c'mon, hayes, let's do 'em right.
crisco, bardahl, vagisil. any one of 'em will give you another 2-3 inches drop on your curve ball.
course if it's cold and i got a shirt on under my jersey, i just rub a little jalapeno inside my nose and get it runnin'. i need to load up the ball a little, i just wipe my nose.
at my age, you put anything you can find on it. i haven't got an arm like yours.
i wouldn't leave this gin sittin' around out here with this group.
aren't we gonna have a prayer? i mean we're not all savages like cerrano.
all right, let's bow our heads.
dear lord, we ask.
oh, so now you come around. he's not fooled.
who you got lined up tonight?
you call her?
not while i'm here you're not. that's murder.
here's looking at ya, jo-buu.
strutting out of the dugout, feeling like a million bucks. as he emerges onto the field, a hitter in the batting cage swings and misses, the bat slipping out of his hands. away it flies, whirling off down the third base line in a wide arc. it hits harris in the back of the head and knocks him cold.
watching the game from the dugout, a zip-lock baggie full of ice-cubes strapped to his head.
hey, there's no hot water in here.
what if we don't finish last?
warming up in the bullpen. the tension of starting such an important game shows in his face.
throwing the first pitch. the yankee hitter grounds one to dorn who throws him out.
on the mound, looking like he's out of gas.