I'm quite busy cleaning up baby poo, various types of spit-up, and attempting to sleep when ever a baby-less moment should appear, so I haven't had much time to think about what a massive hypocrite Joe Torre is. The supposedly steady hand at the wheel of the late 90's championship Yankees teams has gone and written, well, this. Well, he didn't write it, Tom Verducci of Sports Illustrated did, but Torre's name is on the cover and that makes him responsible for more than just cashing royalty checks.
I'm fine with Torre writing a tell-all book about what a prima-donna A-Rod (A-HOLE!) is, how Slappy McBluelips is obsessed with Hey-Didn't-You-Used-To-Be-Derek-Jeter?, how Kevin Brown (of the padded room Browns) was found crying on the floor of the clubhouse in between innings of a game he was pitching, and how Roger Clemens liked to have hot sauce injected directly into his testicles before game time with a used syringe.* I don't even care that Torre broke the 'sanctity of the clubhouse' or some such garbage. What I'm not fine with (since Joe Torre is reading this I'm sure he is curious to know how this sentence turns out) is hypocrisy, and this book is full of it as much as Torre is.
Wasn't it Torre who excoriated Jose Canseco for writing a tell-all book? Wasn't it Torre who... aw, hell, who cares. He's a hypocrite, dammit. A hypocrite, I tell you! Sold? Good. Now I've got baby poop to clean up.
*Or something like that, I don't completely remember. Baby turds have an odd way of ruining what is left of your memory.
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