The Minister • September 9th, 2022

Rosarito BC, Mexico – Like mature birds of prey regergitating into the open hungry beaks of hairless stickball babes – Brooklyn’s 8-Ball, Monk-Dank, Jeffery Bomber, and Fart Cop routinely served the YFS opposition trays of prison lunch while tucking them in their cribs and hush-reading the award-winning children’s bedtime book, Night Night, You Fuckin’ Losers. The Brooklyn Four became the second chapter in YFS history to covet The Nancy B. Wood Galactics Cup last, last, last, last, last, last, last, last, last, last Sunday under the bright lights at El Junka Catedral in Mexico.

The Surgeon & Soy Peligroso commish-led Mothership Champion quartet outlasted, and outclutched all with a steady hand as they patiently waited to speedbag the mothership bean to climax, and then hot-rope their winning-way loads on the backs, car dashes, and earlobes of any and all challengers.

The Galactics Champs have earned bottomless YFS spirit cups that will runneth over in this life and the next. Whatever deep emotional valleys or personal pitfalls the Brooklyn Champs may face moving forward, they can forever return to this Galactics feeling to teeth-tie up the arm, tap veins, and flick-hit release the golden flow of uncut modern stickball glory. As the league predicts an even greater desire for Galactics immortality, it will only become ever-harder for any YFS set to win and hoist the Galactics Nancy B. Wood cup high above.

“Sure you [Rose City] won that VW Beetle that smells like crayons and cat dicks…But can you Nancy?” - 8 Ball

Brooklyn’s 8-Ball captained the SS Cockroach to victory, frequently no-hand gripping the wheel with his well-traveled, tanned, and leathered penis, leading his crew through the choppy waters of the G2 tournament. The eventual Brooklyn Champ vessel was blown around, battered, mocked, egged, and booed, but 8-Ball and his crew never abandoned ship. The veteran’s veteran’s veteran 8-Ball was monumental as he persevered through hot days and bed wettin’ nights leading his Brooklyn boys to finally set foot on the warm welcoming shores of the YFS Galactics promised land.

The Brooklyn bar class-only trained athlete, Fart Cop, had an exceptional tournament deploying a Galactics record TWENTY-FOUR jackfruits under covid skies, with at least 5 of them still climbing high like a JetBlue flight chock with handjob-only BYU spring breakers bound for Ft. Lauderdale. Once these hog-famished jabringas hit Florida they had a time with only one breaking code by pool-house mounting a 26 yr. old Hyatt swing manager nick-named “Old Brad”. “Brad so hot, this box could not!” chanted and chuckled BYU sophomore Brighton Jessop of Cedar Hills, Utah.

Jeffrey Bomber, AKA Sawmill, filled his squad’s gaps and cracks by packing in ample glory caulk and turning in a stellar locked-in performance. JB served up the clutch hits when his stickball officers requested aid. Bomber was seen only once zipping up the Dickies shame suit after failing to haul in a fly ball close to a clapped-out 1993 Pontiac Sunbird with a head-first shattered windshield in El Junka’s deep right field on Sunday. A quick and quiet obscenity slipped from the lunchpailer’s taco-chipper but that would be it for the tantrums as JB played his role well and helped steel his team to victory.

Lastly there was Monk Dank, AKA Monkey, AKA Mr. Pockets, who cried Nile-deep tallboy rivers all weekend from the collective Galactics beauty as he flood-pushed around YFS stickball earth, while rising the spiritual tides for the entire Brooklyn division. The NW Jersey product broke ribs in the semis on Sunday, and in turn broke the will of Rose City in the finals. Monk’s post injury perseverance and determination to win despite all the excuses in the world to fold worked in snapping off opposing spirit boners also looking to get all up in Nancy B. Wood’s pantsuit.

The Brooklyn Four celebrated with fellow Mothershippers on hallowed El Junka dirt. A field constructed from clapped-out rigs that once freely roamed North American lands, owned by mothers and fathers with brood, teens, and abuelas – some of who no longer with us as not all walked away from these captain-crunched whips. The YFS would like to believe the cars and departed souls who piloted them approved of the YFS sculpture by graciously granting us the spectacle that was El Junka Cateral – A YFS field so wild, blessed, so unexpected, glorious, and pure that sluggers who drank tons, stopped drinking — People who stopped drinking, started drinking — Some believed they were slipped tabs of acid in their coffees, and beef coffees. It was undoubtedly the second greatest field to ever be played in the YFS with only York Field and her glory forever out in front – God rest her sweet ass.

