Jason Heyward, superstar

Everybody's asking me, Babe, Babe, what do you think if this young stud in Atlanta, Jason Heyward? He just got called up to the majors. Do you think he can hit 60?

And I'm saying, Sure, if you're talking about hitting 60 on his automobile!

Ha ha ha. That's exactly what I said, too. It came right out of my mouth. I didn't have to think about it and formulate a funny response. I'm just a natural at cracking wise, like I was a natural at hitting and pitching.*

*And fucking.

Anyway, big Jason is only 20 years old, which is actually one year older than I was when I joined the Boston Red Sox and began to change baseball forever. As great as Jason apparently is, I wouldn't bet on him changing baseball forever. There's only one guy who can claim credit for that, and it's me. A guy like me only comes along one time. Ever.

But Jason does look like a star to me. I like the cut of his jib. I like his approach. I like the way he carries himself. I like the way he goes up there and swings hard every time. He doesn't have any cheap at bats. He makes the pitchers work.

Kinda like me. You know what set me apart from every other hitter on the planet? I went up there every time knowing I was gonna hit a home run. Not thinking it, knowing it. And so when I was doing dramatic shit like hitting the first home run at Yankee Stadium, or hitting the first home run in the All-Star Game, or hitting three home runs in a World Series game, or calling my shot in the 1932 Series, or fucking the hottest dame at any party I ever attended, it was never a surprise to me. It was completely expected that it would happen. That was my approach to baseball and life, and it served me well. Goddamn, it served me well. I loved every goddamn minute of it.

So good luck, Jason Heyward.