Josh Q. Public: You made me cry when you said good-bye. Ain’t that a shame, my tears fall like rain. Ain’t that a shame, you’re the one to blame. -Fats Domino
Public Service Announcement: OK, here we go! I wasn’t gonna write this week-end. I was just gonna sit tight this week-end. But then, then they turned out the light this week-end. Turned the light out on Johnny Pesky. Like my main Popeye always says: “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!” I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore. It is a travesty. It’s a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham. Red Sox manager Tito Francona said the team was told by the 
commissioner’s officer it will enforce the rule that limits uniformed personnel in the dugout to players, managers, and six coaches. Tito, get me a tissue. Jermaine, stop teasing. This is truly a sad day in baseball. Pesky is a Boston Red Sox institution. Just like the USS Constitution. This is a writ of execution. There must be another solution. The 87-year-old Pesky has been with the ball club for 57 years as a player, coach and manager. He lives baseball. He breathes baseball. He bleeds baseball. Bleeds Red Sox baseball. 
No soup for you Johnny! Go fuck yourself. Take your Pesky pole and shove it straight up your ass. That takes some brass. That shows absolutely no class. Tougher for me to figure out than the law of conservation of mass. How do you do that to guy who gave his life to this game? Did it without shame. Gave the foul pole a name. This is what he gets? Sixty plus years in the bigs and this is it? Mr. Red Sox? Pesky has spent more time in a Red Sox uniform than anyone else, alive or dead. He hits fungoes in Spring Training. He is a mentor to young players. I 
am still brought to tears when I watch the replay of Johnny, sitting in the clubhouse, watching Keith Foulke stab a grounder from Edgar Renteria, and underhand it to Doug Mientkiewicz. He waited for that as long as anybody. I am still brought to tears when I watch the replay of Wake and Schill pouring a beer over his head and kissing him after the Sox finally won it. They daggone done it. I am still brought to tears when I hear Major League Baseball is forcing him out of the dugout. Bud Selig should be ashamed of himself.
This post brought to you by the Window Boys. JB Sash & Door Co.
Public Spectacle:
Peace out homies. Six Two and Even!
Make mincemeat out of ‘em. They’ll tear those mieces to pieces. 
Josh Boom Boom Becket: First off, I just love the way Boom Boom goes out there and pitches his heart out. Like a Hanson brother on crack. No turning back. Always on the attack. Last year he was the cat who could not get his off speed pitches over the plate to save his life. Or his wife. It cut like a butter knife. So he just came back with the cheese. See ya! Connectamundo! Bye-bye baseball. My, how times have changed! Now he has total command. Commander McBragg. Commander McHale. In his last outing, Boom Boom pitched seven innings. Allowed one unearned run. Gave up three paltry hits. Struck out seven. Ring’em up. Sit ’em down. This guy had just one walk in eighteen and 2/3 innings over five starts before Sunday. His final totals: twenty-nine Ks and four walks in twenty-five and 2/3 innings. Yowza! He’s hitting 95-96 on the Juggs. Good night Irene. Last year but a dream. This year, he’s strawberry ice cream. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!
on saying it. Gy-ro-myte! D-Nice. My man. A bulldog. A burudoggu. Orel Hershiser style. Ichiban. Man of a thousand pitches. Got to know how to pony. Like Bony Maronie. Mash potata, do the alligator. Put your hand on your hips, yeah. Let your backbone slip. Just pitched five innings of no-hit baseball. No no Nanette. He’s got Jeff Ruland/Rick Mahorn stuff. You remember. McFilthy and McNasty. Johnny Most style. His fastball topped out over 100mph at the Athens Olympics. He’s not afraid to throw that cheese inside either. I’m looking at you A-Broad. The best slider in baseball today. A knee buckling, mind bending, world beating pitch sure to amaze and mystify. Put those pitches together with a Peteylike change and the demon gyroball, you get half man half incredible. We needed a guy with experience and stamina. Well, that’s what we got. His talent and work ethic are unmatched. From Sawamura Award to Cy Young Award, D-Mat will deliver. ”I’ve watched him on video,” said Phillies manager Charlie Manuel, “and with his stuff, he could win 25 games in our league.” You hear that sports fans? Huh, did you? He’s delightful, he’s delicious, he’s delectable, he’s delirious, he’s de limit, he’s deluxe, he’s de-lovely, he’s D-Nice although he hates to admit it, he’s taking out you suckers and you don’t know how he did it.
