If Frank Thomas has one big hurt, it’s baseball. Were you, dear reader, to take the chance and sit down beside him in the dive bar he haunts night (he’s especially fond of Wing night and Ladies’ night, for which he dresses in a floral skirt and pink bob wig, giving his fellow regulars enough of a laugh that he’s managed to score all you can drink access to the tequila trough. From time to time he will implore strangers and tourists to suck cuervo from his large distended navel to bellows of SUCK IT DOWN, SUCK IT ALL DOWN), you’ll find that Baseball really sticks in his craw. It’s the reason his occaisionally skirt-bearing ass sits ever so delicately on a barstool hemerrhoid doughnut and the reason that on three separate occaisions bud-colored and nacho textured vomit have been painstakingly mopped from the 60″ plasma that is Sal’s pride and joy. The most recent of these occaisions was just last week, during the Bud Light Lime marketing blitz that led to tens of free bottles of the stuff being consumed gratis in said drinking establishment, and why the men’s room continues to smell disturbingly of Fruit Loops and Frank’s Red Hot Sauce.
Frank Thomas will bellow on to near anyone who’ll listen about pitching systems, about how grip and speed are distinct from each other and the Fastball is actually more of a technique and grip rather than any sort of descriptor of the speed of the ball. It is, Frank will tell you, breath reeking of chew and corn beer, possible to throw a slow fastball and have you ever heard the like? He’ll often go on about nomenclature, dropping obscure terms like bock and Cracker Jack until the uninitiated leaves the establishment feeling as though they may be a few short moments away from being offered a glass pipe and a lifetime of lip burns and subverted risk/reward mechanisms.