Babe Ruth

Connie, you managed baseball like a funeral with a box score.

You carried headlines because you treated practice like a rumor and dessert like a contract.

Ty, you spent your whole life mad that the crowd liked my swings better than your scowl.

Fine, but the only thing Babe ever ran fast was out of reasons to keep arguing.

Both of you are expensive, dramatic, and impossible to schedule.

Ty, you fought every teammate you ever met; I just fought pitchers and won.

Adults don’t live on hot dogs, Babe.

You swung for the seats because you couldn’t handle the infield, George.

Please keep my name out of this, I’m trying to be the only adult in the room.

Final score: Babe talks loud, Ty stays mad, and the rest of us still have rings.

I once built a whole team to stop you and you still treated my best pitchers like batting practice.

He’s unbearable, but I’ll admit the man turned pressure into theater better than anyone.

Say what you want, but nobody ever paid to watch a manager point at a clipboard.

The real insult is he was late, loud, and right more often than my whole infield.

Connie, if your strategy was hope and a tall hat, no wonder I kept collecting souvenirs.