Her taste [York] really moved me like I ate Juicy Fruit…Had me dancing like Chris Penn in Footloose.” – The Mechanic reading from the book of Dennehey – York Field Eulogy, Fall 2021

How 8-Ball, Monkey, Porpoise Cop Meat on a Fart Steak, and JB managed to be the second team in YFS history to successfully duct tape their dicks together and win it all was impressive but for some not overly surprising in the least. The then hushed opinions of YFS experts, and aficionados believed Brooklyn was the chosen to take home the G2 cup way before anybody sized ‘n slapped on those crisp new YFS lids at Ricky’s Bar of Thieves on draw night. The YFS studied cited hard data and countless SRLD metrics which favored Brooklyn leading up, but nobody wanted to hear it as it was perceived as Mothership-fueled kegs of liquid hogwash. 

It’s no secret that Brooklyn is YFS inception and the longest running Chapter, but is also viewed as one of the most coveted, deeply believed, least tolerant, and the lone ranger in following the 38 page YFS Guide & Rule Handbook nuts to toes. Chapters that have formed in Brooklyn’s wake have continued to farmers-market pick rules and ways from the ideology that is the YFS Handbook because they found some ideals to be too difficult to follow or enforce. Departure from any YFS pillar listed in the modern stickball bible may feel like out of the box freedom, but can also create an adverse effect which can spiritually soften a Chapter’s competitive blade, and make falling short nothing to be overly concerned about.

The YFS appreciates and has ever been open to evolutionary amendments, but messing with the basics of the game isn’t anything that should be fingered with if a group wants to get high enough to pluck the sweetest of fruit the YFS has to offer in the Galactics. I’d be like saying “Those pulled-pork nachos you made were out of sight, Well Fed Man!” — and then when you try to replicate them at home, you replace the delicious 6-hour slow-smoked pork with burnt clumps of hair and then get all confused ‘n shit to why you’re not having the same culinary experience.

Brooklyn’s sharp YFS knife exists to protect what you're truly after, which is the bottomless delayed satisfaction of winning. The stubbornness in which these four Champs operated in Mexico was pure YFS Brooklyn and they did it on some of the greatest fields the YFS has ever had the honor to play on. It doesn’t always work out that the one who YFS-fucked around the most wins, but it was right as big rain on hot dusty crops that Brooklyn’s 8-Ball, Monkey, JB and Fart Cop stuck it to everybody and won Galactics II.

“Show me a satisfied loser, and I'll show you a loser”. -Hot Dog’s Dad

Before there was a Rooster in the Dirty South, the Brooklyn Champs, 8, Monkey, Fart Cop, and J. Bomber participated in the butt crack of the dawn games called Roosters where a double-bill first pitches get flipped at 6:05AM. If you haven’t had a crispy tallboy after a few sunrise bombs then you haven’t lived. Some theorize that G2 Champion Jeffrey Bomber honed in that power alley swing out at a Coney Island rooster with Hot Dog, Mechanic and Monk back in the summer of ‘21. The same swing JB packed in the overhead bins on his Spirit Airlines flight 382 bound for Sunny San Diego back in March of this year.

The Brooklyn Chapter and these G2 Champs have also played on over a dozen different YFS endorsed fields, with various dimensions, setups, and even risking B&E felony charges by fence-hopping a condemned negro league landmark stadium by the name of Hinchliffe to postgame raise funds for the eventual rehab. The Galactics II Champs play a Fall Classic with the YFS preferred back-to-back playoff weekends ending with a best-of-5 series for the finals crown. Brooklyn put a player on ice for 5 years who said they were in for a Fall Classic but dipped a week later. And just when you thought they couldn’t get any dumber, Brooklyn rolled out something called The Gauntlet where they set alarms to 4:30 am to see how many games they could play in a single day by use of hand painted glow-in-the-dark tenny-balls complete with diy light-box incubator to grab extra play for the early early morning games as well as the ones beyond the dusk.

