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Bibliotechs: Bibliotech Anthems

The MIT Libraries Softball team

The Dream Team

On August 12, 1996, at the end-of-the-season break-up dinner at the Hacienda Restaurant in Somerville (convenient to the Twin Cities Mall) Bibliotech laureate and mystic Dan "The Man" Belich (see ill.) addressed the multitude of Bibliotechs, dreaming dreams and naming names.

Why (Are) the Bibs Are My Dream Team (?) (D. Belich)

You can have your lawyer dream team
You can have your basketball dream team
You can have your synchronized swimming dream team
You can keep 'em, mister
'Cause I've got my very own dream team
That I play on every summer

I have a dream...

I dream of my first pitch out of the gate
To Christine bobbing in the quicksand behind home plate

I dream of Jon who I know will snag
The first line drive that they do tag

I dream I see a slow roller my way
To Big Al I toss it 'cause 1st he does play

I dream of watching a lazy fly drift to left
To John Delancey the play is deft

I dream of Rick at short, nothing to fear
Whispering those three magic words in my ear

I dream of Walter and what a Bib he is
May he always hit round trippers just like a true Wiz

I dream of Ed Kruzel and I
Training off-season at the Somerville Y

I dream of Debbie, oh do I dream of Debbie

I dream of Tony rounding second like gangbusters
Someone should tell him he could use some suspenders

I dream of Ronnie the centerfielder
Shagging those flies with a martini mixer

I dream of Ray on stage at the Met
Singing castrato, a heroic "I GOT IT!"

I dream of Gerald at the plate
Hitting the ball to where they ain't

I dream of Ben in his first fine Bib season
Not knowing why we are this way or what is the reason

I dream of circling the bases to score
'Cause Luke let me run when he was sore

I dream of Bill who makes catches like a madman
It must be something in the beer for no one else can

I dream of Lise at second doing the mosh
Tagging the runner out who's so slow he's posh

I dream of Paul clearing the bases
With a liner to left that sends them all to the races

I dream of Captain Nancy with the lineup from hell
On that clipboard she casts a magic spell

I dream of Stuart, I hope he hears
How his absence is reducing me to tears

I dream of Charlene beating the throw to 1st
With a hit that makes them so pissed they could burst

I dream of Joe and his clean hits to right
That keep bouncing right into the night

I dream of Tom scooping the ball on a hop
It looks as easy as forking a fried scallop

But most of all, I have a dream ... of that elusive prize
The one that only rarely appears before my unbelieving eyes
It ain't no fish that flies
But it often comes with cole slaw and fries

Someday, maybe, I'll take one home with me
To those who do I will not mock
But I may just secretly tail them home to see
What they do alone with that haddock.

"Thank you, and good night."

Forza Biblioteca

The Old Ranger sez: "Every year at season's end, the Bibliotechs split up into small groups called carcasses which prepare all winter for the ceremony of the next season's opening. Each carcass chooses a theme (some award-winning themes from the past include 'Moon Over Somerville,' 'The Emperor's New Clothes,' 'Warm Leatherette,' and 'Human and All-Too-Human') and spends many hours of non-work time designing and sewing costumes and practicing new dance steps that illuminate the theme. Then, in the spring, on Bibliotechs' Opening Day, the carcasses form a strong line and the parade makes its way to Briggs Field, dancing to the music of the Forza Biblioteca. At the field, the winning carcass is chosen by acclamation, and the Captains are summoned forth."


                FORZA BIBLIOTECA
      (Translated from the original pig Latin)
What is this warm runny feeling?
      It is like the best shower I have ever had in my life.
When I heard the music,
      I understood it was my destiny to join the line.
Arms like Stonehenge, brain like a lozenge,
      Our rough beast rumbles toward the field for its baptism.
When you moved your hands like that,
      The scent of bacon filled my nostrils.
I will see you again, my brothers and sisters,
      Where everything means nothing in that sun-imbued consciousness.
Cho: I am a Bibliotech, it's a feeling I can't describe
     I am a Bibliotech, it's a feeling I can't describe
     I am a Bibliotech, it's a feeling I can't describe
(Repeat Cho: 11 times, blow whistles)

Bib's Hymn

                        BIB'S HYMN
       (The brilliance of the formless one has made me insane)
                                       (J. Eichman)
 Dan (at plate, to Rick, bottom of the seventh):
       The brilliance of the formless one has made me insane.
       Come to the plate, oh lord of the thrice-struck ball,
       and show the way to me.  Oh friend, what is this way
       of behaving?
       You have been to first, to second, yea even to third,
       and swapped tall tales with the guardians thereon,
       created small lodgings of grass and stones for the
       wayward gophers, and still you do not return home. This game
       has been the ruin of my life. What agony
       it has vouchsafed to me. To whom can I speak of my
       pain? I travel the greensward in grey fogs and
       beer hazes. Where is the bat than can separate
       this ball from this earth?
  Team chorus:
       Vouchsafe this, oh long-eared one.
       Surely we have borne your briefs and carried your
       sorrows. Is this tepid display your gift in return?
       Return to us after scouring yon basepaths,
       and we shall give you rest.
                                      swami vividrotunda 

