Friday, April 14, 2006


It occurred to me as Gavin Floyd won his first game last night that the kid must have found something to inspire his confidence.

Most observers agree that the 23-year-old with the “filthy” stuff just needed to get his bearing and use his natural abilities without thinking about it – you know, Zen and the Art of Pitching for the Phillies.

Little did anyone know but prior to last night’s game, dear Gavin took a look at a picture of American Idol contestant Mandisa, which was bookmarking a page in pitching coach Rich Dubee’s dirty little notebook.

For the uninitiated, Mandisa has become a media darling of late, inspiring the type of cross-pollinated racial understanding that is rarely achieved by blowhards like the “Reverends” Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson.

It’s a given that not many men – straight Black Men, at least – admittedly lust after the aforementioned reverends’ fat asses. On the other hand, Mandisa would inspire a new Barry White symphony if he were still alive. Her gargantuan booty has near universal appeal to virile Negro gentlemen the nation over. Conversely, White Men almost unanimously think Mandisa’s monstrous brown bum is about as far away from a turn on as…a struggling young pitcher naked on the mound.

But for the American Brother? Get undressed, woman.

That said, it is obvious someone mentioned to our young hero Gavin after he discovered Mandisa that, besides having somewhat strange, pagan names, they had a lot in common. They were all talent, all ass, all the time. And did Mandisa care what she looked like and what the White Men thought about her? Hell, no. So who cares what he looked like as he was employing his devastating curve? Were the brothers worrying about how Mandisa sang as long as she let them get down on that ass?

Then, the moment of clarity: Just shut up and pitch, bitch.

Lo and behold, as he was grooving with those warm thoughts, the Phils went out against the Atlanta Native Americans and pounded them for five runs before our little warrior had to go to the pitcher’s mound. He was staked to a lead, a rarity this season.

“Five to nothing?” the Old Lady repeated, quizzically, as I perked up from my Ny-Quil. “It’s a miracle.”

“No, sweetheart. It’s Mandisa. It’s Mandisa.”

Stay away, Simon Cowell: The boy is ours.


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