Baseball. I worship at its altar. The sights. The sounds. The smells. The humanity. I’ve got one…two…three…four…five senses working overtime. The scent of bubblegum still there on my Ozzie Smith rookie card. The sight of the emerald green field after coming off the grey city streets. City sidewalks, busy sidewalks. Busy sidewalks filled with the aroma of sausages and hot dogs. Ballpark franks. They plump when you cook ‘em. Fenway Franks. Foot-longs slathered in Bertman’s Ballpark Mustard. Wisconsin Brats. Atomic Dogs. Dodger Dogs. Aqua Sox Dogs. Texas Dogs Yankee Dogs. Georgia Dogs. Here a dog there a dog, everywhere a dog dog. The Hit Dog. The O-Dog. The O-Dog. Making Web Gem after Web Gem. Do a little dance. Make a little glove. Get down tonight. Baseball Tonight. Peter Gammons. The Commissioner. The best baseball man alive today. Baseball is my two favorite words in the English language: Papi’s up! Aye, Papi, I did not know you could do it like that. It’s the feel of peanut shells 
beneath my feet. It can’t be beat. Ain’t it sweet? I too believe in the sweet spot. It’s not the size of the stick, it’s all about hittin’ the sweet spot! Manny being Manny. A-Broad, Jeter and those damn Yankees. The smell of spilled beer. Sitting on rowboat. Rod and reel in hand. Cold Bud in a can. I love you the man. Listening to your team on the radio. Do you remember rock’n'roll radio? Do you remember lying in bed, with your covers pulled up over your head? Radio playin’ so no one can see. Listening to Vin Scully: “Forget it!” Listening to the Hawk: “You can put it on the boaaard! Yesss!” Listening to John Sterling: “Swung on and there it goes! That ball is high! It is far! It is……..gone!” Listening to Russ Hodges: “Bye bye baby!” Listening to Jerry Trupiano: “…swing and there it goes….light tower power! 
Damon dirty. Aaron Rowand dirty. Brian Roberts dirty. Jack Wilson dirty. Take me out to see them bring it. See them sing it. See them zing it. To see Johann Santana bring it. To see Roy Halliday bring it. I’ll be you’re huckleberry. To see D-Nice bring it. Gy-ro-myte! To see Joel Zumaya bring it. Behold the power of cheese. I love the double switch. I love the DH. I love watching Hip Hip Jorge nailing the runner at second. I love watching Jason Varitek call a game. I love doing my fantasy draft. Fantasy baseball chess to Fantasy Football checkers. I love the in the park homerun. The Big Uncle Charlie. Craig Counsell’s batting stance. Nomah’s fidgets. Tim Wakefield’s knuckleball. The umpire dusting off home plate. The Green Monster. King 
Felix. Prince Fielder. Chone Figgins playing every position known to man. Tony LaRussa’s gameplan. I’m a huge baseball fan. Is Justin Upton that good? Is Alex Gordon? Is Elijah Dukes? Will Pedro come back. Will Sluggin’ Sammy? Who will the Rocket come back with? Barry freakin’ Bonds. Phat Albert Winnie the Pujols. Alfonso Soriano. We love it all. From here to Nepal. From there to the Great China Wall. From the big to the small. Play ball!
