Friday, July 13, 2007

Tall Tales of Rickey

In celebration of the Mets new first base coach Rickey Henderson, we at BBBC have decided to air untold and possibly true (but mostly false) stories about the colorful stolen-base king.


The first story comes from former A's batboy Glen Buggermann...

I was a batboy on the 1983 Oakland A's and remember fondly my times with the green and gold. Rickey Henderson was one of my favorite players because of his exciting play and his quirky personality. I remember one day in May we were playing the White Sox at Comiskey Park. Rickey was in left, as always, and I believe this great Rickey moment happened in the top of the 3rd inning. Big Ron Kittle was leading from first. I forget who was pitching and batting but it really isn't important to the story. So anyway, the batter hit a groundball that went between short and third. The ball was rolling slowly into the outfield and I looked up to see Rickey pulling something from his pocket. Ok, the story gets really cookey from here. Rickey scoops up the ball but instead of throwing it into second he aims a little black pistol and shoots Ron Kittle in the face! Ohhh boy, so the White Sox players were really upset. Our manager Steve Boros ran out from the dugout to talk to Rickey. "Why the hell did you do that?" he yelled. Rickey just glanced over at Kittle who was lying in a pool of blood and said "Hey skip, you told me to gun down those runners from the outfield!" So Boros stared at him for a long time, then let out this really loud laugh. "No Rickey, I didn't mean use a gun!" Then Boros turned to one of our players and said, "That's our Rickey!" Hilarious right? Oh by the way Ron Kittle lived but now can't chew solid food.

Thanks Glen, and now another story from Padres center fielder Mike Cameron...

Rickey is a great guy. He was some teammate when we were with Seattle. I recall this really funny moment before a game during the 2000 season. The infield was taking grounders and Rickey was hitting soft-toss near the batting cage. After the infield finished taking grounders our first baseman John Olerud walked toward the dugout. Rickey stopped hitting soft-toss and went over to talk to John. I heard him telling John about how he played with a first baseman in Toronto who also wore a helmet in the field. John looked perplexed and said to Rickey, "That was me." Funny right? Well that isn't the end of the story. Rickey continued to insist that the guy he played with in Toronto was different. Finally, as John was about to walk away, Rickey reached out and grabbed John's face. He ripped his skin off! Underneath his skin was a metal skull filled with circuits and wires. Well, it turned out that the John Olerud we were playing with was really an android built by a secret military organization to spy on us. The real John Olerud was tied up and stuffed under the tarp for over a month. Boy, did he have some funny-looking scars! Rickey certainly made that day a lot more interesting.

Thanks Mike, and now one more Rickey story from former Toronto Blue Jays manager Cito Gaston...

Rickey Henderson was some character when he played for the Blue Jays. We were a great team back then and Rickey was the heart and soul. He was so good that we chose to ignore some of his odd behavior. For example, he talked to his bats. He would tell them things like "Rickey needs a hit today" and "don't let me down" as if they were actual people. One day I walked into the clubhouse before a game and saw Rickey talking furiously to one of his bats. He was yelling things like "you stupid dirty whore" and I was just bewildered. I walked over to Rickey to ask him what was going on. He told me that his maple bat had made love to his wife. "Cito, he betrayed me! He had his way with my wife! The sick traitor must die!!" he screamed. Rickey then reached into his locker for a bottle of gasoline (I don't know why he had a bottle of gasoline in his locker) and poured it all over the bat. Then he lit a match, setting the bat and the clubhouse carpet ablaze. All the players including myself ran out of the clubhouse. Rickey just stood there laughing demonically. That was fucking weird.

Thanks Cito and welcome back Rickey!

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Allow Me To Explain My All-Star Game Decision

Many of you faithful fans have questioned my managing in the 78th annual All-Star game. In the bottom of the ninth with the NL trailing five to four, I opted to let Orlando Hudson and Aaron Rowand hit with runners on base instead of replacing them with Albert Pujols. After Rowand made an out to end the game, the critics immediately second-guessed me. I am here to defend my decision.

First of all, I want to reiterate to the fans and to the media that I am smarter than you. My brand of thought is light-years ahead of your puny minds. I can calculate more in my pinky finger than you peons can comprehend in a thousand millenia. You don't see what I see. Where you see failure, I see success. I can see all outcomes in a tenth of a second. Of the 145,641.6 possible outcomes in Aaron Rowand's at bat, 67,134.24 yielded base hits. For you pea-brained ovines, that is a nearly 47% success rate. I turned to Albert Pujols and surveyed his smooth yet fierce Spanish visage. In 154,654.3124 possible outcomes, Albert Pujols succeeded 67,043.14 times. For the math-challenged mental midgets out there, Albert Pujols could only succeed 43% of the time in that situation. Fools might ask how I could know such odds. Fuck you, that's how I know.

I am always right even when I am wrong. I have won a World Series in each league. No one, not even Lord Jesus himself, can question me. Five days ago Albert Pujols had the gal to question the take sign I gave him on a 2-1 count. After Dave Duncan administered electric shocks to Albert's nipples after the game, I told Albert that if he ever even thought of defying my masterful orders, he would find himself in AA ball. Fans and media alike, know now and know always that I am infallible. Here is planet Earth's hierarchy: 3. President of the United States, 2. God, 1. Tony fucking La Russa.

And one more thing: if you continue to insist that I shouldn't wear sunglasses in the night time, I will have Dave Duncan remove your testicles with a rusty, sand-coated dagger.

Saturday, July 07, 2007

Fear Not, Faithful Reader(s), Bring Back Bubba Crosby Will Be Brought Back!

We at BBBC apologize for not posting in over a month. You see, loyal (and nonexistent) fans, the BBBC task force has been too busy debasing themselves in summertime orgies to write about the happenings in the sports world. In fact, we have been so busy with our legendary sexual exploits, we have forgotten that we can't switch from first person plural to third person plural in one post. I apologize for the pronoun inconsistency. Anyway...the real point of this post is to preview all of the wonderful stuff that will appear on this blog in the coming weeks. A lot is being planned friends. In fact, so much is planned, the summer itinerary must be put into bullet form! The following shit will go down sometime soon:


  • A comprehensive plan for you and your family that will guarantee ten million dollars in cash and a free box of Nilla wafers

  • International Globular Legion updates

  • A movie review of a possible movie that exists

  • Baseball wonderings and musings

  • Facial hair breakdowns

  • A comprehensive plan for world domination

  • More Nilla wafers

  • Time-travelling exploits of our good doctor monkey Orgasmo

  • A preview of the dog-fighting season

  • The apocalypse

  • Eight ways to have intercourse in front of your employer without being fired

  • The "Feed Eric Mangini" campaign

  • 19th century baseball ghosts

  • A long list of bullet points

  • David Eckstein's lectures on Christianity (again)

Stay with us and we will open your mind to possibilities that you only dreamed of! Or don't stay with us and live a life of misery, loneliness, and hunger. It's your choice, people.