----- Original Message ----- From: "Rick Lopez" <bb10k@velocity.net> To: <zorn-list@mailman.xmission.com> Sent: Tuesday, March 18, 2003 4:20 AM Subject: Zorn's BASEBALL; My baseball; Your baseball maybe

Game Pieces. Right.

Not many things better than play. Not many things better than inner worlds.

Anyone out there interested in the imaginary landscapes of baseball?

Let's see... a Baseball game piece would probably involve two sets of musicians swapping roles a certain number of times, each swap happening whenever a given event had happened another number of times. The team "at bat" would present its players one at a time, in a rotation. If the initial interaction were successful, the player would then be matched up with each of a number of bass players on the other team, in turn, with the possibility of either being knocked out of play by each or returning to non-playing after having interacted with each in turn. Each action would be initiated by a consistent player on the team that wasn't "at bat", who would supply a pitch. (The very first pitch of the first performance of the concert season would be a sample of Lester Young.) If the person "at bat" immediately played a pitch that was consonant with that, he would proceed to the interaction with the bass players. An exceptionally apt response would throw him into very quick interactions with each of the bass players in turn, then returning to silence. However, the other members of the "defense" team could counter and block his actions. The shortstop would play a fretted instrument with a capo. Leftfield is a turntablist. Right field would act based on whether he thought the person's action was sufficiently within the tradition. If the person "at bat" missed out on his interaction, it would be taken up and completed by a "defense" player behind him (unless the catcher had gone awry). A trickster role, between primary actions, would be handled by an organist. And one or two former players at microphones would keep up a running patter about the performance (including meaningless data about previous shows and reminiscences about other pieces). Umpires would determine the success of the actions. In case of a particularly disputed action, all players from either side could join in a brief squabbling improv. At the end of a particularly successful performance, the audience could rush the stage and leave with wooden chunks of it. Between seasons, they would trade cards with pictures of players on one side and transcriptions of classic moments on the other, and argue about whether you could really appreciate the piece unless you had played it yourself or at least scraped up the chewing gum from the stands.