America: Fuck Yeah!

No, that's not an internment camp, that's the Korean dugout during the sixth inning of their 2-1 loss to mighty America. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! The Korean team hasn't looked that sad since they found out there's no actual dogs in hot dogs.

No, that’s not an internment camp, that’s the Korean dugout during the sixth inning of their 2-1 loss to mighty America. The Korean team hasn’t looked that sad since they found out there’s no actual dog in hot dogs.

 

Not since George Washington landed on the moon have I been more proud to be an American than when the good ol’ U.S.-of-A finally rid the globe of the Yellow Menace, and brought home the whatever-the-fuck-trophy as the greatest Little League team on the planet.  So what spot on the map gets the credit?  Does it really matter?  I like to think of the champions as hailing from Anytown, USA.  Or at least not some cocksucker factory like New York…

Anyway, when the Enola Gay was dropping sweet victory from the skies on those filthy Japs seventy years ago, little did we know what terrible consequences such amusing incidents would have.  Twenty years later, when they stopped glowing, the children of those fluorescent fathers would exact revenge with the first ever slant-eyed title in 1967.  From then til now, it’s been nothing but Japs, chinks, and yes, even the occasional kink (Korean chink) dominating the tiniest baseball diamonds around the globe, and just like they’re population, there’s no signs of them stopping.  In fact, rice-munchers had won all but one LLWS so far this decade.

Thankfully, now that’s all changed following a narrow 2-1 American victory, which will subsequently force the entire Korean team to commit harikari, as their noble tradition demands.

But besides xenophobia, the main thing the LLWS should be remembered for is the special moments.  My personal favorite was when I wisely forshadowed a win based on diet alone.  Early in the tournament, I remember some snot-nosed American kid on some team coming up to the plate for a crucial at-bat, and they showed a graphic on the screen that said his favorite food was chicken tenders.  I could barely get the words, “Smart kid.  Bet he hits a home run right here,” out of my mouth, when sure enough, the little fucker smacked the game-winning hit into right field.  Truly the breakfast of champions.

Aside from my Jimmy the Greek-esque instincts and racism—and of course the American victory—I’ll mainly remember this year’s tournament for the endless dramatic coaching conferences at the mound with wide-eyed, shaky youngsters.  It’s laughably phony though how every single coach is so calm and benevolent.  They always seem to take a soothing tone during tough conversations with their struggling pitchers on the mound, like they’re applying verbal balm.  Gee, I wonder if it’s because they know they’re mic’d up and on national TV, because that certainly isn’t how I remember the red-faced coaches screaming themselves hoarse when I played Little League.  Either way, just once when a scrawny little kid gives up a crucial late-inning home run, I’d love to see a coach go all Bobby Knight on him:

“You fuckin little piece of shit!  You’re ruining everything!  Your parents hate you!  America hates you!!”

Now that’s a pep-talk.

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