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First, just watch the video.
What a story. What a great fuckin’ story. One of the greatest third basemen in baseball history, messing with some rookie in spring training by telling him probably the most embarrassing story of his life. This is why George Brett is one of the all-time greats. Not just because he’s a member of the 3,000 hit club, hit .390 in 1980 or garnered 98% of the hall of fame vote, but because he’s just a regular ball buster like the rest of us. What a wisenheimer.
Let’s break this one down, because this video is worthy of such analysis and praise.
Before we even get into the quotes, let’s take a look at how old #5 is approaching these stretching drills. He’s not even playing in the game and he’s stretching out his legs, just really loosening those bad boys up. Stretching for no reason at all. TFM. He‘s also wearing two pairs of sunglasses. TFTC. This man is just the best.
On to the story…
“Shit my pants last night. I did.”
Note how specific he is here. The connotations associated with “last night” could mean anything. Was he so drunk he shit his pants? Did he just try to cut a meaty chud under the covers and soiled himself in the process? Luckily, he elaborates…
“Went out and had a meal. Just a great fuckin’ meal…”
Reiteration can distinguish the greatest storytellers from the rest of the pack. Not only did he have a meal, it was a great fuckin’ meal. It’s like the guy at lunch talking about a girl the night after a hookup. “She had great legs, man. Just great fuckin’ legs.”
“I’m good about twice a year for that. When was the last time you shit your pants?”
Brett is obviously just a phenomenal public speaker and storyteller. He’s building rapport with his audience, while sharing his life experiences, his battles, like shitting his pants twice a year.
“I had a tee time early in the morning…”
Of course he did.
“I’m walking back to the hotel, I get three quarters of the way out of the lobby and all of the sudden, I go oh fuuuuuck…”
He’s still using specifics, he wasn’t halfway out of the lobby, he was three quarters of the way out of the lobby. He then kicks off the meat and potatoes of the story with profanity that vaguely lets the audience know that they’re in for brilliance.
“I’m fucked. I can’t move.”
Building sympathy with his audience. He’s a prisoner in his own body right now. Riveting.
“Water. Straight fuckin’ water. I had food poisoning from the crabs.”
At this point, he’s using specific metaphors to describe his plight. Of course, water isn’t exploding out of his ass, but in order to break down the distance and connect with his audience, he’s using a normal, relatable thing to bring them closer and engage them further in the story. Exemplary.
“I’ve got jeans on, black Bucks, no socks and every time I‘m walking, it‘s just water…”
At this point of the story, it’s like we are fully immersed in the Bellagio lobby, hanging on every word coming out of GB5’s mouth. Transfixed on each detail, wondering how it’s going to turn out. The way he’s so forthcoming with the details is amazing.
“Called my friend. I said, ‘Larry, you’re not gonna believe this. I’m standing outside of the Bellagio and I’ve got shit all over myself…’ So he goes in, finds the closest bathroom in the lobby…I go in there…I take off all my clothes, wipe myself off. Leave my shoes, my pants, the towels, everything right there in the stall and I’m walking barefoot with my shirt and his pants at midnight.”
Anywhere else in the world, he probably sticks out like a sore thumb. But it’s Vegas. No one probably even noticed.
“Got up in the morning, took the most perfect double-tapered shit of my life. True story.”
The most perfect, double-tapered shit of my life. Wow. Just…wow. That is a term that should be used more often in everyone’s vernacular. Incredibly explicit, yet wonderfully crafted. Isn’t that always the case, though? You have beer shits/diarrhea/what have you, and then the next day, you drop a perfectly solid, passable, nine-inch log in the bowl. The human body is a mystery.
And as his once captive audience moves on from the greatest story they will ever hear, we are blessed with a simple, yet amazingly timed question.
“Who’s the pitchers in this game?”
The man just told a story about shitting his pants in the lobby of one of the nicest hotels in Las Vegas, how he stripped down naked in a lobby bathroom stall and wiped diarrhea off of himself, wrapped himself in his friend’s 48-inch pants and strolled out onto the Las Vegas Strip sans shoes after covering himself in his own shit, dignity still intact. All he wanted to know was who was pitching in the game. That’s just a ballplayer right there.