They played ten if you were wondering.

But it’s also lawless YFS Stickball America out there with options la dee fucking dah so one can lead a horse to water but can’t always make ‘em sip. So there’s also playing on one field. There’s even playing on one field where the left field wall is 165’. There’s fostering an accommodating culture that allows a Chapter to push their one day finals tournament out 8 weeks because nobody wants to make it a priority. There’s playing once in July, maybe not at all in August. For the most part, you can do whatever you want here as it’s America of the Stickball free. But what you won’t most likely do if you continue to YFS cheat yourself and whittle away at the perfectly outlined YFS game is win at the Galactics. One could get lucky, we sppose, but for the most part you’re going to lose as soon as you set foot in Mexico or wherever this spectacle goes because you’re not hitting the YFS bricks hard enough. Going to Galactics without real YFS preparation is great for vapid dumbphone sharing but bad for true stickball enlightenment, spiritual fulfillment, immortality and winning the greatest one of them all. An achievement that one would authentically feel deep inside which is what the league cares about and wants for you maybe more than you want for yourself.

Many think they have their arms around the YFS and what it all means and think there is a pattern here. But the YFS algorithm never wants to fully understand itself, nor will it dock somewhere long enough to grow barnacles on its undercarriage. To ask an entity to continue surprising itself is difficult for many but the only way to live a modern Stickball life that is ever-exciting, strong enough to truly hold one’s attention, be regarded as special and dare we say magical in a continuing manic world. And on a completely selfish level, to do it right in defense of the wild, uncensored athletic version of you which is ever-at risk becoming routine.

We must only let the games and new dumb ideas go forth lighting the torch to see where it takes us. What beautiful dumpy, unexpected, fields will we find ourselves in when we remain ever curious and stupid. What dumb lovable thing will we uncover when we pay attention to moronic innovation and play. What beautiful passed over idiot will be given a second chance for us to share a dugout with. Here in front of our faces lies the abundance of uncut YFS glory that we need to be mining, and re-planting annually for generations to come.

The YFS yard is where I feel most free in this world. Everything else is a close tie for last. -Sawmill

But enough YFS grandstanding, stickball shaming about how many are only using 23% of their YFS brain – let’s double-clutch the gears and big kibitz about how epic Galactics II was.

How about we open up by blowing some words on YFSLA’s Duble who decided to Go Gack for the first time in maybe the biggest moment of her stickball career during a pig tilt on Pescadore Norte. The girl has straight got it all. HQ is now alt-calling her The Package.

What about Rose City’s cudloveable Honey Hamms who won over the hearts of many with his style, swing, and peekaboo shirts. How are we not making stuffies out of Uncle Dubs and Honey Hamms for us all to hold tight when the thunder gets close? 

Who remembers where they were standing when Rose City’s Trees and Jet City’s Daisy Cutter collided for The Kiss?

How about D$$ Business products Spider and Flapjack going 4-Loco at the Friday nite game on the 35 year old bazaro YFS Rosarito field. And D$$ comrade in Rooster who played his dick off and put on an athletic display and aerobics energy clinic on Pescador Sur earning an additional handle in Stairmaster to Heaven

Rosarito’s El Toro pointing to right and jacking a grand burrito into the cacti out at La Lancha on Saturday after collectively putting in 865 hours of labor and brain to set the whole tournament up. 

Rose City’s heckler-to-baller earner, Daddy, who routinely fed Brooklyn’s Stickball Pops a heaping bowl of dirt dicks on her road to victory.

Then ya got the journeyman, Surgeon, climbing back from knee-cap sick bay in record time to get on the slab and turn in a stellar performance, only come up a fly-ball catch short of advancing into Saturday. 

How about one foot in the cantina, two joints in the mouth shaboy, Jet City’s Seadderall, leading his Jet City blue hairs in B.B. Bacon, D-Bag, Well Fed and the Bopper to a rope-a-dope victory out at La Lancha against another Hot Dog led “shoulda coulda woulda done more” stacked Pig squad. Just an incredible moment for the JC seniors and yet another low moment for Big Talker Betty Crocker® Half-Ring Hot Dog who simultaneously choked but also found his game and spirit in the hills of Mexico.

