Good morning, Ladies.
I hope you enjoyed your little trip to Minnesota. Nice to see that you actually decided to win a game yesterday. Hope your plane ride back home was nice and cushy. Hell, I even hope the stewardess gave you boys a little Mile High Club entrance examination.
But now that you are back at Fenway, Major League Baseball and I feel that it is important to remind you of something.
You are the World Champion Boston Red Sox, you worthless pukes. You had to climb over those slimeball Yankees and embarass the St. Louis Cardinals to earn that right. And now that you’re at the top, you think you’re too good for understanding and respecting the fundamentals of our beloved national pasttime? Bullshit, ladies. Which is why I am here to remind you of those fundamentals.
Fundamental Number One. When you are called into battle to relieve one of your comrades, do not f–k his shit up with your inability to throw a ball over the plate. When a soldier is down and has been declared unfit to continue in the line of battle, it is your duty as a teammate to pick him up. I want to see your war face when you step out of that bullpen. I want you to act like you’ve got the goddam World Series trophy tucked into your pants and you’re daring the opposing batter to come and get it. And don’t be afraid to send a measly f–ker on his ass once in a while. Especially anyone named “Terry Tiffee.”
Fundamental Number Two. And this is the most important fundamental of all, ladies. When someone throws you the ball, you catch the ball. Sounds simple enough to me. Hell, I bet you could teach a dog to do it. But based on your play this weekend, some of you have forgotten how to do this. Don’t treat the baseball like someone’s trying to hand you a copy of Molly Hatchet’s Greatest Hits, numbnuts. If you hesitate at the moment of truth, you will drop the ball, and the enemy will score upon your sorry ass. Even worse, the enemy will mock you for your lack of appreciation and mastery of the fundamentals of this game. And nobody wants to be laughed at by people from Minnesota.
Do you understand me, ladies? Do I make myself clear? You’ve got the goddam Texas Rangers coming into your home field tonight, trying to take something away from you. Are you going to let them disgrace the name of the Boston Red Sox, in your backyard? Wipe that disgusting grin off your face, Number Fifteen. Do you think this is funny? Do you think I’m some sort of comedian? You’ll see how funny it is when you’re playing for the Devil Rays’ Triple A affiliate, buying prescription medication for swamp-ass five nights a week.
Now everyone, get down on your faces and give me twenty. And then give me another twenty for the spirit of the great Bartlett Giamatti.
Except for you, Private Wakefield. You’re welcome in the Sargent’s quarters for our buffet lunch. Right this way.
