ball and driving in runs. Well, almost everyone. In those days, we kept a scorebook so we could point out to Chris Boyman that he was slumping whenever his average dropped below .650 and someone noticed that somehow, Curby had not driven in any of the 100 runs we had scored. As you might guess, this led to quite a bit of ribbing and Curby was getting a bit frustrated. He was therefore ecstatic when he came to the plate in game 6 with the bases loaded and no one out. I am on second and I hate to admit that I could be this cruel but I quietly signaled to the players on first and third and soon everyone was on board. We had no intention of moving, let alone scoring no matter where Curby hit the ball. Sure enough he hits a frozen rope to the gap in right center and throws his hands in the air as if he had just hit a game winning grand slam (we happened to be up 18 to 0 at the time). He starts jumping up and down in the believe that he has finally driven in a run and gotten the monkey off his back. With a huge smile on his face he heads toward first where he sees Chris Boyman just standing there refusing to run. He looks at second and sees me also standing on the base. He knows what is happening but in his heart he is praying that somehow Dave Shladovsky is not in on it and has scored from third but alas, Dave is anchored to third. Our whole team, including the three of us on the bases are howling, nearly wetting ourselves with childish glee that we have managed to torture and embarrass a dear friend. Yes, we are a bunch of idiots. By the way, the other team was not amused but Curby did get a new nickname which he still carries to this day - “Norbi” as in no rbi.

Doug Neary (Class of 1985) - aka Cos - A phenomenal basketball player (which is pretty much irrelevant to softball but he would be furious at me if I did not mention it) and a very good power hitting outfielder for us in the ’80s and early ’90s. He also does an incredible impression of Bill Cosby, hence the nickname.  Far more importantly, he was the other half of what for years was the funniest comedy duo in the world. Doug and Matt Riley (Chach) were hysterical, outrageous, disgusting at times, crazy most of the time and flat out as much fun to be around as anyone you have ever known. They defy definition but I will give it a shot. Picture a combination of the Blue Brothers, Wayne’s World, Bevis and Butthead, Martin and Lewis, Cheech and Chong. Add in absurd amounts of alcohol and sophomoric teammates egging them on and you have some sense of what they were like. As much as I love playing softball I would have made every trip just to watch them and see what they would do next. My first road trip with them was to Ann Arbor where they had both attended the University of Michigan for their undergraduate degrees. We flew into Detroit, saw a Tiger game and then drove up to Ann Arbor to “prepare” for a tournament that started at 8:00 a.m. the next day. We drank at Rick’s until it closed and then drank some more. By the time we got back to the hotel it was 6:15 a.m. so there was no sense in letting sleep interfere with our pre-game preparations. Instead, Cos and Chach led us to Denny’s for breakfast. We got there and there was a line but the two of them were starving so they announced it was time for the “busboy buffet”. The rest of us looked at each other and wondered what that meant. The next thing we know, Cos and Chach were picking out various pancakes, toast and bacon from one of the buckets that the busboys use to remove leftover food from tables. Now you should know that I hardly ever drink but in the company of this group I have been known to have one or two and at this point my stomach was not feeling too great. Watching them pick at the remnants of other people’s breakfasts nearly put me over the edge. Fortunately, I fought back the urge to bring up the shots from Rick’s in time to see us get seated. I was sitting next to Cos who ordered a Grand Slam. Seconds later he was sound asleep with his head on the table. His food arrived and I noticed that Chach was stacking the pancakes, eggs and meat products on the right cheek of his best friend Cos. I mean literally, he was putting the food on Doug’s face. He piled it up and then tapped Doug on the shoulder and told him his food had arrived. I was sure Doug would wake up, spill his food and be furious. I remember thinking there may even be a fight. Hell, someone puts food on my face, I am going to be pretty angry. How about Doug? Nope. He reached up with his right hand and started eating. I guess I should not have been surprised. After all, at least this was his food and not from the bus boy buffet. By the way, we were on the field at 7:45 and went undefeated that day.