Ode To The Unwinnable

On August 3, 1993, at the Paddock Restaurant in Somerville, staff ace Dan Belich issued a wake-up call, in the stern cadences of a Biblical prophet, to the Bibliotechs, who had endured a lackluster season. It must have worked, because the team went from a 6-4 record in 1993 to 7-3 the next year!

                                                 (D. Belich)
So, what are your excuses?

Is there an excuse for this season?

For letting grounders through your wickets?

Is there an excuse for it?

For watching lazy fly balls softly hit the earth two feet away.

Is there an excuse for it? 

Missing the cutoff man.

Is there an excuse for it?

Throwing wild, wide of the bag.

Is there an excuse for it?

Not tagging up.

Is there an excuse for it?

Popping up to end the inning.

Any excuses?

Say, Bib, what's YOUR excuse?

Was ist deiner rechtfertigen?

I jumped too late.

I slipped between second and third.

I lost it in the sun.

I thought you had it.

I swung at a bad pitch.

I this, I that.

Enough already.

This winter, think it over, and over, and over...

But don't let it get you down. Don't let it.

Stay away from open windows in upper floors, sharp objects, sleeping
pills, small furry animals, and the home shopping club.

Find a constructive use for your sense of defeat and humiliation.

Start a barbed wire collection.

Visit a nursing home (they don't need to be YOUR grandparents.)

Learn to speak Esperanto.

Report a suspicious neighbor to the FBI.

Call that brother-in-law you once borrowed a thousand dollars from.

Audition for a part in a Broadway musical.

Neuter a cat or geld a horse.

Rotate the tires on a car.

In other words, don't dwell on it.

Very soon, Bibs, the warm breezes will blow.

The grass will turn green again,

and the flourishes will sound for a new season.

You will again test the limits of your masculinity and femininity.

Look forward to the 1994 Kentucky Fried season to be the year we put
it IN YOUR FACE to the rest of this God forsaken league.

I want all you Bibs, you men, and yes, you lady Bibs too, to look over
the team photo I've provided and just picture yourselves as beefy,
take-no-shit, tough-as-nails rogues.

You laugh in the face of danger.
You snicker behind the back of defeat.

You open a cold one to kill the pain.

I want you to ...

Choose the bib you admire most and become that Bib.

Then blame all the errors you make next season on that Bib.

Let yourself become the Bib you've always wanted to be.

Thank you.

Bibliotech Heroes

This song was written to celebrate the Bibliotechs' 1981 Kentucky Fry League championship. It is sung to the tune of "Celluloid Heroes" by Ray Davies and the Kinks.


Everybody's a Bibliotech
And everybody's a star 
And everybody plays softball,
It doesn't matter who you are.
There are Bibliotechs in every city,
In every house and on every street
And if you take a walk down Mass. Avenue
Their names are written in concrete.

Don't step on George Cholewczynski
As you walk down the avenue
He looks so drunk and hopeless
Like many Bibliotechs do.
And remember Jim Generoso
Who expected more from us all
And Tracy, Greg Sanford, and Roland
And Captain Dave McColl.

Chorus: You can see the Bibliotechs as you walk down Massachusetts
        Some that you recognize, some that you've hardly even heard of
        People who worked, suffered, and struggled for fame,
        Some who succeeded, some who suffered in vain.

There's Steve and Bev and Ginny,
Tom and Rusty, Gretchen and Lee,
Sharon and Stuart and Walter,
And Dianas K. and G.
There's Barbara, Katherine, and Willis, 
And Philip, Dave, Tommie, and John,
And Michael and Lisa and Michael,
And Tom and Captain Ted and Don.

Chorus: You can see the Bibliotechs...

Everybody's a Bibliotech 
And everybody's a star
And everybody plays softball
It doesn't matter who you are.
For those who were successful
And those who came so near
You see success walks hand in hand with failure
So you might as well have a beer.

Chorus: You can see the Bibliotechs...

I wish my life was a non-stop Bibliotechs softball game,
A fantasy world of Bibliotech winners and heroes,
Because Bibliotech heroes never feel any pain
And Bibliotech heroes never...really...die.

Send In The Bibs

Isn't it Spring?
Finally here?
You bring the corn chips and salsa
I'll bring the beer
Send in the Bibs...

