Roberta Flack

By now, regular readers and God can attest that our icy list of spitting grievances against Bob Melvin is longer than Halley’s comet; his whiny catalog of postgame excuses, ineffective use of players, and congenital lack of fire barely fill page one in our limitless library of discontent.

But we’d forgive it all, even the losing, if Melvin would, once and for all, fix his fatal managerial flaw, that which irks Diamondhacks like no other, and singlehandedly undermines this proud cowtown’s allegiance to it’s hometown ballteam.

Bob Melvin is a womanly manager. 

Nothing personal, Mrs Melvin. We dont question Bob’s manliness at home, where nary a devoted spouse nor troublesome pickle jar likely escape his grasp. But enough smalltalk – as fans, we cannot even countenance the manner in which your husband walks to and from the dugout. How the spikes of a man, listed at 205 pounds, never actually sink into the ground when he walks has disturbed us for years. As his teams sink in the standings, the stilleto cleats of our 6’4" manager invariably refuse to follow suit, resulting in a mincing carriage altogether unsuitable for a leader of men.

Melvin’s derriere betrays a girlish wiggle when he prances back to the dugout – similar to Norman Bates’ latent sashay up the stairs in the original Psycho.  If you ask us, this largely explains the precipitous decline in ballclub duende since the departure of Bob Brenly, who strutted bowlegged on the field as if the air between his thighs could not possibly accomodate the glory of His swaying $crotum. 

Have you caught a glimpse of Roberta in a cold weather city like Milwaukee or Pittsburgh, donning the puffy satin jacket? Severely cinched at the waist, she appears bosomy and top heavy, as if easily toppled by a stiff breeze or vociferous argument.

Bobbi’s fingers are thin and feminine, like the digits of a concert pianist. When she points at an umpire in an alleged rhubarb, she looks to be pointing at rhubarb in a farmer’s market. She alternates between thumbs forward and thumbs back positions when placing hands on hips, just so, in the middle of a brouhaha. Add a new bright red belt to the ensemble, and you’d swear she was a fidgety dressing room attendant at Talbots or Fashion Bug.   

Melvin probably watches what he eats and exercises daily, and looks like a self conscious paragon of virtue you’d find on the cover of Men’s Health magazine. Whatever happened to a man’s manager, unconscious of how he looks through others’ eyes? A prickly, malodorous leader of men, who packs two pair of underwear for road trips and doesnt suffer the supercillious excesses of modern male hygeine. An obsessive personality divorced from responsible diet, and married to booze or tobacco – preferably both.

A  man like Earl Weaver or Whitey Herzog.

A man other men can look up to.

Without the heels.

(baseball photo courtesy Matt York/AP)