What about YFS SF deadstock contributor, Hoops Johnson, and Tijuana's Emore who both cherried the hot mic and turned in some Bill Raftery-level performances as G2 announcers. 

National treasure Rose City’s Son of Stickball who was awarded the co-worst player in Galactics Uno opted to go off in this year’s finals against Brooklyn. 

Bywater Bois, Katfish and Carumba hush-stealing a foosball table and creating the losers-only players lounge showing the league how you win after the tournament shows you the exits.

Brooklyn’s Magic Man coming in hot from Mexico City to straight up shine on the Rosarito squad.

That Toro & Joose tango, that TTFB Candyman swing, that YFSLA comedy mouth on The Deal. Yung Flacco, Boogie’s big takes, D. Quixote's quickness, Sugar’s haircut, The Rookie Omar comeback, The Shep ‘n Joose chip show, Big Trip’s Razzle Beard, Broke Stinky talkin’ babies, Heckler spirit animals Lobo and Mamamste, the list is deep and there are many more slugger highlights that didn’t pass in front of these beat writer’s eyes.

“He’s not my son, he’s not your son, he’s our son of stickball” - Daisy Cutter

Parentless Mexican kids formally known as orphans showed up on Friday night and made everybody cry. One little dude threw an all-arms dart that wow’d us all. The YFS G2 collective took part in the simple act of showing up, having fun, eating some tacos, and collectively raising $5305.00 to give these kids potentially a better mattress, maybe a much needed barbed-wire fence, and or maybe a day or days of food and entertainment TBD that they won’t soon forget.

You gotta bring it all back to the basics if we’re to move it forward -Stinkmitt

Lastly we’ll serve you a brimming cup of ink about El Toro, AKA The Rosarito Renaissance, The Casanova of Construction, The Doctor of Do. Toro is the Galactics 5-tool machine that forges the steel that allows outlandish YFS ideas to jump from soft computer-hand-made google slides to actual structures on earth. Many believe Toro is an alien wrapped in a handsome suit as he slept maybe 5 hours the entire weekend but was able to lift the Galactics II up with his shoulders, family, friends, and crew using his negotiation skills, and country to show us some of the greatest fields, and times to ever be imagined in the YFS. We’re all witness to Toro’s corazón, his sinceridad, and even though we throw him kind words, and tips, it’s hard for many of us to do enough to show our thanks to what he’s brought to our lives, sporting lives, and perspectives. 

But we can throw an annual party in his honor.

YFS is announcing its first official holiday – El Toro’s Day, Feb 23rd – the day El Toro barreled down his mama’s repro halls. Host El Toro games and fiestas. Do your best El Toro impressions. 24 hours of El Toro. - Stickball Dad

Behold: The Galactics II scores that mattered:

April 1st, 2022

Brooklyn: Yep
D$$: Nope

April 3rd, 2022

Brooklyn: Yep

Brooklyn: Yep
Rose City: Nope

Hrs: Fart Cop: 24, 8-Ball: 3, Jeffrey Bomber: 3: Monkey: 2

Galactics III is tentatively set for April Fool’s weekend of 2024, but nothing in this YFS life is guaranteed as this isn’t on auto-pilot like a shitty car manufacturer coming out with a new model because the calendar said it had to. Let’s see if the existing YFS Chapters — and potentially new ones — can keep the YFS boners and beans stiff enough to make the universe have no choice but to make Galactics III not a should-happen but a must-happen.

X-tra thanks to Soy Peligroso, Da Surgeon AKA El Chingon, Wanderer, The Deal, Hot Dog The Person Who Can’t Win Championships, Rizz Everywhere, Southern Diamond, Red Menace, and The Local Boy, plus others for working behind the scenes to make all things G2 extra spesh for the attendees.

If a YFS Slugger is seeing the tea leaves here and wants to read or re-read The YFS Guide & Rulebook – no longer for sale on the YFS Shopify site because we got sick of paying those cigarette-pack of dicks $322 a year – HQ will sell you one for $8 + shipping if you email minister@yorkfieldstickball.com with your address and particulars.

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