OK ladies, check your calendars, it’s October. That means no more sissy-ball, it’s go time. Izzy Mandelbaum here, and I don’t take kindly to any of your modern-day, made-up injuries. In my day, if you could drag your sorry ass out of bed, light a smoke, and get your pants on, you could play. Sore backs don’t cut it. And sore hips? My third wife gave birth to six boys in five years and they all weighed over ten pounds when she squeezed ’em out. And she still had dinner waiting on the table for me every night. I hear a guy complaining about his hips, I hear a guy that’s a little light in the loafers. Even that Josh Beckett kid is hurt? And I thought that tough SOB might have a little Mandelbaum blood in him – it’s no secret we liked to sow any fields we could back in the old days.
Let me get something else straight up for ya. You’re playing the Angels. They haven’t beat a Red Sox team in a playoff game since October 11, 1986. I can tell you that for sure because it was my 73rd birthday and I was so mad I got too drunk to run the Sioux City Marathon the next day. The Angels haven’t won since, Christ they haven’t even been able to keep their name straight since then. Nothing but a bunch of tofu-loving hippies and pansies out there. You let them win, what do you think that makes you? All the real men left Cali when my dad did, after the gold mines played out.
I’m calling for another sweep, or I’m showing up at spring training to whip you girls into shape Mandelbaum-style. Anybody reading this bloggy thing want to contradict me?
