Welcome Back…Batgirl…I mean Batboy…I mean Robin (an airing of grievances)


"Welcome back, Your World Series dreams were your ticket out. Welcome back,
to that same old place that you had nightmares about.
well the names have all changed (somewhat) since you played third,
But those dreams have remained even after a championship ya heard?
Who'd have thought Jerry'd need ya (Who'd have thought KW would need ya)
Here where we kind of need ya (Here where we kind of need ya)
Yeah we tease you a lot cause old man Ryan kicked your ass, welcome back,
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back."

Welcome back Robin, we still hate the Twins and if you can't understand that then you need to go back to where you came from, which apparently was your couch. I heard you had your kid's high school team playing like a bunch of fucking champions, whoopdee-fucking-doo, a well oiled high school baseball team, congratulations. As bench coach of that team I'm sure you were able to get back into prime sunflower seed spitting form, even though I saw some dribble out of your mouth and down your chin in a Spring Training game but that is what Spring Training is for.

I swear to Christ, if you give the Twins any respect what-so-ever, give them enchanting little nicknames comparing them to ferocious woodland animals or try to say they are anything other than the devil incarnate then you should just go manage them…oh yeah they wouldn't hire you because you have no experience managing anything other than your millions and the Twins don't hire managers based on their standing in franchise lore. Maybe you can become Special Assistant to the Assistant of Lutefisk and might be overqualified for that role but maybe Buddy Bell can write you a introductory letter to Bill Smith since I truly believe he is a Twain agent.

Some of my father's money is floating around in that Scrooge McDuck vault of yours, maybe $40 of the $67.5 million you earned in your career. You see, I had your jersey when I was a teenager and when you left town I was quite forlorn. After all, I was a 3Bman too but the difference between you and I is if I had a chance to play for the White Sox, I would have done so for free, so basically what I am saying is fuck you for going to the Mets for your millions and millions of pennies. The only thing worse than signing a contract with the Mets is signing a contract with the Twins and I'm not going to lie, I still distrust you for that even though a girl I knew in college, babysat your kids and said you were cute, funny and paid her a lot of money (you know you wanted to bang her). I wish my relationship with you consisted solely of such shallow things. When your contract is up with the White Sox are you going to leave me again to go manage R.A. Dickey?!? When you're done in the Big Apple are you going to go bide your time in Magic Johnson's fun-time play-land of diseased faketittery? It doesn't matter anyway because you are the Doug Collins of baseball managers. Bide your time and don't do anything to fuck anything up because Phil Jackson is on his way, he's being seasoned in the south. If you're able to do that then you should have a nice career in the revolving door of third-tier managers and successfully be compared to the likes of Don Wakamatsu, A.J. Hinch and Phil Gardner. Don't bunt and run, don't try to steal bases, don't sacrifice my sanity with sacrifice bunts in the 2nd inning.

When you left, you left me with Greg Norton. "Greg Norton, Greg Norton" has been my mantra ever since you left and look where it's got me! These days I'm posting rambling, half-sober, semi-coherent rants on a sports community blog site thing. It was evident that as long as Greg Norton was on the White Sox the team didn't have a Twain's fans chance in Tijuana of winning a World Series.

Then there was the 736 plate appearance of Herbert Perry, the fucking Milkman. Oh Chicago loooooved him. He went home to pull udders in the offseason, was a fat white fuck and tried really really hard…perfect for Chicago. He wasn't any good at all but the fact he wasn't absolutely horrible, like everyone thought he would be, endeared him to the fanbase and now his legend is being passed down to new generations of White Sox fans just as KenWo will tell his kids, if they actually listen to him, that Fred Manrique was the best secondbaseman of all time and Ivan Calderon deserves to have his visage on the left field wall. Calderon had one good season damnit, one! Yet everyone remembers that season and wants to suck his dead balls.

Then there was the Latin Hitler, who stubbornly insisted on striking out from both sides of the plate. He was one of the first in a long, long line of the White Sox organization forcing square pegs into round holes defensively and the round hole is, metaphorically, every White Sox fan's rectum.

But, you having played 10 seasons with the White Sox, sir, have quite a bit of leeway with the fans. Even though I always thought you could be a .300 hitter and you never hit .300, that is not until you played for the Mets, imagine my horror…I guess what I am trying to say is you can't possibly disappoint me because I don't expect anything of you. I expected a lot of you as a player because I was a dumb kid and I thought you were destined for the hall of fame. It's not like you bring a 52 game winning streak as a college manager into the 2012 Major League Baseball season. I have zero expectations for you, which might be the only thing you have going for you. Since you had 10 decent seasons with the White Sox you are vilified to nth degree, just look at Ivan Calderon's status with the meatheads, look at Herbert Perry's place in the White Sox pantheon of dudes we liked because it was funny that they were actually serviceable. You are as close as anyone comes to Frank Thomas in this organization. I suppose I have three expectations for you: to not fuck anything up, to keep your fucking mouth shut until you're gone and not get your ass kicked by the Twins and Nolan Ryan. If you can accomplish that modest request, maybe then you can hold on to the goodwill that has built up over the years through broken and hazy memories of days passed in my blue heaven of the blue seats of the fan's minds.

Then in 2015, when we hire Dave Martinez to win a World Series, hopefully you will be kept on, in some capacity, under the umbrella of Jerry Reinsdorf where you will never, ever be wet. You can be Assistant to the Bertucci Brothers Assistant to Special Assistant of Roger Broussard's Churro team, which I am told is a well respected and paid role. By then you will have eclipsed $70 million in career earnings which you can pass down and share with generations of Ventura's until your great-great-great-grandson blows it all on astroturf-powder-meth and I will still have one memory of a World Series winner to think about as I pass on into the ether. If by some stroke of luck, you are the kind of manager who could metaphorically wear a double ear flap helmet and choke up on the bat, then I will embrace you and lie that I thought you were a great hire from the beginning but so far the organization isn't doing you any favors, other than paying you millions of dollars to be set-up to fail and bring goodwill from the fans at the same time.

I hope you are prepared to be Batgirl, I mean Batboy, I mean Robin to Don Cooper's Batman and KW's Commissioner Gordon. Also, please remember that the Joker, the Penguin, Mister Freeze and the Riddler are your enemies and White Sox fans are the citizens of Gotham. Don't fuck up or its curtains for all of us.




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