8-Ball  •  October 27th, 2018

BROOKLYN – The Greatest Day in the Greatest Year of the Greatest Sporting Event on Earth™ finally descended upon us last Sunday. Unfolding in typically dramatic fashion as the penultimate round of Dipshittery took center stage, leaving blood, piss, tears, and a staggering amount of dogshit smeared across the Slizzy's craggy bosom.

The blustery and brisk conditions were just another welcome obstacle for these crusty warriors who staggered onto the hallowed grounds like so many hang dogged whiskey soaked sods who'd just been 86'd from JBar, which, in fact, Diamond had. Such was the promise of stickball glory, that even devoutly nocturnal sluggers like Party Boy and Cobra Hai, who had never actually witnessed a sunrise, dragged themselves out of bed at the ungodly hour of 10 am to test their rusty bones and their foggy mettle on the field of battle. 

In a league where being left handed constitutes the closest thing to ethnic diversity, it was the R2s legendary Local Boy Johnny Hobbs who stood out as the tallest white dude on this morning. A clutch trip and even clutchier juggling circus catch not only stuck a fatal tetanus-soaked dagger into the R1s hearts, but sealed his MVP status and spoke louder than he ever would about the importance of stepping up and delivering in the big moments. As the eldest YFS statesman, Hobbs displayed the spirit and comportment we all aspire to. "Speak softly and carry a mawfuckin' BQE Bomber, boys," Hobbs said during a post game puff with a twinkle in his eye.

Lefty Moses, who has made a habit of reserving all his strength by showing up only for Classic games was also on point, blasting a bomb and patrolling the field like someone who had the energy of a rookie playing his first game of the season, which he was. "Deadbeat no practice," he declared about himself monosyllabically and in the third person. "Deadbeat only win fish." 

For his part, after experimenting with a multitude of mind altering cocktails over the years that have produced widely varying results, Party Boy finally achieved that holy grail of elixirs: perfect substance-based pharmacopic balance. A now patented combo of powdered sugar, ketamine, and cat litter injected right in the ass by his physician father, Party Man, MD. The result? A slew of sweet triples and an even sweeter liner he snagged with his tongue.

On the other side of things, the R1s were T-I-G-H-T. Even an Agro Agent, sporting menacing eye black, freshly jheri curled show lettuce, and a Scotty sized chip on his shoulder, couldn't rally the punchless group as they managed just five runs all day and were especially feeble in the second game where they struggled to eke out a meager solitary run. 

And wither Soy? While the co-commish and 3-time Champ's corporeal form occupied considerable physical space, his spirit appeared to be still in the Big Easy, blissfully reliving the recent Blue/Gray victory from a week before, stuck on some hazy, whiskey induced tapeloop. 

When the dust settled, the R2s were moving on and a dejected Shep could be heard muttering under his breath about some high level conspiracy, leaving him O-fer on the day, both in yuks and in rings.

Red 1s were: Secret Agent, Soy Peligroso, Cobra Hai, Diamond, Shepherd
Red 2s are: The Deal, Local Boy, Rizz Everywhere, Deadbeat, Party Boy

G1: R2 7, R1 4
G2: R1 1, R2 2

HRs: Deadbeat: 1, The Deal: 1, Cobra: 2

Share this post

Leave a comment

Note, comments must be approved before they are published