heavyweight championship belts are in the possession of boxers from former Soviet republics. Well the Ukraine girls may really knock me out. They may leave the west behind. And Moscow girls may make me sing and shout, but the great American heavyweight is always on my my my my my my my my my mind. The Russians have far too many constanants for my tastes. Wladimir Klitschko. Nicolay Valuev. Sergei Liakhovich. Oleg Maskaev. What a disgrace. I consider it a challenge before the whole human race. And I ain’t gonna lose. We are the champions my friends! Ah, the champions. I wonder, yes I wah-wah-wah-wah-wonder, where have all the great heavyweight fighters of my lifetime gone? Whatever happened to the guys who ate lightning? Whatever happened to the guys who crapped thunder? So here it is. Here is my small tribute to the greatest heavyweight fighter and the greatest heavyweight fight I ever saw:
giddyup we knew we were witnessing greatness. Heavyweightness. From here to the Golden Stateness. In the fourth round Ali busted Frazier’s mouth open. Busted it wide open. Frazier just kept on a coming. The fight became ferocious, furious, vicious, merciless. In the sixth round, Frazier threw a left hook that Angelo Dundee says was the hardest shot he had ever seen. The hardest there’s ever been. I couldn’t believe my TV screen. It landed on Ali’s jaw, and spun his head clear around. Regan MacNeil style. Somehow, Ali ate the shot and said to Frazier: “They told me Joe Frazier was washed up.” The fight began to turn Frazier’s way. It was becoming his day. He began to put on a display. His 
body shots drove into Ali’s kidneys, ribs and liver. Body blow! Body blow! Body blow! Go for the ribs, don’t let that bastard breathe! They seemed to suck the life out of Ali. “Damn!” Frazier said to his corner after the bell, “What’s keeping that motherfuckin fool up?” But in rounds twelve and thirteen, Ali delivers forty-three punches to Frazier’s head. Dawn of the Dead. I am the greatest he said. Down does not go Frazier! You never got me down, Ray. Ya hear me? Never got me down. More of the same in fourteen. Smokin’ Joe wobbles but he don’t fall down. After round fourteen, Frazier’s face is one huge lump. One huge bump. One huge clump. His left eye completely shut. He ain’t pretty no more. When the round ended, the referee had to guide Joe back to his corner because he could not see where he was. Frazier’s trainer Eddie Futch: ”Sit down, son, it’s over. But no one will ever forget what you did here today.” No they won’t Eddie, no they won’t. Frazier: “Man, I hit him with punches that’d bring down the walls of a city. Lawdy, lawdy, he’s a great champion.” Yes he was Joe, yes he was. Ali: “It was the closest thing to death that I could feel.” Tonight, we have had the privilege of witnessing the greatest exhibition of guts and stamina in the history of the ring! Ali fought some more. Won some more. But was never the same. That fight proved to me, he truly was the Greatest.
Bulldogs have high hopes. No one can make this ram scram. Couldn’t make ‘em scram from the Pre-Season NIT. In the pre-season NIT, the Bulldogs high hoped Notre Dame. They high hoped Indiana. They high hoped Tennessee and Gonzaga. High hoped themselves all the way to the championship. This team has beaten Purdue in the regular season. They made their way into the top ten and have been ranked among the nation’s top twenty teams since November. Beat number four seed Maryland in the tournament. Moving rubber tree plants left and right. These guys are outta sight. They face the biggest of rubber tree plants tonight.
gonna have to shoot the lights again tonight against the Gators if Butler wants to take this thing. If they really want that brass ring. If they really wanna be all that and a chicken wing. I’ve seen you guys can shoot but there’s more to the game than shooting. There’s fundamentals and defense. Welcome to Indiana Basketball. Butler Bulldog basketball. Disciplined basketball. Mike Green is disciplined. He has high hopes. High apple pie in the 
sky hopes. He was disciplined enough to take the Horizon League’s Newcomer of the Year Award. Disciplined enough to finish as the team’s leading rebounder. As a six foot guard. Disciplined enough to finish as the team’s second-leading scorer. Second team All-League. Playing relentless defense. Dogged defense. Bull Dogged defense. Played Bull Dogged defense against ODU. His Bull Dogged defense along with Graves’ shooting, just shut down the vaunted ODU offense. Shut ‘em down, shut ‘em, shut ‘em down. Public Enemy style. Brandon Crone has high hopes. He’s not feelin’ bad. He’s not feelin’ sad. He’s a Two-time All-State baller 
from Indiana’s own Frankfort High. Get the papers, get the papers. He set school records for career scoring and rebounding. He was MVP. of the state AAU tournament, which his team won. He was voted Butler’s captain as a sophomore. He had a 27-point outburst in a game against Ohio State last season. But what this guy does. What this guy does all the time is: Go out and get his ten to fifteen points a game. Go out and get his four to seven boards. Play Bull Dogged defense. Play Butler Bull Dogged defense. For Butler to win tonight, they’re going to have to continue that Bull 
Dogged defense. They’re going to have to continue to hit the threes. The magic number. Don’t forget, Butler set a Horizon League record by making 314 from beyond the arc. They scored thirty-six of their sixty-two points on Downtown Freddie Browns against the Terps. So they can do this. Like they always knew this. They’re playing the defending National Champions tonight. They’re playing the number one seed in the NCAA Tournament tonight. But, all those problems just a toy balloon. They’ll be bursted soon. They’re just bound to go pop. Oops there goes another problem kerplop. Butler Bulldogs Basketball, ladies and gentlemen. Butler Bulldogs basketball.
