Pease's Pastime

Old roommate and long time friend John Gammon is todays guest writer. It turns out he has, in addition to getting engaged, brought back Procrastination Station after leaving a mesmerizing blog about MTV's My Sweet 16 up for nearly 4 months. An exercise in minimalism, procrastination, and sheer lack of enthusiasm, I found myself constantly returning to the site just to make sure the piece of art still existed.

Truly a virtuoso turning in minor works, Mr. Gammon has (again) revisited that brief, violent, majestic time that is otherwise known as Pease Street. Our time there is best described as an ill-fated experiment in which we placed arguably the worst combination of people, John, Bryan, Sarah, and myself, into a dilapidated moster of a house (see it here) , which of course served as a crumbling metaphor for the state of our souls. Religion, alcohol, wreckless abandon, materialism all did nothing to pull us through our state of dementia praecox; no, no. It was 8-bits of Nintendo power that led us through those ominous times, the glitchy graphics and promise of runs batted in a beacon of glorious hope.


Pease's Pastime (by John Gammon)


There were many things that I learned during my experience on Pease street. I was taught some important life lessons by Michael, and yes, even Bryan Gunderson. But perhaps the most valuable lesson I ever learned throughout my time there is this: RBI baseball for old school Nintendo is the greatest and most realistically accurate sports game on this Earth and beyond.

When I think back on that time, those are the memories that come to the forefront. Coming home from a hard (not so much) day of school, pulling up the chairs to the TV, playing a good old game of “ribbies!” and turning on the cd player to some good tunes, usually some Death Cab or Queen. (Bryan loved to listen to Fat Bottomed Girls, and thus I would always press fast forward when that song came on.)

How I wish I could remember the lineup for those great NY Yankees teams of ribbies, as they were masterful in their skill and power. We always knew which player in the lineup was due for a big one, and how lousy the 6-9 spots in the lineup were. It was so intriguing, I even once did a speech on the game in class once (to rave reviews, and an A to boot!)

When we’d have people over, Michael would always introduce them to the game, and many people would enjoy it. Usually new players would pose no threat to either of us, so we’d have them challenge either Bryan, or Sarah. She hated the game very much, and I do recall evenings where she'd get rather upset because we were playing "ribbies" instead of doing something else.

Despite all of that, the greatest part of ribbies was how terribly terrible Bryan was at the game. He would come out, usually dressed in only his whitey tighties, and ask Michael to play a game. It was always a trip to watch. Firstly, he swung at absolutely everything. And with each miss (and there were literally thousands) he’d shout out “ARRRRRR!” as if he were suddenly a pirate playing baseball. And was very terrible at it.

Secondly, he was the worst baserunner/fielder in the history of the game. An actual event:

Michael: “Bryan, I’m going to steal third! Better throw me out!”

Bryan: “Duuuh. Hee hee.” (He really sounds like a drunken hillbilly)

Me interjecting: “Gunderson, just hold the ball, stupid!”

At this point, Bryan’s third baseman has the ball, and Michael is running towards him. However, the impending out is not quick enough, and Bryan begins trying to furiously throw him out. Eventually he tries to run him out, and somehow throws the ball out of play. Michael scores, pumps his fist in the air, begins to cheer, and very liberal use of the word “baby” ensues.

Eventually, this led to betting between the two, which at first consisted of garbage detail, then turned into money, and lastly, somehow became pushups which he owed us. Somehow, Michael and I got some kind of twisted pleasure out of making a fat, lazy kid work out against his will.

I’m not sure where that old faithful Nintendo is these days, but I have faith that someday, that little RBI cartridge will find its way to Cooperstown, where it rightfully belongs.