But a whimper...

It seems like just four months ago (HAR!) that we stepped onto a field in Wayland for the inaugural IGMW2SA3 game.

We were a ragtag crew, with softball experience and skill varying widely; we had former varsity players, people that would be playing in three different leagues, as well as those who quit little league after 3rd grade.

We started with a roster of 23, and picked up four free agents along the way.

We stretched ourselves to the limits, and we saw just how much the human body is capable of when severely hungover (not much). But that didn't stop us from going out for beers after the game.

We faced almost continual rainouts, right down to the season-ending playoff rainout. We decided not to play our rescheduled consolation bracket game, and never got to see if we truly were the best of the worst.

We endured roadblocks, 96 degree heat, and Billy Ocean.

We protected this house, learned about charcoal, and sang some god-awful rap.

We butchered the works of Thayer, countless Japanese poets, and now, TS Eliot:

This is the way the season ends
This is the way the season ends
This is the way the season ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

See you next May.