Remember when you were an adolescent and all the problems in your life were someone else’s fault? Remember when the entire world revolved around you and your desires and everyone else could kiss off? Remember when you spent more time and energy whining and complaining than actually participating in the betterment of the world around you?
Dear readers, you know how I feel about the huff-and-puff man-child Milton Bradley. He’s a waste of talent, an infectious disease, a massive weight on the hopes and dreams of aspiring baseball clubs.
And he just doesn’t get it.
From spinning make-believe stories about Chicago’s evil, racist fan base to bad-mouthing Sweet Lou for something that took place 10 months ago to constantly forgetting how many outs there are in any given frame, Milton Bradley is the ultimate poster child for what is wrong with sports in the 21st century.
Me, me, me, me, me, whaa whaa whaa, me, me, me, me, me!!!
SHUT… THE… ****… UP.
If I were Don Wakamatsu, here is the one thing I would say to this embarrassment of a professional athlete:
“Don’t say a friggin’ word. And don’t make your customary grimacing faces, don’t stare down umps, don’t do anything but play baseball all season long. If you break these rules, you’re gone. No questions. Gone. Outta here. See ya. Go away. Never come back.”
And no, I wouldn’t care how much money I had to pay him to leave.
In an era where seemingly nothing is certain, the one thing that can be counted on is that Milton Bradley will destroy his own team. He has proved it over and over again throughout his entire career.
And to be quite honest, he makes me want to throw-up.
So don’t hate me (yeah, I mean you, Milton), because I’m right.