Stinkmitt • April 3rd, 2016
BROOKLYN – For any of us prone to glue-sticking our blue jeans and the many of us who've spent the past five months whittling away at dormant ash and oak, the approaching thunderclap of the breast-bubbled chopper that is the 8th Season of YFS Mothership stickball was as welcome as the warm whispers of a church girl on a wintered crotch. But, as late as I am already, let us not get too overwrought with the overly-fair and plus-fine gentlemen. While that freezing feeling in your pre-teen cheeks could surely be attributed to the near-sixty mile an hour gale force winds that bee-swarmed Penn fuzz over the skies of Donnie's or, even more likely, the proximity of opening day play to a toxic superfund site spewing noxious plumes of face-numbing and liver-cancering tricloroethylene, the plain fact my stick-toting friends was that the first tilt of season eight was most simply a fury of firsts.
The first, well, "first" my front-feathered friends was perhaps something that didn't immediately quite catch in the hamster-wheels of us eager twiggers outside of a twinge in one's back. As each neon artisan arrived to the detour grounds of Donnie's Dome for the first cuts off the slab of 2016, it was not hard to notice the hush of anxious wonder howling in the guts. Sure, we could attribute the taint-firming to the anticipation of a brand new gash, but quite simply there lurked amongst us an ominosity, some shadowy horror of a faintly recognized familiarity discovered only when the scantily clad barely legal virgin looks just beyond the freshness of her own face in the mirror to the normally innocent air behind her. 'Twas not the nervy loins of us maidens to this 8th, but none other than the return of "The Villain." After an exceptional suspension and unmatched off-season negotiation, AKA "Half Ring" marked his formidable return to the YFS with a slicing grab on the run at the left field foul line without a flinch. "It just didn't seem like anybody else was interested," said the Villain with biting nonchalance while menacingly dressed in a vision of the Unabomber, "so I thought I'd go ahead and make the play to save the game." A line that couldn't better echo the gestalt of a YFS league simultaneously prided upon risible ethics and perfunctory philanthropy. May we all, and as we all already, welcome back what every league is ever in dire need - our very own - "The Villain."
But there is little we should remember of the day from the pale visions of drained tall cans and cherry-hot rudolphed one-hitters other than the unprecedented event of the very first STD contracted by stickball. While most of us have the decency, lack of pride, and full sense of shame to conceal the pettiness of our desperations, the post-game groaning prone and prostration of our very own A. "Spud Mackenzie" Kenedi escaped no attention, see-sawing on his belly over the back of the dugout bench with inferno-esque urethra pain. "It's a real prickle," explained The Champ Hass with the flat confidence of a urologist with a thousand schwantz case-files in his pocket, "like an itch on the brain stem. Those who play with fire, feel the fire and for whatever reason there's no shortage of daddy-problem coeds who want to share that guy's toothpaste." After which the blowsie grounds of Gonnie's Dome fell silent, as they should, in absolute recognition and respect of a titleholder's wisdom.
And since we're ill-advisedly into numbers, thirdly, at least, of firsts is the well-known fact and familiar farmhouse yarn of how every cock-house needs a roof. As if the rerun- and multi-stroke-worthy hype video massaged together by the newest YFS chiefs in tent-poled briefs weren't enough, the windy-wylings at Donnie's represented the first "O" day run with The Surgeon and Soy Peligroso fully at the helm of the YFS Brooklyn Mothership. While Peligroso momentarily paused some pre-game fellatio from a b-roll Reggaeton video dancer to characterize the mass-appeal of YFS stickball by quoting from Lord Byron to "let female errors fall, for stickball has not even one, the worst of all," the "Splurgeon," in between text messages on his Speak and Spell and upon being asked about what felt different about opening a new season as a YFS co-commissioner, simply stated that "somebody some season has got to win them all. You pitch."
However, the most blaring YFS first on the bluster-bowl of blow-backs that was the 8th season's opening day was the keeping of the slut waiting. Far be it from any of us I'm sure, to decline such a lusty offer of grace. But as the hallowed grounds of York get a left chest adjustment after being dotted and slapped for seven years by Penn pac-mans, it was, for the first-time ever, the sludge and gristled deck of Donnie's Dome that crawled up from the polluted perversity of the East River to host a Brooklyn Mothership Opening Day. And while the ice circus and center field booty quakes certainly made for a welcome mat for memory, we all know even better that it's never wise to keep a slut waiting, most of all when the missionary peels of Donnies only magnify the sweet backside rodeo rope-swinging fantasies that only the voluptuousness of York can provide. We won't call ahead but we'll bring sticks loaded for bear when we come… for the door to the 8th Season discotheque, my friends, is wide open.
G1: R'S: 2, B'S: 0
G2: B'S: 0, R'S: 1
G3: R'S: 1, B'S: 4
The Reds: The Surgeon, Cyclops Musacchio, The Wanderer, El Matador, Rizz Everywhere and Stinkmitt
The Blacks: Soy Peligroso, The Champ Hass, The Villain, The Cobble Hill Kid, Swingin' Mo and The Gonnoissuer Kenedi