Tuesday, October 11, 2011
The Art of the Pre-Game Speech
DOMBROWSKI: I thought you’d say that. But I’m sorry, Jim. I disagree. These guys need a reality check. So I placed a phone call. He should be here any minute now.
LEYLAND: (cough) Ohno, youdidn’tcall…
/loud crash heard in hallway
DOMBROWSKI: Deal with it.
/door shoots open
DOMBROWSKI: Hello, Kirk. Thanks for coming on such short notice. I think the team could really benefit from hearing from another voice right now.
GIBSON: No problem, ass-chin. God knows Mumbles McMarlboro over here isn’t gonna say shit other than telling someone to fucking bunt in the first inning.
LEYLAND: Thisisallhorseshit. (wheeze) Getthehelloutta…
GIBSON: Shut your smoke-hole, you yellow-skinned twat! You had your chance and now it’s Gibby’s turn. Men, gather around! You all need to hear every fucking word I say today.
/rips eight-second fart
(Don Kelly and Ramon Santiago make sign of the cross)
GIBSON: Do that all you want, guys, but He ain’t gonna help that smell. Gibby ate a pot of chili and two pounds of bacon for breakfast today. Killed the sows myself. Now, listen. You pricks are down two-oh to these death penalty lovin’, Second Amendment screamin’, high school football worshipping cowfuckers from Texas. There ain’t shit you can do about that now. But one thing you CAN do, is stop being a bunch of whiny gashes. Where’s that catcher of yours? The all-star that suddenly can’t hit an AIDS patient’s weight?
GIBSON: No excuse! Gibby couldn’t stand up in ’88 and I still took that child molester-looking bitch Eckersley deep in the Series! When that hairball product of nepotism gets wheeled in here, I demand that EACH ONE OF YOU go up and punch that sumbitch in the cock! Tell him to be a man! And you! What’s your excuse for sucking dog dick at the plate this postseason?
JACKSON: Me? I don’t know, sir. I’m just not seeing the ball real well right now…
GIBSON: Right now? Shit, son, you strike out more than an Italian fat man at a lesbo bar! But you do kind of remind me of Chet Lemon in a way.
JACKSON: I do? Thanks.
GIBSON: Yeah. After his spleen fucking exploded and he couldn’t play anymore. But at least Chester had balls. Put a little spotlight on your ass and you turn tighter than a virgin’s butthole, son. Get your shit straight, boy. And that goes for all of ya! Pretty bad that you’re all being out-hit by the idiot hillbilly that no one wanted on the team two months ago and the worst player on the team. Tell them your secret, boy!
GIBSON: Well, isn’t that sweet. Whatever, though, boy. Can’t shit on you. You haven’t crapped the bed like the rest of these fucks have so far!
GIBSON: Holy shit, Brandon. You’re still here? You’re like a bad fucking penny, you know? And I don’t mean the fat bearded bad Penny sleeping in the corner there! Why can I say this shit? Because I took a bunch of fuckers you couldn’t pick out of one of Cabrera’s police lineups and led them to 94 fucking wins and an NL West title, that’s why, you little shit! I had ONE decent player in the whole lot, and he’s the retarded Upton brother!
/belches alphabet backwards
GIBSON: It’s not like I had the best hitter in the game like that fat drunk staring at me pretending he doesn’t understand English! It’s not like I had the best pitcher in the past 50 years on my team like that spiked-hair, pink shirt wearing fairy Verlander over there! No. My Arizona team didn’t have HALF of the talent assembled in this room! We shouldn’t have won 60 fucking games, but we had heart, we busted our ass, and we had BALLS! Something that none of you cumstains seem to have anymore!
INGE: Gibby, with all due respect…
GIBSON: Brandon, you were here on that shitty ’03 team. Remember what I always used to say to you when I was coaching here then?
INGE: Yeah. You said I useless and I would never amount to anything.
GIBSON: And I was right! I believe I also called you a smelly cocksucker, too. Point is, you didn’t let that stop you. You didn’t listen to common logic that you were fucking worthless and you kept giving it all. Sure, you still suck hog balls on the baseball field. But you didn’t quit back then! What happened to you? To all of you? Here you all are down two-oh and you look like you’re all finished! And for what? You beat the fucking Yankees in New fucking York! You’re really going to get scared of some tumor-faced pansy like Alexi Ogando? Alexi’s a fucking girl’s name! And Ogando? Sounds like an African venereal disease.
/scratches balls for three minutes straight
GIBSON: Does that dirtball crackhead Hamilton make your panties creep up your ass? Does that fat shit Mike Napoli scare you that much? OH NO…IT’S COLBY BALLSNIFFIN’ LEWIS! Hold me, Skipper! Good lord, men! Get your heads out of your asses! You guys need to be more like Kelly here. You haven’t given up, have you kid?
KELLY: (quietly thanks God for being there and promises to do his best)
GIBSON: See? And he has a girl’s name, too! Rozema and I went through our share of Kellys in the 80’s, let me tell you. But Kelly here isn’t letting the fact that he’s terrible at baseball stop him! Fuck and no, he isn’t! He’s out there busting his ass and not whining about an oblique, a toe, a thumb, or a leg falling off. I admire you, son. In fact, you remind me of a guy I played with. His name was Tommy Brookens. Couldn’t hit for shit, but dammit, you’d have to kill him to get him off the field.
GIBSON: Holy shit. You look like a dump truck ran over your face, Tom. But seeing your here reminds me of a story. Back in ’84, Rozey and I were out on the town putting back the brews pretty hard one night. Anyways, I get the idea to dare him to cram his pecker into this cross-eyed crack whore on Lafayette Street that was always following us around begging for cash. So we end up in some nasty hotel room and Dave gives this tramp the business, and winning ten bucks off Gibby in the process. I still can’t believe that drunk went through with it.
/spits three ounces of dip on floor
GIBSON: But he comes outta that trainwreck with a glazed over look in his eyes. He says to me, “Gibby, how are we running away with the pennant? We’re not that good. Hell, our rotation has Dave fucking Rozema in it.” Now I nearly laughed my dick off that Rozey was so blitzed off of booze and coke that he didn’t remember who he was, but he had a point. We weren’t the most talented team in the world. We didn’t have the best players. But we sure as shit played harder than any other group of bastards in baseball that year! We were a tough group of fuckers that would kick, scrape, and punch our mothers in the cunt to win a championship! We didn’t cry about injuries, or contracts, or the fucking weather! We went out there and won! Think you fuckers can do that?
GIBSON: Like you have a fucking pair!
EVERYONE: FUCK YEAH!
GIBSON: You’re goddamned right you can win! It’s been 27 fucking years since Tram, Lou, me, and that guy that used to be Brookens won a championship in Detroit, men! Many of you were still premature ejaculations is your old man’s eyes back then. But it’s time to bring home that shit one more time! Detroit isn’t no fucking punchline anymore! So suck it up, get your shit together, and go skullfuck these Texas bitches on national fucking television! You hear me?
JACKSON: Let’s get ‘em!
/team roars and thunders out of clubhouse
GIBSON: Damn straight. That what you wanted, David?
DOMBROWSKI: Yes, sir. Interested in coming to Detroit when your deal’s up in Arizona?
GIBSON: Fuck you. You burned this bridge. I did this for the fans of Detroit. Not you. Jim? I hope you were listening, too. Quit trying to be everyone’s fucking friend and do your fucking job. I’m outta here. Gotta go shoot some animals and bang the bullet holes. FUCK, I miss this city sometimes!
/kicks over trash can and leaves
LEYLAND: Ihateyou, Dave.
DOMBROWSKI: I hate you more. Let’s win this motherfucker.