Bruce Simpson - aka Hungo - Another close friend of Chach and Cos. Hungo pitched for us on the rare occasions when our ace, Lefty Blumenreich, could not make the trip. That trip to Ann Arbor was also the first time I met Hungo. Picture the dead guy in Weekend at Bernie’s with an extra and unnecessary additional 100 pounds, mostly around the midsection and you have Hungo. Add in a cigarette dangling from his lips and a glass of some kind of alcohol in his hand and now we are both envisioning the same person. My first interaction with him was on the field for our first game that morning after Rick’s and Denny’s. I was at shortstop when out of the blue he asked the umpire for time. I could not figure out why he was doing it and quite frankly just wanted to get the game going so we could finish playing and I could go purge the alcohol from my body, get some sleep and try and recover in time for the championship round the next day. I saw Hungo get time from the ump and start walking off the field towards the backstop. I looked over at Chach who was at first base and said something along the lines of “my good man, do you know what sort of endeavor Mister Hungo is embarking upon?” Okay, maybe it was more along the lines of “what the f*ck is your idiot friend doing now?” ( I was a bit high strung in those days). Chach just chuckled and told me to relax and give him a minute. Sure enough, 60 seconds was plenty of time for Hungo to walk behind the backstop, throw down his glove and actually throw up what seemed to be 3 or 4 full bus boy buffets right behind the fence directly behind home plate and the umpire. Calm as could be he then picked up his glove, returned to the mound and said he was ready to pitch. The umpire, batter and our catcher were torn between laughing and wanting to kill him because the horrendous odor was nearly instantaneous. The good news is the game flew along since no one dared to take a lot of pitches for fear of passing out from the smell.

Billy Narens - aka Brother Billy, aka Chicken Little, aka Chicken Nuggets, aka Nuggets - Yet another close friend of Chach. In fact, Billy ended up taking over for Cos after the latter unofficially retired as Chach’s sidekick and partner in crime. Billy was one of the most clutch hitters and fielders to ever play for the Krushgroovers. He also was the most unassuming star player we ever had. He always looked like he had just rolled around the infield dirt for 5 minutes (he often had). He reminded me of a slightly undersized all pro offense lineman. You know the type. You look at them and think that guy is out of shape and should not be playing touch football with his kids let alone pro football and then the next thing you know the guy is making an incredibly athletic play. Billy was the same way. He made some spectacular plays at third base for us and hit one of the biggest home runs in our history in a classic 2 to 1 victory at the University of Virginia to lead us to a championship when it seemed like we were finished. We had gone 0 and 3 on Saturday and were therefore seeded last when the double elimination tournament started on Sunday. We opened with the top seed, a great team from Atlanta, Georgia. Seriously thinking we had no chance of winning considering how poorly we played on Saturday, we partied harder than ever on Saturday night. We crawled out of our beds Sunday morning anticipating a quick exit from the tournament and a brutally long ride home as we seriously contemplated retirement. And then a minor miracle occurred. Lefty somehow shut down the best hitting team in the tournament and in the top of the 6th Billy hit a 2 run bomb to left center to win the game for us. We went undefeated the rest of the day and captured another championship but it never would have happened without Billy. My other favorite memory of Billy was when Chach and I called him late one Saturday night. We were playing in a Boston tournament and 2 of our players had gotten hurt. We desperately needed another player. We called Billy who was at a wedding and tried to convince him to jump on a flight from Detroit first thing the next morning. I figured he agreed only to get off the phone and return to the wedding. The next morning we are on the field for an 8:00 a.m. game when a cab pulls up and out jumps Billy. No luggage, just his glove and cleats (of course you should know that back then Chach’s favorite motto was “another weekend, another pair of underwear”). He jogs right out to third base and helps us win yet another championship. The only bad thing about Billy is that he did not play more often for us.

Next time - some of the more memorable incidents from our road trips.