Josh Hamilton: Athens Drive High School. Raleigh, North Carolina. Phenom. Phenomenal. High School All-American. Two-time winner of the North Carolina Gatorade High School Player of the Year Award. USA Baseball’s Amateur Player of the Year. Baseball America High School Player of the Year. All that and a bag of sunflower seeds. The kid had it all. Standing tall. The most 
twenty-six dollars in his hand. Lost three years up to Lexington, 1-2-5. Lost three years feeling sick and dirty, more dead than alive. Lost three years waiting for his man. But like Jack Torrance, he’s baaack. Back and as good as ever. Back with the Cincinnati Reds. Back with a vengeance. Back into spring training batting .476 (20-42). He has launched a 500-foot bomb. By April 1, he should be the Reds starting centerfielder. Pushing Junior to right. Look at me, I can be, centerfield. Teammate Ryan Freel: “He’s a great story.” He certainly is Ryan, he certainly is.
Jon Lester: Bellarmine Preparatory School. Tacoma, Washington. Another Phenom. Another Phenomenal. Another Gatorade State Player of the Year. Tore up the minor leagues. Portland Sea Dogs. League-leading 2.61 ERA. League-best 163 strikeouts. Eastern League Pitcher of the Year. Red Sox Minor League Pitcher of the Year. Left-handed pitcher on the Eastern League’s year-end All-Star team. Year-end Topps AA All-Star squad. On top of the world looking down on creation. Best young pitcher in the nation. More fun than 101 Dalmatians. The rookie lefty made his Major League debut in June. The rookie lefty went 7-2. The rookie lefty threw sixty Ks 
in eighty innings. The rookie lefty contracted the cancer. On August 27th, 2006 Lester was scratched from his scheduled start due to a sore back. The following day he was placed on the 15 day disabled list. Three days later, it was reported that Lester had been diagnosed with a treatable form of anaplastic large cell lymphoma. There it was. There was a kind of hush all over the world. A deafening hush. Made my insides turn to mush. Another dream crushed. But this kid’s a fighter. He fights. He fought off the 
cancer. And just like Josh Hamilton, who just like Jack Torrance, is baaaack! On March 5, Lester made his first appearance in a 2007 spring training game. He threw 8 pitches and retired the 3 batters he faced. Good news. Real good news. Oh my baby’s comin’ home tomorrow, ain’t that good news, yeah, ain’t that news. My baby is coming home tomorrow, ain’t that news, yeah, ain’t that news. Diana Ross & the Supremes style.
back on the left side of my flack. I had an extra one. And as I handed it to him, it just went off in my hand.” Went off in his hand and blew off three fingers. Purple Heart. The doctors were able to save all but his pinky on his glove hand. You’re in the big leagues now. His fastball touches 93 mph, but a curve ball’s what his pitch is. So here he comes, like dum ditty dum. He keeps all five boroughs in stitches. Cooper Brannan will try to distinguish himself once again. This time in a different uniform. This time in a Padre uniform. Another uniform he is proud to wear.
