If, if, if...every team, every year, could be great. If. If everyone hits, if all the pitchers are lights out, if baserunners and fielders don't make a lot of mistakes and dunderheaded plays, if the manager had a brain.
He could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers, consultin' with the rain. And his head he'd be scratchin' while his thoughts were busy hatchin', if he only had a brain.
And you know, he makes out the lineups himself, so we know who to blame for not having a brain.
If I was 20 years old and had a 100 mph fastball and 98 mph slider and could hit .450, I'd be playing big-league ball.
If you can keep your head when all around you are losing theirs and blaming you, you'll be a man, my son. Or something.
Don't ask me, ask Kipling. As Slim Pickens said, I'm working for Mel Brooks.
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