Attention Players:
We will post the Playoff Schedule very soon, but know that it starts Sunday, September 11th. You'll have plenty of notice about when to show up.
Furthermore, to build up the Playoff Heat, here comes da Big Dance:
We will post the Playoff Schedule very soon, but know that it starts Sunday, September 11th. You'll have plenty of notice about when to show up.
Furthermore, to build up the Playoff Heat, here comes da Big Dance:
Thanks to Smitty, for the flyer.
Sheri flaked last night, so I had to unexpectadly run the table. This was fine with me because I had suffered a leg (re)injury at practice on Saturday afternoon with the Pink Corvettes. I don't know how Sheri puts up with all of your complaining every week. I really didn't know some of you guys acted that bratty.
Daggers, Shockamania, Pink Corvettes, Pirates, Sugartits, Orphans, Otters, The Young Ones, The Idealistic Young Jews, Orange Sleeves, Tigers. Eleven teams. Only four can play at once. Once your game is over, I understand that you are amped to play another game, but I'm sorry if I can't schedule you in to play again immediatley. Coming back every ten minutes to ask me about it does not play in your favor. If your team loses, you get deflected to the red monster. If I have to move your team around the board, having to wait another fifteen minutes isn't going to kill you. And I will gladly explain why I had to do it as long as you don't flip out on me. First come, first serve.
Having four teams bitch at me at once is not awesome. Especially while you are stuffing your face with my cupcakes. That's cold. If you give me sass, I'll give it to you right back. That goes for when I ump as well. But being nice... well that goes a long way in my book.
Also, there are certain teams that are not paying the full $30... This does not bode well with me.
I'm taking over the league next year... Be prepared.
-Chewy aka Pokey's Mom.
Daggers, Shockamania, Pink Corvettes, Pirates, Sugartits, Orphans, Otters, The Young Ones, The Idealistic Young Jews, Orange Sleeves, Tigers. Eleven teams. Only four can play at once. Once your game is over, I understand that you are amped to play another game, but I'm sorry if I can't schedule you in to play again immediatley. Coming back every ten minutes to ask me about it does not play in your favor. If your team loses, you get deflected to the red monster. If I have to move your team around the board, having to wait another fifteen minutes isn't going to kill you. And I will gladly explain why I had to do it as long as you don't flip out on me. First come, first serve.
Having four teams bitch at me at once is not awesome. Especially while you are stuffing your face with my cupcakes. That's cold. If you give me sass, I'll give it to you right back. That goes for when I ump as well. But being nice... well that goes a long way in my book.
Also, there are certain teams that are not paying the full $30... This does not bode well with me.
I'm taking over the league next year... Be prepared.
-Chewy aka Pokey's Mom.
I have been working very hard on this crappy website, and i do intend on making it perfect just in time for the end of the season.
First, the 2005 iteration of the players page is up. Please give me any info about yourself so we can mix it into your page. Do u have a particular website you want it linked to? Or, do u have any phony stats you wanna brag on? Give it to me, and I'll put it in there.
Second, i redid the multimedia page to properly chronicle all that's ever happened in Brooklyn Kickball, from Red Hook to McCarren. It's actually not 100% done, but I'll finish it in a day or so. But you can peruse all the videos from BAM and Ruthless, all of Deann's pictures, and read Jens's old blog and download the roster sheet and umpire's shits. All of the 2004 Orphans' gallery shots are coming back very soon.....
again, enjoy
The Greatest Kickball Games Ever Played, August 14, 2005
Ya can't plan the best Kickball night ever, ya need a little help from the Heavens. Last night, I did worry about our consecutive Sunday Streak ending, but last night's players refused to let it die.
When I arrived at McCarren, there were some big challenges to Kickball staring properly. First, Pedro Martinez was 7 innings into a no-hitter out in L.A., so any New York Sports fan definitely had to see if he would do it. He didn't, and then he even lost the game. After I saw Pedro give up the double in the 8th, I went into the kitchen at the Nest, and starting bringing our stuff to the field.
Already, McCarren was in the worst condition I've ever seen it. Though no longer raining, the pathway behind home plate's fence was so flooded that it became an impromptu baby-pool. The Main Field had puddles everywhere, and the Red Monster area was useless. Fortunately, many of the usual reliable players were there, such as Sportz and Ben Alexander and their Burninator crew, Randall and Nicole represented the Dags, Nipple wouldn't stay away if he knew vampires would force feed him booze and human steaks, Lance and LeeVan filled out the Pirates squad, and my darling Sleeves, Sarah and Rebecca, were there on time, with Bill soon behind, all warming up my heart. But I would be remiss to not mention the two newest teams, the Otters and the Sugartits, came in full-force.
