MITCH BEATEN: DEALERS COME BACK AGAINST BEERS, ALLAY FEARS OF WINLESS YEAR, ENJOY JORDAN'S TEARS

RECAP: Saturday brought a showcase of genial futility to Potrero Hill Rec Center, as the addled 0-4 Oakland Beers met the rattled 0-4 Mission Street Dealers in a battle to see who would be saddled with the title of "2014 Daly City Brians." Our squad was somewhat anemic, as Mark, Crizzle and Toes were off getting drunk somewhere scenic, although I won't be too hard on those bros, lest this blog entry devolve into polemic. Jimmy McConnell, New Romantic crooner with talent to burn, took the mound against his former team and Jameson Kern, a punky guy who throws wobbly pitches that just sort of die. Throughout the first five it was a seesaw affair, the lead changing hands while lice frolicked in my hair, the Dealers scoring once and the Beers scoring twice while the lice laid eggs that looked like small grains of rice. The Beers took a lead of siete to seis, and I daydreamed of punching Stonehouse in the face, though my resentment did prove to be quite premature, when the Beers tacked on seven-it was hard to endure. 14 to 6 the Mission boys trailed, and it looked like the Dealers would once again fail, when our hitters decided to put up a fight, in a rousing display that made my pants tight. Spoon doubled, Mick singled, I got hit in the shoulder; John singled, Abe walked, we all got older. Jimmy got a hit, and Rob strode to the plate; a single soon followed for the man called "F8." Spoon got on again and I came up with 'em loaded: I lined out to center and my liver exploded. The inning was over but the Dealers had life; Jesse pitched well, did you know he's my wife? In the bottom of the 8th, we made another ruckus; their closer came in, ready to fuckus. Bases loaded, down three, Mitch Eaton and me; I respectfully filled my jockstrap with pee. I swung with great effort and sent the ball soaring; four feet down the line, because baseball is boring. The dribbler worked out, and after Mickey FC'd, Eric Rosen came up like Judas of Galilee. He went down 1-2 and then smashed one dead center: into Chad's glove the ball seemed to enter. But then it popped out, and the bases were cleared; big hits against Eaton are shocking and weird. Into the 9th, the drama still thick: runners on the corners, a batter with no dick. Kristina lined her first pitch to the gap; J.P. dove and caught it then took a quick nap. Charlie came up as Oakland's last hope; he fouled out to first and the Dealers were stoked. Victory at last, for the blue and the gold: mighty and brave, alcoholic and old.

JORG HAIDER DRIVE OF THE GAME: This blast was described in the verses above, and it could only be Rosen, from New York with love. Swings like DiMaggio, heart strong and true; what can I say, I love that big jew.

GREGOR BLANCO PLAY OF THE GAME: John P. Segura, plucky and spry; playing center field, don't ask me why. Melendez's liner made us all hold our breath; John hustled over, high on crystal meth. He dove and he caught it and he leapt to his feet; the runner on third beat a hasty retreat. I salute our captain with this purple ode: did you know he lost his virginity to Depeche Mode?

MARK MOSS OF THE GAME: For this award, the criteria's vague; it began as a joke and now it's a plague. Jesse and Mickey can share it this day: they hit and they fielded and Mark was away.

QUOTE OF THE GAME: that tortured noise Will Cornyn made when I showed him my belly; he acted disgusted but I think he's just jelly

SPOON: FIVE FREAKIN HITS just cum on my tits


ANTHEM OF THE GAME: 

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