Boys Annihilate MVP

Editor: James Loesch, 6’4″

Early voting for the 2025 New York City mayoral race kicked off yesterday morning, with 11 Democrats in the running. Former governor Mario Cuomo had maintained a comfortable lead in nearly every poll, until yesterday, when Queen’s assemblyman Zohran Mamdani closed what was a significant gap. 

On a national level, we celebrated the 250th anniversary of the United States Army. All the while, “No Kings Day” protests raged in cities across the country, the ire of which was aimed at president Donald Trump. On the international stage, Israel and Iran have entered the beginning days of a war, and investigators search for answers in the devastating and tragic Air India crash. 

Before you look at which tab you have open, no, you’re not reading the New York Times. Why then, is the latest edition of the Brew Crew blog talking about world news and not the most recent game that took place this morning against The Boys? 

Well, because at least those events are notable, unlike anything that happened in today’s game. 

I don’t know what the final score was. A lot to a little is all I’ll say. I was checked out for most of this game, until I remembered around the 7th inning that Alex asked me to write this week’s post. What follows is my best attempt at a recap, although I make no assertions as to the accuracy of anything I’m about to say. 

The first few innings of this game saw competitive play. 

The Boys plated a few. The Brew Crew responded. It was tied 3-3 going into the 3rd inning, about as ho-hum a start to a Sunday softball game as anyone can remember. 

Then, the game was over. 

Or at least that’s how it felt. The Boys, in typical Boys’ fashion, sent to the plate what looked like one 6 ‘4-guy-I-have-no-recollection-of-going-to high-school-with after another, each of which proceeded to hit the next in a series of never-ending bombs. 

Watching this game from the cheap seats in right field, where I half-assed a few fly balls, caught none, and made several arm-tingling throws that signaled the beginning of the end for my ulnar collateral ligament, I knew we weren’t coming back. 

Not if I had anything to say about it at the plate, that is. 

I wouldn’t be using my position of power as this week’s Editor in Chief to its fullest if I didn’t take a moment to recap my offensive output. I went 3-5, each hit like a laser beam of frozen piss coming off my bat. Several of The Boy’s girlfriends, wives, and mother’s of their children (these guys are getting old) watched in awe of my power display, much to the chagrin of those old bastards (a happy Father’s Day to them, nonetheless). 

And for those of you reading this who are saying to yourselves, “wait, that didn’t happen”–fuck you. Alex asked me to write this, not you, and I’ll say whatever I damn well please. So watch it, Baylous. 

Anyway. 

With the game’s end in sight, and the Brew Crew down by probably 20 runs, I turned what little attention I had left to thinking about what I would say in this week’s blog. It was then that I got the idea to start this week’s entry off with a misdirection of sorts, with the goal of providing comic relief while also signaling how smart and worldly I am (I read the New Yorker and am better than you). 

But then, another thought occurred to me. I figured since it’s Father’s Day, and my own father is the reason I play this godforsaken sport in the first place, I should say a few words about him on this special day. 

I’ve been going to Sunday softball games since some of you were in diapers (again, I’m looking at you, Baylous), at first dragged kicking and screaming–and later more willingly–by my father, Tom Loesch. Back then, the team wasn’t called Brew Crew. It was known as “MVP”, both the name of a local sprinkler installation company and the initials of Michael Vincent Pisco, an Italian-American immigrant and the team’s once-GM. 

Most of you don’t know this stuff.

Back in those days, the roster, and whole league for that matter, was full of men, unlike today. The nine innings it took to play a game saw more cigarettes smoked, tobacco spit, beers drank, and hamstrings pulled than you’ll see in a whole season today. Analytics? Forget it. Exit velocity? Go shit in your hat. Pitch counts? Pitch counts!? 

As far as Sunday softball history goes, this was the dark ages. The only thing that mattered was who brought the cooler and who brought the ice. As long as the beers stayed cold and the inflammation stayed down, anything after that was gravy. 

You’ll often hear old timers talk about the athletes who were at their peak in their day–Muhammad Ali, Joe Namath, Reggie Jackson, Larry Bird, and on and on. At best, these diatribes are met by a little intrigue, at worst, an eye roll. You never think you’ll be the guy talking about athletes of a bygone era, until you are. Today, I’m that guy. 

Thanks to my father, I’ve been around this game long enough to remember the likes of guys like Coop–who’s last name I never learned–a hulking statue of a man who looked like Ivan Drago and hit balls into the stratosphere from the left side of the plate. Then there was Mr. Mullahey, who I never saw play much, but he drank a lot of beers and was (is) definitely better than his son. This was back when One-Legged John had two, and Rusty “Spots” DiMatteo held the league’s on-base record. 

And then there was my dad. 

Most of you know my dad as the doting middle-aged man who shows up to the odd game for playful banter with Shane White, with a few weak groundouts mixed in. But back when I was a kid–he was still a doting middle-aged man, at least to me, and he still hit mostly weak groundouts. 

Some things never change. 

What has changed in the two decades that I’ve been going to Sunday softball is my appreciation for the time I’ve gotten to spend with my dad at the field. Going to these games when I was a kid was annoying. The corny jokes you hear every Sunday? I lived with those seven days a week. Being dragged out of bed on a Sunday morning to hear them repeated again at a softball field wasn’t my favorite way to start the day. 

But as I’ve gotten older, those Sunday mornings have become some of my most treasured memories with my dad. The slow car rides to the field, watching him play, seeing and hearing him have fun with the friends he grew up with, and eventually playing alongside him–those days are largely over, but they happened, and I’m grateful I got to be there for so many of them. 

Today, I thankfully got to have another one of those days.

So to my dad, happy Father’s Day. Thank you for bringing Sunday softball into my life and making these memories with me. You’re the best dad I could have asked for. 

Love your son,

James

“Any rebroadcast, retransmission, or account of this game recap/love letter to Dad, without the express written consent of James Loesch, is strictly prohibited.”