Quickly, I jogged to the Red Monster to borrow equipment in order to make the field playable. Everyone helped digging dirt and filling in home-plate's puddle, and as the sky became very ominous yet again, we started the first game. Basically, it was the Otters versus a hodge podge of Daggers and Burninators, plus me. More people showed up, including my teamies Ben White and Jesse Sullivan, and it looked like we could play a second game if the storm would just keep whirling around us, and allow us to play in its theatre of nearby thunderbolts. The lights would be coming on soon, after all.
No fucking way. Sportz and I were rolling a smoke in my car, and that's when Mother Nature showed no mercy. I take this shit personally, as I thought I had sated my god with various supplications, from biking in rainy weather to my cat dying. I wasn't worthy enough because Sunday featured the worst Summer storm I can ever remember. Thunder! Lightning! Wave after torrential wave of wrath rained down upon poor McCarren. As we drank inside the Nest, Nipple and Sports were lobbying to go back out and play. What's the worst that could happen? Well, electrocution could potentially end the league, but the the field's light poles make excellent lightning rods, and, the lighting seemed to be going farther and farther away.
I needed help from Scott, our affable and clever bartender. I asked him to offer Kickball some alcoholic incentives to all willing to play in a monsoon, and I had my bottle of Jack all nestled in my car. To anyone worried about pneumonia, sweet, sweet whiskey would prevent that.
The Otters needed some cajoling but they were game, and with Nicole's cartwheeling leading the way, we ventured back to the field and played so many awesome games. Some soccer players straggled on. At first it was pouring, with cool little streams floating down the base lines. With the temperature being over 80, we had a natural water park, perfect and essential for this time of year. Shit, yesterday i wanted to go buy some Slip 'N' Slides. But then, the rain stopped, and we just had to deal with a muddy, wet field. Everyone was doing their best slide into home (except for me, as I've got nothing to prove); the cockiest move was when Nicky strutted towards home, waited for the ball to come back infield, and then cartwheeled her final step onto the plate. She must have done 80 thousand cartwheels, but only averaged about a six outta 10 on style points. I hate that girl for calling me a perv all the time.
Let me take a side-bar here. Yes, on the surface, I am the biggest perv on Sundays. I tell girls and guys alike how much i like them, and would sucky-fuck them long time. Last night for instance, I did a dance and hooted and hollered when Sarah and Rebaecca showered at the water fountain. They got all skeezed out, but i was trying to be funny, and hopefully they'll wake up and realize I'm just a drunken aqua-lunatic. I could front and say it's *all* shtick, but there is always some truth behind a consistent pattern of behavior. Yes, i do fall in love at least once a week, and some of you know I would sign that prenup right now, given the chance. Fuck the club scene, there is not a more accommodating venue for freedom than Kickball. I try to shimmy up to the line of propriety, but not cross it, which is usually a matter of how funny you can be. When you're not funny, then you're just a sleaze. Sometimes, like every other wannabe funnyman, my jokes go flat, so i get stigmatized. But, i refuse to believe that no matter how many irreverent jokes i make, I am not sincere, true-hearted, and funny most of the time.
We played a billion games, and I don't remember who won what. I do remember Rebecca impressively catching a very fast line-drive at third, and Lance catching nothing. I also remember the glow in everyone's eyes before the lights shuting off prematurely at 10:40. (Damn it, there's always a glitch with the lights' timer.) At that point, at least 23 people were still there, and Nipple wanted to play in the dark. We re-adjourned back to the Nest, soaked but elated, gulping down our free victory beverage. People were loaded, and rolling more Js. After doing push-ups with Leevan and some random cute woman in the middle of the bar, the kickballers seemed to just disappear into nowhere. I passed out under the front awning.
To all the participants in the greatest games ever played, I thank you sooo deeply. Not only did the streak not end, but our collective spirit turned a foreboding night into the best fun imaginable. This drunken lunatic will never forget it, and I hoped I've forged friendships for life.
Let's go back to late June, 1994. I was 24, and was (and still am) the biggest Knicks fan ever. The 'Bockers never made the Finals during my memory, and the Rangers were contending for the Stanley Cup as well. Knicks and Rangers games alternated every night during the playoffs, culminating in a beautiful fortnight's worth of championship drama.