Offense. Boom Beckett. Schil the Thrill. Big Mo. Moose. Ready to cut loose. Ready to put your neck in a noose. Now who’s a silly goose? You can Dee-Troit Tiger me. You can St. Louis Cardinal me. You don’t believe it? Do you? Not for a minute. Not for a hot New York minute. The Toronto Blue Jays are right there too. Don’t forget they finished ahead of my beloved Sox last year. The Jays gave me no cheer. They’re a team you should fear. Just signed the Big Hurt. Maybe the 
most unsung signing of the off-season. Put the Big Hurt in a line-up with Lyle Overbay, Vernon Wells and Troy Glaus? Fuggetabout it. Trot out a rotation that features Roy Halliday? I’ll be your huckelberry. Roy Halliday and a healthy AJ Burnett? With closer BJ Ryan? Good night Irene. Just obscene. A fine tuned baseball machine. And don’t sleep on them Orioles either. Make a lonely man happy, Baltimore Oriole. Lee Mazzone. Pitching guru. You watch. The Orioles will have the best staff ERA in the second half of this season. Mark my words. Mark them I 
say! You think it’s a Coinky-dinky? Think it’s a coinky-dinky that the Braves won their division title fourteen consecutive times. Fourteen consecutive times beginning with 1991 and ending in 2005. Ending the first year Lee Mazzone was not around. Not around to take care of the pitchers. Sounds pretty spine-tingly-dingly to me. So instead of crying about 
this so-called East Coast bias, maybe you should be crying about the fact that your team did not do enough. Did not get tough. Did not do as much. Did not do as much as those guys over there in the American League East. The American League Beast. The American League East, where the men are men, and the games matter. The American League East. The best division in Baseball.
me. You can David Thompson me. Heck you can even Antoine Walker, Bill Russell, James Worthy and Scott May me. I’m not budging. The 1990 team just crushed the Duke Blue Devils in the Finals. Crushed them. Thumped them. Chumped them. Gasoline pumped them. 103-73. Holy Schnikies! The Rebels scored more points than any team in Championship game history. The Rebels set the record for margin of victory. Duke was very young. Duke was very good. The drubbing that UNLV gave them only demonstrates just how dominating this team was. Anderson Hunt. Greg Anthony. Grandmama. Stacey Plastic Man Augmon. With a rebel yell, they cried more, more, more. In the midnight hour babe, more, more, more. They were even better in ninety-one. Even more fun. All they did was run. Run, run
and gun. The Fantastic Four were back. Four times the action. Four times the adventure. Four times the fantastic. It’s clobbering time. Undefeated in the regular season. Steamrolling through everyone. Everyone. Thirty-four straight wins. Forty-five over two seasons. Leading the nation in scoring margin at plus-twenty-seven. Goodness! Scaring he nation with their guns and ammunition. UNLV shot fifty-four percent from the field. They shot forty-two percent from beyond the arc. Four players averaged in double figures. Get the papers, get the papers. Larry Johnson averaged twenty-three. They were a juggernaut. Cain Marko style. Meet Duke in the Final Four. Down two. Grandmama. Wide open. Passes. Huh? Hunt misses the twenty-five foot jumper. Ballgame! Duke wins! Duke wins. They weren’t better. They play that game over ten times, UNLV wins that game ten times. I loved that team. I love this team.
From the mountains that surround you, to far across the sea, we’ll win with the Rebels of UNLV! Like my main man, Mr. White, always says: “Come on, who’s a tough guy? Who’s a tough guy? You’re a tough guy.” Another Mr. White, UNLV’s Mr. White’s a tough guy. Wendell White’s a tough guy. He’s a tough, tough, tough, tough, tough, tough guy. Halo round his head, too tough to die. Game against the Wyoming Cowboys. White takes the tough charge. Hits the tough deck. Hits the tough training room. Comes back with twelve tough stitches. Comes back with a tough un-bloodied jersey. Comes back and finishes with eighteen tough points. He also came back with a broken jaw. Was inserted back into the line-up four days later. Wired jaw and all. You saw
the Georgia Tech game. The Rambling Wreck of Georgia Tech. You saw him ramble Georgia Tech’s Jeremis Smith. You saw him wreck Georgia Tech’s Ra’Sean Dickey. You saw him ramble and wreck and score the go-ahead basket with just over a minute to play. He bruised his ribs on that play. Played the Wisconsin game. Dropped a series of clutch shots in the Wisconsin game. Went eight for twelve, six for six from the line and led his team with twenty-two in the Wisconsin game. With bruised ribs. On his last leg just gettin’ by. Halo round his 
