Remember Me?

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You know, this guy?

Yeah, Brandon Morrow. Brandon Andrew Morrow. The First. BAMF, for short. On May 28th, Sons of Big Daddy Drew proclaimed me "the future of pitching in the American League." High praise, I know. But what can I say? I am the future of pitching in the American League.

Sabathia and Harden know that. That's why they begged so hard to get out of the AL. Hughes and Buchholz know that. That's why they don't pitch in the bigs anymore.

Gavin Floyd? More like Gay-vin Floyd. Get a haircut, fairy.

Joe Saunders? Munch a dick--you eat everything else, ya fat tub of lard. And how about you get a hat that matches?

Jon Lester?
Lester, you look like an nine-year old cancer survivor. They're called muscles? Get some. Wait, what's that?
Okay, point taken. But hell, I've seen cancer cells bigger and badder than you.

Those guys suck. I'm the future--SoBDD said so, and I'm worth every word he writes. (And those words are worth a lot, believe me. You have no idea how lucky you are to read this shit prose for free.) But sometimes, words--even from a master like SoBDD--just aren't enough. Sometimes, numbers add up to much more than words even can. 'Cause numbers add, and words don't, ya fuckhead. Numbers like these, ones I've put up since May 28th, that day when SoBDD promised great things would come of me:

G: 14 IP: 14.2 ER: 0 H: 2 BB: 1 SO: 19 Sv: 7 Opp.BA: .043 IRS: 0/3

Numbers that show I ain't the future anymore. I'm the present.