El Wrencher  •  June 14th, 2014

BROOKLYN – The stage was set for a battle royal on a glorious sunny day out at York Arena last last Saturday as the 3rd annual Dads vs. Lads game was set to square off with each side having touched up one win apiece. The two adversaries were keen to break up the tie with The Dads promoting a bag-juice-2-babies life approach while The Lads play-argued for the option of gamble-heaving the same repro-fluids into a backwall of a condom or onto a woman's back and hair.

York Stadium was at capacity as a high-as-nuts junky couple would settle in with the sluggers intermittently dope sleeping and arguing with each other all day long.

This year it would be The Lads who would leg out a win keeping the back-and-forth victory trend afoot. The Lads put up strong numbers inning after inning as the Dads kept pace but played catch up all game coming up 3 runs short in the winner-takes-all first contest.

Despite winning what stood out for the Lads this year was how they won. How much poise, class and dignity was on display in their dugout, in their field and the organization as a whole. You’d have to flip back a fuckwad of rib-tickling Heathcliff® calendar pages to land on the athletic set of Joe Montana and Dwight Clarke to see this level of talent served up with such honor, humility and grace. The 2014 Lad squad made those two Bay Area heros look like a drunk and belligerent twin set of Chris Browns and Spencer Pratts. The grace the Lads displayed during victory this year was unparalleled. They didn’t bark and clap during opposition’s thrown pitches. They didn’t chirp when ground out balls came at their rivals in a cheap attempt to rattle them. They didn’t shit their pants and whine when the opposition opened up 2 cans of USTAs Penns throughout the day. They didn’t attempt to make ‘fair or foul’ calls from areas of the field that were impossible to make ‘fair or foul’ calls from. They didn’t knee-snap The Commissioner's 3rd World Title 2013 Fall Classic championship bat destined for the YFS Hall of Fame. They didn’t look to employ every back alley move that came to mind. They didn’t do anything exactly like that.

This year’s Lad team didn’t just set the bar on athletic class, they kindly dismantled it and rebuilt the notion so much so that the words: poise, grace and dignity fall hundreds of miles short when attempting to describe them. They just humbly edged the Dads by 3 runs, slapped end-of-game high-fives and took in the day’s sunshine...Not only did they show the YFS and the world how to win but fucking God himself busted down from the heavens in his dope ass alpine matte white Apache chopper to take notes on how to exist and character lead on this great green earth.

So incredible was this display of athletic tact that it was confirmed a book is already being written about this 2014 Lad team and their victory on the day. And once that book is pressed–the pages still wet with ink–it will swiftly be optioned into a movie. David Fincher will put an end his Hollywood fistfight streak and punch out The Cohen brothers and Paul Thomas Anderson to win the rights to direct it. Fincher will cast for two years and have his pick from Hollywood’s top acting arsenal. Wahlberg, Pitt, Clooney and Steve Guttenberg will all go on record saying they will “fuck or murder anything if it means landing so much as a grip job on this cinematic epic story masterpiece”. No less than 65 thousand dicks will be sucked in an attempt to cast-land the part of the dugout junkie girl. After two years Fincher will eventually come to his senses and cast the 2014 Lad players themselves. Because not even 4 modern day undead Phillip S. Hoffman’s could come close to the sincerity, class and courtship that these 2014 Lads displayed on June fourteenth in the year two thousand and fourteen.

Needless to say the Lad’s movie will go to shatter box office figures bringing more than Jaws, Titanic, Beverly Hills Cop II, Face Bath 7, Ratatouille, Slumdog Millionaire, Beaverjuice, Toy Story (I and II) and 1984’s ass-to-mouth sleeper Caddysnatch plus anything that ever attempted to earn money in history combined.

After the game even the junkies took time out from their drug naps and fighting to take part in an amazing 72 minute appreciative golf clap session where lucky passersby gathered, nodded, shook their heads in amazement, cried, laughed while the 2014 Lads signed autographs, posters, posed for pictures with anybody who wanted to get near these exceptional role models of modern day stickball and life as a whole.

The Dads on the other hand were classless fucking total cock bite fuckface dicks. “I’ve actually never laid eyes on such a pillow sack of pricks” said a Citibiked man who attempted to spit on the Dads from outside the home field chainlink. The Dads never kept quiet while playing. They didn’t just let their bats do the talking. They didn’t display restraint when provoked. “I saw a dad armpit-rape a mother in the left field bathroom while another dad noogie-punched the baby bjorn attached infant child...and then when I caught them in the act, they responded in unison with “oh like you don't want to be doing this right now?” as one kept force-pumping the rare and sweet underside shoulder pussy while his partner landed rabbit punch combos onto the oddly resilient chin of the toddler. The Dads didn’t chant the Lads names after they lost the winner-take-all game one. At every possible opportunity they looked to employ the win-at-any-cost approach and they didn’t care who was watching. “Why wouldn’t we chant their names after they treated us with such respect? I’ll tell you why, because we’re the Dads and we’re the biggest cocksuckers around and we’ll attempt to do anything for a win. If you think having fun and wiffing glory out at York is A-1 priority you’re mistaken...not our problem if you don’t like getting your dick dragged in the flower beds on a gorgeous day in Brooklyn...last time I checked there wasn’t an asshole holocaust going on” said the Dad’s Cobble Hill Kid post game as he key’d every car, scooter, bike and child that he passed on Jay Street.

The dicktard Dads fell short of a dickwipe comeback with The cockface Mechanic pounding a 3-run triple in the top of the 9th but the buttlick Dads came up short losing 18-15. Secret Agent’s dick snot brother and fellow dad Mark hit two bombs on the day with an impressive debut.

Game 2 was the supposed friendly consolation game and since the cordial and respectful Lad numbers dropped from 4 to 3 while the fuckface Dads held over all 5 players from game 1 the teams remained with no re-draw. The YFS rules state if there is less than a 2 athlete difference the teams will go on as is, thus making it 5 Dads vs. 3 Lads as the latter settled in with that high-frequency AB advantage that all YFS sluggers desire and swiftly went up big. And holding their class approach on the day the Lads never talked shit or never said “See ya!” after hitting another bomb after already punching up a 20 run lead. “We never smeared their opponents faces in it despite already winning the war in game 2. Because we’re a super classy bunch” said The Surgeon from his Greenpoint apartment as his iPhone constantly table-buzzed from networks worldwide looking to push the earth’s top ever human interest story.

“I’m pretty sure next year we’re gonna go on being total dicks and i’m sure they’ll continue their amazing character ways” said The Secret Agent from his 3 bedroom casa de asshole in Brooklyn while grunt-tipping a large drum of bubbling hot oil mixed with Tabasco out his window in hopes of scalding an adorable family of 4 walking below.

Next game is set for this Sunday as Season 6’s All Star game and Bomb Derby will get underway at York Cathedral. Jack Derby starting at 1:15.

G1: D: 15, L: 18
G2: L: 26, D: 6

HRs: S. Peligroso; 6* (21), Surgeon; 6 (20), Dickface S. Agent; 5 (33), Swinging Mo; 5 (16), Fuckface Mechanic; 3 (25), Cockbite Rookie Mark; 2 (2)

The Fuckfaces: The Mechanic, The Secret Agent, Cobble Hill Kid, La Grievance, Rookie Mark
The Model Athletes: The Surgeon, Rookie Cody, Soy Peligroso, and Swinging Mo

*1 GS

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