“ He’d crouch there at the plate and kind of look like he was taking a shit, like he was on the pot, all squatted down there like that, waving the bat around like a wand behind his head. He was a big guy too, and he looked uncomfortable up there, almost like he was squeezing one of those thigh-exercising devices, and his posture was very straight, with his head steady and staring like all intently ahead, his book-shelf of an ass sticking out behind him, kind of wagging a little. He’d have this weird grimace on his mug, squinting and doing these odd things with his eyebrows, like he was restless as hell up there, which he should have been too, standing there like that. God. That man was ugly as a retarded Boer goat, but shit could he play ball. Hell, I seen him crash into the centerfield fence once, this was back when he was playing for the Phillies, and the guy fucking just goes all balls out after this deep shot, and he jumps up with no regard for himself, and he like fucking ricochets back off the wall, which was brick mind you, and he is all fucked up, wrenched and scrambling around with grass stains and dirt and blood all over him, and the fucker hung onto the ball. I think he broke a few ribs on that one. It was nuts. That guy is some weird looking dude, but shit, you gotta give the guy credit. He plays his ass off. At least when he’s not up there at the plate shaking it all around like he’s Chubby Checker or something. We used to yell, “Wave the wand Rowand. Wave it.” It was stupid. But we did it anyway. I thought it was funny for some reason. Good inside-out swing that guy had. Ugly as sin though. You want another shrimp cocktail? I’m going for it. ”
The portly White Sox fan at the Golden Gate Casino Bar in Las Vegas speaking to me about Aaron Rowand
