Welcome back, folks. To re-open the blog I’ve convinced our good friend and esteemed baseball mind (fake) Tommy Lasorda to return as a guest author.
Jeezuz, I leave for three goddam years and what the hell happens? The friggin’ Giants win ANOTHER series, then ANOTHER one on top of that.
This is unacceptable. You know, in my day this shit never happened. We didn’t let it. The Giants were losers and we made damn sure of it. Sabotage? Possibly.
Now I’m not saying we ever did anything illegal or improper, because that would be incriminating. But remember 1993? Last game of the season, Giants about to sweep us at home and go to the playoffs. I’ll tell you, I was not going to let that happen.
This kid Torres was pitching that game, and you see what we did was, I mean, what we allegedly might or might not have done was, a little trick I learned from Durocher called the Tijuana Trouser Bomb. You see, what you do is call up the madame, assuming you got one handy, and damned if I didn’t have three on speed dial. Anyways, we call her up, I mean we may or may not call her up, and ask which of her girls might be dealing with, well, unwanted companions in the lower regions, if you know what I mean. Crabs. What I’m talking about here is crabs.
Anyway, so we get this girl over, I mean we allegedly may or may not have got this girl over, and I tell you she had more crabs on her than the Cornelia Marie. So we send her over to the hotel to pay that pitcher a visit and I’ll be goddamed if he didn’t leave his fastball in the locker room with about a gallon of that pink shampoo . We ran a damn parade around the bases that day. I’ve never been so relieved in my life.
You know what I did that night? I want to the Palm and I call over the manager and I have them deep fry a whole damn lobster, then wrap that bad boy around a porterhouse and cover the whole friggin’ thing in gravy. Serve it with a nicely chilled gallon of scotch and my friend you have yourself a victory celebration. God, that was good. I blacked out for two days and woke up on the floor of O’Malley’s suite in Caesar’s Palace with Pedro Astacio’s signature tattooed on my ass.
That’s how you close out a season.