Disco Queen

1977 World Series
Game 666
Dodgy Fuckers vs. Yankee Dude-les

I'm dying for a baseball fix in the off season. As exciting as the Blue Jays filling their bench with subpar infielders this past week has been (I've already pre-ordered my Alex Gonzalez jersey ... not), sometimes the visceral sensation of a game is required to recharge your baseball senses.

Much like a junkie returning to his old ways after a month away from the hard stuff, I stooped so low as to take a DVD out of the public library of an old-time sizzler Fall Classic. Finding full game downloads on the internet is not so common (if anybody has a link to the full game 6 of the '93 series, I would be ever so indebted to you), so sometimes you just gotta make do with watching the fuckin Yankees win.

Perhaps we'll draw some comparisons between the '77 Yankees and the 2009 Skankees as this rambling turd unfolds, but fear not, any analysis will be completely superficial and ill-informed, as is my want.



So, picture it, New York City in the year of our lord, nineteen hundred and seventy-seven. Richard Hell is at the peak of his creative powers, Abraham D. Beame is in the mayor's office, and the city is crumbling. It probably looked something like this (jump to 4:00):



Billy Martin's Bronx Bombers plow their way to within one win of the Series, anchored by the heavy burger bat of Reggie Jackson, showboat extraordinaire. Billy and Reggie's squabbles had come to a head earlier in the season when Martin had to be restrained from dealing some short man vengeance Reggie's way after he pulled him from a game for lack of hustle.

Tommy Lasorda helms the boys in blue and eggs them on towards a brighter tomorrow. The moustaches of Ron Cey and Davey Lopes are invariably laced with cocaine as they hunker down at VIP tables on the sunset strip.

The pantaloons are so tight, mobility becomes limited. Here, Ron Cey hoofs it home with the stanky leg as he begins to resemble a mannequin in motion.



Game 6 is of course famous for Reggie's power performance. "Hi mom!" mugging aside, what he did here is substantially gnarly. Perhaps it does take an ego the size of Manhattan to go into a pressure cooker situation like this with so much confidence at the plate. You know, him referring to himself in the third person, calling himself "the straw that stirs the drink" in the Yankee organization, and the ineptitude with which he self-promoted himself smacks real similar to what A-Rod could've been without the coaching of one million press relations lessons. But for all the "New Mr. October" accolades that A-Rod got with his "post-season renaissance" this year, I'm sure he would trade em all in a heartbeat for three dingers in the last game of a Series.



Shit gets buck when they close it out. Reggie had just called time to go switch his hat for a helmet as some scummy New Yorkers were throwing firecrackers near him in the outfield. With the last out, he's off like a shot taking fools down like The Fridge on a Sunday. Harsh barge the large Marge and you're off to poison the clubhouse.



Maybe Reggie is just the King of the Nerds. I picture him as a feeble basement dwelling poindexter concocting some kind of suave medicine to get that go-to gumption. Much like the episode of Family Matters where Urkel transforms into Stefan Urkelle, Reggie becomes a muscled freak trotting the bases, knowing that darkness will bring his reversion to his former, lesser self, which might explain why he was in such a hurry to get back to the clubhouse. His puny medecine-free body must never be viewed by the public eye.