So Mr. T – he wanted me to call him Mr. T – came in at about 11:00. I didn’t really recognize him at first, but it didn’t matter. The guy announced himself when he came in, three sheets and all. “Attention, all you Palm Beachers. My name is Tony LaRussa, manager of the World Champion St. Louis Cardinals, and I insist that one of you gin joints get around to serving me a potent potable type of drink, goddamnit!” he said, banging his hand on the bar. “Excuse me, sir or madam! I am thirsty! I am breaking camp with Kip Wells and Braden Looper in my pitching rotation and I have the worst possible outfield in the worst possible league! I think I earned a little alcohol for all my trouble!”

Then he saw me on the other side of the bar and waved me over. Though he was calling me paisan, or something, which was pretty funny, since I’m Irish. “Hey! It’s paisan! Hey, paisan, you chubby tub of fun! Get over here and make me a Slippery Nipple, so I have something to suck on before the sucking really starts!” Now, you might wonder why I put up with this guy calling me fat. Well, for one, I am – not like I’m gonna lie about it. I’m XXL all the way, and I’m cool with that, it’s how I roll (ha ha ha).

Number two, drunk dudes are awesome tippers, especially if they give you money that they forget about, if you catch my drift. What has two thumbs and loves tips? This guy right here, that’s who. Also, my dad’s from Missouri, and he’s a HUGE Cardinal fan. Has a signed picture of him & Stan The Man hanging in his office, and he used to tell me about those Cardinal teams in the 80s. Used to bore the crap out of me, but whatever, I’ll put up with a guy calling it like it is if he’s from my dad’s team. And if he’s peeling off twenties like he’s at a high-rent strip club, then, hey, bonus.

I gotta say, thought, the guy looked like hell, and not just because he was tipping back some of Grandma’s Cough Medicine. He started babbling about stuff the minute his first shot went down. “You know Walt Jocketty, right, paisan? Jocketty can take a whiff of my Jocketty! We got two guys on the entire team! Two fucking guys, pardon my damn French language! Carp & Pooge. Pooooo holes. We’re gonna have it coming out of our pooooooo holes. Everyone else is either hurt or off wrestling or just straight-up garbage. Like So Taguchi? I mean come on! Should be more like Sore Tabooty cause he’d be riding pine! Juan Encarnacion? More like Juan Encarceration because, you know! 5 to life for not knowing when to lay off the junk! Ha ha! Like drugs! Ha ha! Chris Duncan? More like … oh, I shouldn’t say that. I really shouldn’t say that. Dunk! Hey David Duncan! Your kid’s a good kid! He’s a real good kid! Can’t field a question let alone a pop-up, but still! He is a bonafide honest-to-goodness Ball Player! He’s got rocks and a great lefty righty split! Or whatever! Just like you, Dunk! Salut!”

Then he’d down another shot, and try to do that thing where it’s like a high five, but with your forearms. Almost whanged his head off the bartop one time. Other than that, though, the dude was pretty coherent, and (as my gammie’d say) a trip without the luggage. Some more stuff I kinda sorta remember:

• “Do you know why I carry all these rings with me? Do you? It’s like that movie about the blood diamonds – it’s all about the bling bang! The bling bling blangalang! Blingity blingo bling! Buzz blingy bizzingerty! What a clown! Buzz Bizzinger Buzz knows as much about baseball as George Will knows about not bowties! Bazingo! Buzz buzz!”

• “You know what the saddest thing is, paisan? You know what? It’s that all these folks think I’m some sort of zen master genius with the math and all that. All that lefty righty pitcher crap? Me & Dunk love it. If there’s one thing I got out of that piece of crap law degree, it’s that you gotta mess with the mind of your opponent. And, lemme tell you, seeing the look on Garner’s face when I make 3 changes in one inning. That’s the kind of thing you can’t buy with MasterCard. Maybe AmEx.”

• “Rickey Rickey Rickey. Ah, Rickey. Mr. T misses Rickey a lot. Rickey was always good to talk to about Rickey. Rickey knew lots about Rickey. I loooooooooved Rickey. Rickey Rickey Rickey Rickey Rickey. Bablingy!”

• “The thing is, about homeless dogs, they’re just like you and me. They need shelter. They need a bath. They need a water dish. They need a little love, and they need some tough love. They need to know they’re appreciated. They need a closer that won’t get hurt every other week. They need a catcher that can maybe hit his weight once in a while. But he hit that homer last year. What was I saying?”

• “Loogy! That’s a weird word, ain’t it? Loooooooooooooogy. Looooooooooooooooooooooooogy. Is that even English? What is that? All I know is Eric Plunk was one ugly bastard.”

Then he mellowed out hardcore. It was like some crazy schitzo thing – one minute he was all chatty, and the next he turned into some dude crying on Oprah. He started talking about guys like Ray Lankford & Donovan Osborne like they were old war buddies that ate it in Nam. He said he wanted to apologize to Steve Kline and Scott Rolen, but his pride wouldn’t let him do it. He asked me if I knew how Bud Smith was doing, and I was like sorry dude, the only Bud I know comes out of a tap. And that must’ve done something, because right after I said that, he burst into tears, and just … I dunno what it was.

He started apologizing, but it was more than that. It was like he cut the wrists of his heart, and bled baseball all over the bar. It was amazing, like all those years of experience just came out of him, like every word he spoke was just really heartfelt. He kept repeating, “I totally fucked up, totally fucked it all up.” That and, “Dammit, Mark. Goddammit.” And, “I didn’t know a damn thing.” He was talking about the 1988 Series, 1990 Series, the 2004 Series, all this sorts of stuff. Just throwing out all these names, and it’s like he was trying to apologize to every single one. Then he grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Aw, Sid. I treated you good, right? I didn’t fuck you up, did I? I treat you good? Did I? I’m sorry, Sid. I’m so so sorry.”

And then the dude up and yakked all over me. Twice. He did it the first time, then said something like “oh I’m so yarp,” and then yakked again. I guess Mr. T stopped off at the Olive Garden at the start of the evening, because I ended up with a little Chicken Parm making time with my shirt. Meanwhile, Mr. T slid off his barstool without so much as a “pardon my spew” and stumbled off into the night. But you all know what happened next. As for me – well, now I get to tell my dad that I had a bona fide Major League Manager blow chunks all over me. & he’ll probably want me to send him the shirt, unwashed. Uh, no.

Lenny Barty is an ABC Bartending School graduate. He has worked at the Bennigan’s Grill & Tavern in Jupiter, FL for the past 15 months. He does not recommend the Monte Cristo.