The Intern • October 13th, 2018
LOS ANGELES – At 8 am some looked to the skies and saw only ominous foreboding- a spooky October sky freakier than a 50 year old Armenian Cougar sniffing rye and coke at Jones Beach on a Tuesday night. Those saggy cloud titties precluded some from embarking on the just and necessary endeavor of once again picking up stick and walloping fuzzy over industrial fencing.
Others looked up to those clouds and saw the promise of an auspicious downpour from the pregnant beyond. A baptism of sorts, a natural christening from the gods both native and yet unknown, washing way the chalk marks that recorded the glories and defeats of a season past to make room for new gobs of glory goo and box scores.
In season two, YFSLA is in ways both literal and metaphorical, embracing expansion. Most notably, the field itself has grown like a mid-90s major leaguer’s head after a six month cycle of Human Growth Hormone. After consultation with YFS Corporate Headquarters it was deemed necessary to expand the dimension of our diamond to create our very own LA urban sprawl. Prop 6 be damned, true stickballers need their glory glands milked- and to do it we need room to roam. Now the cozy confines of our Blacktop beach have matured into a stately cathedral of pines and chainlink, boasting left and right field foul lines that stretch nearly as far across our very own asphalt as boulevards Wilshire and Venice do across our city.
Continuing our expansion in ways less literal- our brand presence has grown to a level that now rivals the Bellas and Kourtneys and Khloes lining up across the west side for matcha colonics.
Thanks to some serious foresight and the marketing genius of the YFSLA Co-Commissioner Jeff D. AKA Jeff. YFSLA now carries a line of streetwear that showcases our brand to all of Tinseltown. Members have been spotted by the public wearing these vestments outside such venerated YFSLA haunts as The Cozy Inn, Jumbos Clown Room, and Colin Firth’s house. Should any of these new walking lifestyle statements produce even 3 new recruits hellbent on sending ball jammers into picnics, they will be worth the sweat and money poured into them.
And finally, our expansion continues within our ranks. A recent transplant from New Orlean by the name of Casey Z. AKA Swamp Boat AKA Gumbo Charlie AKA The Game has brought his southern swagger to the Airfield where he’s already marked his territory with three dick shriveling bombs that fact checked the manhood of every witness on the field. No doubt his smooth as Sazarac swing and Zatarans level spice will bring a welcome flavor to our brotherhood.
As for the games themselves, a squad of Reds featuring The Intern, Jeff, Raw Dog, The Noreaster and Motorboat produced exactly 0 runs in the first tilt while Gumbo Charlie knocked two “Say hey to your mothers” for his crew of blacks that included Golf Shotz, Pracher, Adam AKA PA, and The Algorithm.
Game two saw small ball manufacture runs for both the Reds and Blacks as well as a third Gator Tater of the day from Swamp Boat. That bomb was soon answered by the Intern though, who cracked open his dinger drawer with a line drive game tying smoker that ultimately led to a 17 inning stalemate. In the bottom of the seventeenth though, the game ended when Raw Dog produced his third error of the day on a ball that rolled through his legs slower than a Bird Scooter ridden by an SNL weight Horatio Sanz up Runyon canyon.
The rust has been shook. Season two is off and running.
G1: Rs 0, Bs 3
G2: Rs 2, Bs 3
Gator Taters: Swamp Boat: 3, Intern 1