head, too tough to die. Kevin Kruger’s too tough to die too. You thought he was dead. Admit it. Dead as a doornail. Playing in chainmail. Call me Ishmael. But he came back. Picked up his bones. Erased his name from off the tombstones. Alive and kicking, breathin’ the air. Call out my name punk, and I’ll be there. Everlast style. Kevin Kruger shook off his slump. His game and a half slump. His one for fifteen
slump. Shook it off with three straight threes. Three, is the magic number. Now you may try to subtract it, but it just won’t go away. Three times one? What is it? One, two, three! And that’s a magic number. Three straight threes late in the second half. Tied it up with one bomb. Took the lead with another. When he was done with that nonsense, he was fouled on another Downtown Freddie Brown. Made all three free throws to seal the deal. Seal the deal for real. Seal the deal with sex appeal. Making Rebel fans everywhere squeal. Squealing UNLV all the way into the Sweet 16. Squealing for the first time in sixteen years. When I first met you baby, baby you was just sweet sixteen. Just left your home then, baby. The sweetest thing I’d ever seen. The Rebels play sweet defense. Gritty defense. Relentless 
defense. Dare I say it? Tenacious defense. Team defense. Five players on the floor functioning as one single unit. Team, team, team. I love this team. I know nobody gives this squad much of a chance. Nobody. But know this: They match up much better against Oregon, a guard-dominated team like themselves, than they did against the bigger Yellow Jackets and Badgers. In the midnight hour babe, more, more, more!
Public Service Announcement: OK, here we go! Write it, and they will read. Well, as it turns out, Mrs. Q. Public never saw The Natural. So, on Friday night, we buckled in together and watched it. We laughed. We cried. We cheered. Afterwards, I thought, geez, I would love to have Roy Hobbs on my team. Then I thought, who else would I want? A blog is born. So, without further ado, I give you the All-Fictional Team:
homliest little second basewoman you ever did see. Omar Bradley homely. A woman’s place is on home, first, second and third. Marla’s home is second. Glove, exciting and new. Come aboard, we’ve been expecting you. But she’s not all glove. No siree, Betty. She’s a hitter. A switch hitter. Lickety splitter. It’s not the size of the stick, it’s all about hittin’ the sweet spot! Think Rogers Hornsby. She may not be pretty, but she sure loves to play. She can play on my team. She can drive my car. Toot toot, ya! Just remember, there’s no crying in baseball.
Third Base: You’re killing me Smalls. Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Los Angeles Dodgers. Benny the Jet. He’s got electric boots, a mohair suit. You know I read it in a magazine. Remember kid, there’s heroes and there’s legends. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. Benny’s a legend. Benny never dies. El es un grande muchacho. He can play anywhere. He can play everywhere. Here, there and everywhere. Nobody can deny that there’s something there. Infield. Outfield. Pitcher. It doesn’t matter. He’s all thatter.
He’s the leader with the baseball batter. He hits the guts out of the ball. The leader in that little piece of paradise a half block wide and a whole summer long. Leader of the Sandlot. The leader at Dodger Stadium. He doesn’t just lead, he steals. Stealing home in the twilight of his career. Stealing home, Ty Cobb style. Benny the Jet Rodriguez. A legend never dies. 
Shortstop: One long ball hitter, that’s what we need! I’d sell my soul for one long ball hitter. Joe Hardy. Washington Senators. Hardy may just be the greatest player of all time. At one point, the guy was hitting .524. He’s a long ball hitter. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing. He’s got that swing. His power is beyond your understanding! His hitting prowess enables the Senators to win the American League Pennant over those Damn Yankees. So he sold his soul to
the devil. So he wasn’t completely on the level. Joe made the supreme sacrifice and sold his soul to have this talent. He did not do it for himself. He didn’t do it for the fame. The glory. Love-n-hate tattooed across the knuckles of his hands. The hands that slap his kids around cause they don’t understand. How death or glory, becomes just another story. He did it for his favorite team. He did it for the Washington Senators. What Lola wants, Lola gets. And aloha means goodbye.
