At least when he’s on he is. Listen, I’ve heard it non-stop today on the talk shows, in the barrooms (hell yes, I hang there on Saturday afternoons; who the f@#k doesn’t?), and at the casinos. The Rays are tough. They’re scrappy. They can very well come back and stomp us to fine paste and our 1-0 victory in Game One of the 1986 World Series should serve as evidence: Pocketing that first win don’t mean shyte. It’s pocketing the first four wins that means something.
To that, I say that when Commander Kick Ass of the F@#k Yeah Brigade is on his game–and I have to figure he’s spent the last 15 hours in the sensory deprivation tank, channeling his inner primate and imagining an endless parade of fastballs off Jonny Gomes’ pud–he is nails. He is fire and brimstone. He is the shady guy down the street you don’t borrow money from because you’ve seen what he does to people who owe him money–it isn’t pretty, and it involves garden hoes.
When the puck drops, it’s anyone’s game, baby. So we’re firing up the cute girls/cold beer/best damn fans in the world mojo. And hoping for a win.
And we won’t stop. Cause we can’t stop.
