JMAN’s post-game last night–not so good.
Very Randolph-esque now. Lots of mumblin’, lots of hoping, lots of “it’s not so good; we have to try to turn it around” crap!
Fans, I’m thinkin’ it’s high time for a little fire and brimstone. Whadda ya say? No one would seriously argue that a bit of the rant and rave would make matters worse, right?
Here’s an appeal to the Wilpons or Minaya: Fly me to Queens and give me ten minutes in the dugout w/ my beloved and pathetic Mets.
Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll break a lot of stuff, and then yell, scream, spit, and cuss up a storm about the way these underachievers have underperformed, then I’ll cruise into my peroration. If nothing else, it will so affect those lethargic bums so much that they will be roused–at least a few of them–to beat the ever-lovin’ SH#& out of me. It’s a beating I will gladly suffer b/c it will jump start these men.
Sorry, but testosterone, nay testicles, seems to be in incredibly short supply in that clubhouse.
I’m afraid Manuel is going to be a memory before long.
The man is not cutting it.
Where in the name of God is some inspiration!