Left Field: Lucky number eleven. Juan Primo. San Francisco Giants. Treating the game like a matter of life and death. Juan Primo is a mountain of a man. A mountain man. He don’t breathe, he don’t sleep, he don’t even wash his feet. He’s the man with the golden beard. He has a powerful weapon. He charges a million a shot. An assassin that’s second to none. The man with the golden gun. 007 style. Very, very good. He’s twenty-eight. He has lots of power. Lots. That must be a Homer, Simpson, cuz the pitcher just said D’oh! Sure he’s cocky, so what. Doesn’t mean you have to kill a man in the sauna. Just not right. Here is something I cant understand. How Gil Reynard could just kill a man. Shame too. Primo was just in the middle of a hot streak. Most popular guy on the Giants. I am the most popular player in all the land! Swing like Phat Albert Pujols. He makes it fast with one more thing. He is the Sultan of Swing. Glove like Omar Vizquel. Glove me tender. Bobby, now do you care? Bobby! Now do you care? Just a little bit?
Center Field: The American Express Card. Don’t steal home without it. Willie Mays Hayes. Cleveland Indians. Willie Mays Hayes. I hit like Mays, and I run like Hayes. Fast like lightning. On the base paths, just as frightening. You may run like Hayes, but you hit like shit. Maybe at first. But Willie did overcome a big loop in his swing. We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall over come some day. Willie Mays Hayes overcame. By the start of the last game of the season, he was batting .291. The last game of the season, he is waved home and slides in ahead of the tag. They’re…not…gonna…get him. Safe! Baseball’s extra special moment. The Indians make the playoffs! The Indians make the playoffs! We’re number one! Think Rickey Henderson. High top and fade and all. Kid and Play style. Look in the closet and pull out the hype gear. Pull up the hightop fade and I’m outta here. 
Right Field: Wonder Boy. Lightning in a bat. Roy Hobbs. New York Knights. My favorite. ”A” number one. Top of the heap. King of the hill. Supernatural is more like it. Just knocks the cover off the ball. Bye-bye baseball. Bye-bye clock. Bye-bye lights. Bye-bye Whammer. Bye-bye Max Mercy. Oh, mercy mercy me. Oh, things ain’t what they used to be. He lived for a dream that wouldn’t die. There goes the greatest hitter who ever lived. It took him sixteen
years to get here…and he gave the best he got. He was the best God damn hitter I ever saw. Crackatoa! East of Java. He has erupted. Bleeding through his shirt long before Schill the Thrill ever bled through a sock. Thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening. Galileo. Galileo. Wonderboy splits in two. The Savoy Special. Mecka-lecka-hi-mecka-hiney-ho! From an age of innocence, comes a hero for today.
Starting Pitcher: What’s up Doc? Bugs Bunny. The Tea Totalers . He only pitched one game, but what a game it was. Tonight what heights we’ll hit, on with the show this is it. Pitching against the Gas House Gorillas. Oversized brutes. They make 1998 Barry Bonds look like 1988 Barry Bonds. Just dominating the geriatric Tea Totalers. I’m only 93 and half years old. But here he comes to save the day. That means that Bugs is on his way. Yes sir, when there is a wrong to right, Bugs Bunny will join the 
fight. Bugs could beat those gorillas all by himself. With one hand tied behind his back. He perplexes them with his slow ball. Three up. Three down. Go to your room. Go to your room. Go to your room. All on one one pitch. Goodness! He unveils his fastball. A backstop shattering pitch. That’s the old pepper, boy! Call the hostess. Your seat is ready. That’s when I saw it. Ooh, I saw it. It came in through the out door. Out door. Bugs pasted that pathetic palooka with a powerful, paralyzing, perfect pachydermous percussion pitch. Yowza! Behold the power of cheese. Bugs Bunny. The best pitcher of all-time.
Closer: You are about to enter another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone! The Mighty Casey. Hoboken Zephyrs. Once upon a time in Hoboken, New Jersey. It was tryout day. And though he’s not yet on the field, you’re about to meet a most unusual fella. A lefted handed pitcher named Casey. Casey pitches shut-out after shut-out. Inning after inning. Missile-like speed and accuracy. No soup for you! He comes to the rescue of the cellar-dwelling ball club. Hey, daddy-o, I don’t wanna go, down to the basement. There’s somethin’ down there. I don’t wanna go. The Mighty Casey’s a robot. A go-go gobot. An unbeatable robot. But in this age of HGH and other perfomance enhancing drugs, what’s the difference? 
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