#5A# State Finalists. Maple Mtn HS. #StateChampionship# #FreshmanYear# Tournament Stats: 30 ABs | 12 H | 11 RBIs | 7 Runs | 2 3B | 1 2B | 3SB 1.072 OPS State Championship Series Clip 1: RBI Single off TCU commit Clip 2: RBI Single off BYU commit Clip 3: Single off Utah Tech commit Super Regional Round Clip 4: Single off UVU commit @JGoetzBaseball @TripCouch11 @JohnnyD_12 @Sakowski_UVA @SperazaASU @CoachMegahee @RockyTopRoss @str8ched @CoachT_RZRBacks @CoachHutchman26 @MaTaylor24 @jaxonsc @CoachToddButler @Anthonyhansen_

READ: "[BPJ] took wins from more than 470 girls over 1,400 competitions. He stole two regional and one state championship from deserving female athletes. In addition to beating girls in sports, [he] also threatened them with sexual assault in the locker room."

2026 DUDES TRYOUTS ARE OPEN Five dates. Small group format. 5–10 players per slot, because every rep matters and every player deserves real eyes on them. 📅 June 19, 26 + July 3, 10, 17 📍 Hartman Park – Les Dow Field, Redmond WA ⚾ 12U–15U: 6:00 / 6:15 / 6:30 / 6:45 PM ⚾ 16U–18U: 7:00 / 7:15 PM 3 State Championship titles over the last 5 years. Dudes Baseball is loading up for 2026-27. If you're ready to compete, we're ready to see you. 🔗 Scan the QR or hit the link in bio to register 📩 Questions? mcbride@dudesbaseball.club

An American named Greg invited me to watch a football game in his living room. First, he brought me into the garage. Resting on oil-stained concrete behind three weed trimmers stood a massive white refrigerator built during the second Clinton administration. Grab a cold one, Greg said, pointing at the monolith. Kitchen is for women and vegetables. Out here is the treaty zone. I opened the yellowed plastic door. A blast of Freon and ancient frost rolled across my ankles. Inside sat forty cans of light beer, sixteen blue sports drinks, and an entire door shelf crammed with crusty condiment bottles from diners that had closed in 2004. I was overwhelmed by the generosity of this communal treasury. In my culture, when you are granted access to a lord's granary, you do not simply consume. You restore balance. You leave the estate cleaner than the ancestors kept it. While Greg was inside arguing with his brother about pass interference, I acted. I fetched a trash bag and a bottle of multi-surface spray. I eliminated eight half-empty jars of dried barbecue sauce. I scraped off three years of black frost with a flathead screwdriver. I aligned the beer cans by color and height. And right in the center shelf, where the lightbulb shone like a holy relic, I placed two bottles of premium Japanese unsweetened green tea. It was immaculate. It was a Zen rock garden of refrigerated beverages. Greg returned holding a bag of tortilla chips. He opened the garage fridge. The color drained from his face. His jaw went slack. The bag of chips slipped from his fingers and exploded across the concrete. Where is the bottle, Greg whispered. I bowed proudly. I have purged the ancient rot, my friend. The shelves are cleansed. The square glass bottle, Greg gasped, gripping my collar with both hands. It had a green label with the corner torn off. It was half full of Louisiana hot sauce. I pointed to the black trash can at the curb. Greg dropped to his knees like a warrior whose kingdom had been put to the torch. That was the sauce from the 1999 state championship tailgate, Greg wheezed, his voice breaking. My cousin Dale stole it from the coach. We only put one drop on our hot dogs on homecoming weekend. I realized I had committed high treason. For forty-five minutes, under the cold light of the streetlamp, a Japanese samurai and an Ohio claims adjuster dove headfirst into three bags of lawn clippings, greasy paper towels, and empty bean dip cans. At eight-fifteen, my fingers struck sticky glass beneath a layer of damp leaves. I raised the bottle toward the moon. Behold, I shouted. The sauce of 1999 survives. Greg wept. He wiped off the mold with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, unscrewed the cap, and placed a single red molecule onto my tongue with the tip of his thumb. The vinegar and cayenne pepper burned through my esophagus with the fury of a thousand solar flares. My vision blurred. My ancestors spun in their graves. Good stuff, right? Greg grinned, his face streaked with coffee grounds. We carried the sticky bottle back to the garage, placed it reverently between the two green teas, and drank twelve cans of beer sitting on upside-down five-gallon paint buckets. The treaty holds. The sauce remains sacred. I am never touching that door again.