Is that a bird?
Is that a bee?
Aren't those Bibliotechs
Batting .333?
Where are the Bibs?
Send in the Bibs 

Just when it seems                                                          
Winter won't end                                                            
Here we are doing our wind-sprints and long-throws again                    
Practicing relays and DP's and taking some swings                           
Just as new hope                                                            
Eternally springs...  

Now it begins                                                                
Be of good cheer                                                             
One day we'll go all the way,                                                
Maybe this year                                                              
Where are the Bibs?                                                          
There ought to be Bibs...
They're finally here. 

The Walrus and the Pizzas

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of bats and balls and Bibliotechs, of upper-cutting swings,
Of strikes and walks and double-plays
And line drives in the gap, 
Of balks and bases overrun, and fines for no jockstrap."

The Pizzas sat all in a row, and listened courteously
To tales of softball glory from the manic manatee.
He said, "The time is nigh for softball season to begin.
There is no finer feeling than the feeling when you win!
O Pizzas, won't you play with us?" but answer came there none;
They could not speak because, you see,
We'd eaten every one. 

How The Golden Haddock Won The Game: A Just So-So Story

(In the field of developmental bibliotechology, it is standard
practice to study the legends of Bibliotech antiquity, in addition to
the atavisms of the present, in order to predict the ultimate form and
outcome of the Bibliotechs' struggle, to exist, to excel, to conquer
and to confound.)

"Once upon a time, my Beloved, there was a silver Haddock in the dark
ocean, who longed to walk in the sun, upon the land, to leave behind
the scuttling crabs and the shoaling dabs, the halibuts and the
hammerheads, the soles and the salmons and the smelts. One day as the
Haddock floated on the rise and the fall of a wave near a beach so old
that its name had already been forgotten, protected in the narrow surf
from the predations of the slimy sculpin and the bullhead barracudina,
he saw a noble Man walking deep in thought upon the sand. 'O Man,'
called out the Haddock, 'I would like to walk with you upon the land,
and think deeply with ' you, but I will die if I leave the water.'

'O Fish,' said the Man, who was a Bibliotech Captain, and who did not
yet know whether the Fish was a Haddock, a Pollock, or a Cod, but who
had certain powers, as all Bibliotech Captains do, one of which is the
gift of talking to fish, "I can grant you the ability to live out of
the water (although not the ability to walk, for you have no legs) but
you must do something for me in return.'

'O Man, I will do anything you ask, so that I may become the proudest
Haddock of them all, leaving the ocean and living on the dry
land. Tell me what I must do."

'Jump up on my shoulder, Haddock, and I will tell you as we walk. I am
the Captain of the Bibliotech tribe, and we are battling the
loathesome and sub-human (sorry, Haddock!) Pugnant Sox, just over
those sand dunes. The outcome of the battle is sorely in doubt. I need
you to put on this magical golden jacket, made from butter and
seasoned bread crumbs, and lie down in a comfortable iron skillet, in
a soft bed of warmed savory olive oil. In this way, we sill distract
and confuse the Pugnanti, and turn the tide of battle.'

The Haddock, who even in the depths of the ocean had heard of the
glory of the Bibliotechs, put aside his questions and assented to the
plan. When the Captain and the Haddock arrived at the battleground,
they found the Bibliotech tribe exhausted, its collective back to the
wall, with one final, slender chance to prevail. The Captain gently
laid the Haddock, resplendent in his golden jacket, into the skillet,
which he then moved onto an iron stand above glowing hot coals in a
firepit. As the battle raged on, the Haddock called out, 'Captain,
although something certainly smells quite delicious in this skillet,
it is getting very hot!' The Captain replied, 'Wait just a little
longer, Haddock.' The Haddock became more and more uncomfortable, and
wished he could be back in the cool, dark ocean, swimming this way and

Just when the Haddock could stand the heat no longer, and was about to
flip himself out of the skillet, to certain death on the fiery coals
below, the Pugnant Sox were suddenly utterly overcome with the
delicious buttery aromas emanating from the pan on the fire, and
dropped their bats and gloves, and began eating one another. The weary
Bibliotechs took advantage of their opponents' distraction, and
advanced the battle-winning runs across the plate!

Did you think, Beloved, that the Bibliotechs then ate the Haddock? No,
they did not (although some may secretly have wanted to.) The Captain
whisked the skillet off the fire, and put the hot fish, his golden
jacket baked on permanently, back on his shoulder. Bibliotechs always
keep their word! And to this day, the Golden Haddock accompanies the
Bibliotechs, as their fortunes have risen and fallen and risen again,
over the centuries. (But he won't get into a skillet, no matter how
nicely you ask him.)"