At the same time, as we all know, OJ killed his wife and her boyfriend. I can't remember a more surreal time in New York sports history. I was already sick of the media's lack of priorities, with their covering the Tanya Harding story with far more vigor than, say, genocide in the Congo. Now, the network sleazes had their big baby, their big excuse - one they would milk for years and years. Geraldo probably still talks about OJ.
So now, here we are, the day of Game 5. Game Fives are pivotal in any 7-game series, and I was very nervous for the Knicks. Anyone remembering their series against the Rockets knows it was as tight as any could be. Ewing started off the series poorly, but his D held Olajuwon in check, and John Starks, was well, John Starks. He could light them up for 20 points in 5 minutes, or just go completely cold. But Starks and Ewing were the reasons the Knicks made the Finals, and so it was live or die by those two, and fuck it, being a Knicks fan felt really cool. Charles Oakley and Anthony Mason were bad-ass too. This core Knickerbookcer team was one of the coolest in history.
But, at around 5 o'clock eastern time, LA's District Attorney announced that OJ was at large and put an APB out on him. Juice's first attorney, Robert Shapiro, then goes on TV, pleading with OJ to turn himself in. I thought fuck, somehow this circus will preempt the Knicks game! Should they call it off if NBC will interrupt it?
Y'all know the rest. I don't remember how they found OJ in the back of that infamous Bronco, but everyone covered it. Why every single station felt the need to show the same stupid, 3 mile-an-hour chase, i don't know. One could argue that NBC should keep the NBA Finals on as a good alternative. Yet, Tom Brokaw was annoyingly arrogant, informing the basketball fans of the score ("if we still cared") while airing the Bronco from the chopper's camera.
I was not alone in my outrage. A die-hard Knicks fan decided to teach the networks a lesson in what is newsworthy, and after trying but failing to sabotage NBC's coverage, he surreptitiously navigated ABC's phone system, and got through to Peter Jennings, live. (i don't know who this genius pranska was, but if u read Howard Stern's book, Private Parts, you'll prolly find out)
Anyway, here's the greatest phony phone call ever. To his credit, Peter Jennings handled it like a champ. So for that moment, here's to you, Mista Jenninns!
At the same time, as we all know, OJ killed his wife and her boyfriend. I can't remember a more surreal time in New York sports history. I was already sick of the media's lack of priorities, with their covering the Tanya Harding story with far more vigor than, say, genocide in the Congo. Now, the network sleazes had their big baby, their big excuse - one they would milk for years and years. Geraldo probably still talks about OJ.
So now, here we are, the day of Game 5. Game Fives are pivotal in any 7-game series, and I was very nervous for the Knicks. Anyone remembering their series against the Rockets knows it was as tight as any could be. Ewing started off the series poorly, but his D held Olajuwon in check, and John Starks, was well, John Starks. He could light them up for 20 points in 5 minutes, or just go completely cold. But Starks and Ewing were the reasons the Knicks made the Finals, and so it was live or die by those two, and fuck it, being a Knicks fan felt really cool. Charles Oakley and Anthony Mason were bad-ass too. This core Knickerbookcer team was one of the coolest in history.
But, at around 5 o'clock eastern time, LA's District Attorney announced that OJ was at large and put an APB out on him. Juice's first attorney, Robert Shapiro, then goes on TV, pleading with OJ to turn himself in. I thought fuck, somehow this circus will preempt the Knicks game! Should they call it off if NBC will interrupt it?
Y'all know the rest. I don't remember how they found OJ in the back of that infamous Bronco, but everyone covered it. Why every single station felt the need to show the same stupid, 3 mile-an-hour chase, i don't know. One could argue that NBC should keep the NBA Finals on as a good alternative. Yet, Tom Brokaw was annoyingly arrogant, informing the basketball fans of the score ("if we still cared") while airing the Bronco from the chopper's camera.
I was not alone in my outrage. A die-hard Knicks fan decided to teach the networks a lesson in what is newsworthy, and after trying but failing to sabotage NBC's coverage, he surreptitiously navigated ABC's phone system, and got through to Peter Jennings, live. (i don't know who this genius pranska was, but if u read Howard Stern's book, Private Parts, you'll prolly find out)
Anyway, here's the greatest phony phone call ever. To his credit, Peter Jennings handled it like a champ. So for that moment, here's to you, Mista Jenninns!
Many cities have shown interest in playing in our 3rd annual tournament. What is the format? Well, that depends on the amount of teams. What we know for sure that this will be a rocking day, with many musical performances representing many genres. We also know there is no cost. Furthermore, we ask all Brooklyn players to help out and let our travlin' guests stay at their place:
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