Exercise In Futility, or, Hipster Flag Football — Prospect Park, Brooklyn, Dec. 3, 2002

"Okay, so like, I guess we need to pick team captains? So, who wants to be a team captain?"
A mumbling chorus broke through the 10 bleary-eyed hipsters shivering on the grass at Prospect Park, waiting to start playing their flag football game.
"Wait wait! Hold on dudes, everybody can't be a team captain. We're gunna need two teams right? So, like, we only need two team captains. So I'll be one, and, uh, as the first team captain I guess I'll choose the other team captain."
"Fuck that shit," said Billy trying to touch his toes. "Why should you get to choose the other team captain? We never even got to choose if you should be team captain. That's totally undemocratic, man. Sorry but it is."
Another, more ardent mumbling fit, broke through the ranks now.
"Hey," said a portly hipster dressed in a gray Eddie Bauer sweatsuit, still creased from its package. "I'm going over to Connecticut Muffin to get some coffee while you guys figure out the teams, anybody want anything?"
"Yeah, I'll have a cinnamon-walnut muffin, thanks Roger."
"Get me one too, and a latte, large,"
"I'll have a latte too, a small one with skim milk,"
"Umm, if they have a corn muffin, I'll have that, and a small coffee. Have them warm up the muffin too, okay?"
"I just want a small coffee, with soymilk. Get one of those holder things for it; I don't want to burn my hands. You rock, Roger. Hey, can I bum a smoke from you real quick before you go?"
"Sure," said Roger. "I'll be right back."
He started off, jogging a little to break in the sweatsuit.
"Okay," said James. "So like, how do you want to decide on the team captains?"
"Shit, I guess we could race?" said Billy.
"I just ate breakfast man," said a hipster with a crooked mesh-trucker cap, patting his tummy. "I don't wanna get all cramped up before the game."
"Matt's got a point. Plus, it's not very democratic to race," said a bespectacled hipster in a black Pea Coat. “I mean, basing privilege on physical ability is pretty much free market anarchy, shouldn’t it be based on a majority vote?”
“Hello dumbass? This whole game is undemocratic!” said Billy.
“Yeah, fuck off Brian,” said James. “I didn’t even want to play in the first place. I just thought we could all use some exercise. Roger’s the one who said we should play fucking football.”
“Look, why don’t we just race, then we can all get some exercise and settle the team captain thing in one shot,” said Billy.
“Fine,” said James scanning the field, “Ok, here, look guys. We all race to that bench over there and …”
"What the hell is this? A fucking Ayn Rand novel?" said Brian. "Can't we figure this out without resorting to some hamfisted, symbolic …"
“Go!” said James, flinging off his corduroy blazer, his head aimed at the tree in the distance.
"Jesus Christ! Fuck you James! This isn't fair!" Brian stamped his feet and tore off his thick, black-framed glasses.
The rest of the hipsters all set off in a hurry, flinging off their woolen scarves, unbuttoning their chain wallets, and flicking their cigarette butts into the dewy air.
Their bodies clunked terribly as they jogged, and the shock of this alien exertion reverberated through the various segments of their bodies until it looked as though their very atoms would disintegrate were it not for the corduroys and too-tight ironic t-shirts holding them together.
James was standing — no — holding the tree, panting intensely, as the parade of fumbling hipsters sputtered off like buck shot, some falling to the ground, some holding their knobby knees, staring intently at the ground, wheezing.
Brian stood — hands on his hips — back at the starting line about 200 yards away, smiling.
"Hey!" yelled James, making his way back. "What the hell are you doing? You're never gunna get chosen for a team with an attitude like that!"
"Whatever," said Brian, lighting a cigarette.
The hipster parade gathered their coats and sat on the grass back at the starting line massaging their pulled muscles.
"You're such a pussy, Brian," said Billy.
"Shut up," said James. "It's settled, I'm team captain number one and Billy is team captain number two."
"No way!" said Brian. "You didn't give any warning. I refuse to recognize that race as legitimate."
"Just 'cause you lost," said Billy.
"I didn’t lose," said Brian. "I refuse to submit to the legitimacy of that race. I am a conscientious objector."
"Dude you're taking this shit way too seriously," said James.
"That's what the cheaters always say," said Brian.
"You’re the one making this fucking game into an Ayn Rand novel, not us," said James. "Who the fuck ever heard of being a conscientious objector to a goddamned football game anyway!"
"Whatever," said Brian.
"Okay," said James. "I pick Matt."
"Actually," said Matt, fiddling with his mesh-trucker cap. "I think Brian's got a point. The way the race was conducted wasn't fair at all. I think I'm gunna have to go with him on this one. I'm gunna be a conscientious objector too."
"Jesus Christ!" said James. "Okay Matt, have it your way. I pick Chris."
Chris just shook his head: "Sorry man, I can’t submit to tyranny."
Billy punched Chris in the shoulder.
"Okay, fuck the race," said James. "As soon as Roger gets back from Connecticut Muffin with the football we'll play one game of 500 and that's how we'll decide on team captains. Is that okay with everybody?"
Grunts of approval wound their way through the group.
In the distance they saw Roger approaching with an armful of paper bags.
"Hey guys," said Roger. "Here take these bags and get your shit. Whose team am I on?"
"We're about the figure that out," said James. "Where's the football?"
"I don't have a football," said Roger, laughing. "What do you think I am? Some kinda jock?"
"Did anybody bring a fucking football?" James yelled.
But the hipsters were already gorging themselves on muffins and lattes and paid no attention.