PATIENT ZERO OF THE AWAKENING

Nothing to see here, just the GOAT, the double-tapered turd in the punch bowl, the site that gave birth to the league as you know it. Home to some of the greatest YFS tilts in history, upon these hallowed grounds the idiot kings of the Mothership sculpted a Dipshit Dynasty for over a dozen years. The County Clerk sneers, “God, what a dump. This prime real estate contained more dog droppings than the entire upper west side of New Jack. Ever-present needles, unpermitted social gatherings, that horrendously imposing wall… Bah! And to think people actually had a fondness for this place. Good riddance to bad rubbish. The only saving grace was that tasteful mural made by what’s-his-name.” As those who made the pilgrimage can attest, this was the promised land of stickball's second chapter, where wide-eyed fools sculpted playground dreams into reality. They saw pestilence; we saw paradise. It may sound hyperbolic to call it life-saving, but that ain’t the half of it. To the lucky few, York Field was a training ground where we learned to unshackle the trappings of the eternal soul.