Dibs McNasty

Rob Dibble, 1989 Donruss

Name’s Dibs, a.k.a. Nasty Boy, a.k.a. Dibs McNasty. I got a rocket launcher for a right arm and an attitude to match. That means my attitude is also a rocket launcher in that I WILL BLAST OFF ON YOU. You’ve been warned.

You’re not a woman, are you? Good. I don’t care for women around ballparks. They don’t pay attention to what’s going on, and what’s going is that I AM DOMINATING MEN WITH MY BASEBALL PITCHES. They’re in the stands, these women, all like, “Hair and nails, something something, that’s my husband over there, he’s number such and such, I forget, I don’t like math, Barbie dolls and tea parties, I shave my armpits, did you hear what woman said about other woman, menstrual cycles, flowers and children and what not,” and meanwhile I just struck out like 17 guys and NO ONE IS PAYING ATTENTION TO ME.

One time I threw a ball into the stands as hard as I could for no reason and it hit a woman, and I’m all like WHAT IS SHE EVEN DOING HERE? Wikipedia described the incident as “inadvertent,” as if the ball hitting someone was some random happenstance that occurred as a result of a ball being thrown directly into a condensed group of many people. I was making a point, and the point was that: I AM ROB DIBBLE. Point: RECEIVED.

I throw balls at dudes, too. I don’t care. I threw a ball into Doug Dascenzo’s back one time while he was running down the first base line. That is my own personal way of recording outs, because throwing the ball into the first baseman’s glove is for sissies. Also, nice name, Dascenzo! GO BACK TO POLAND. Man, I am so pumped right now. I want to throw a ball at somebody so badly. Do you have a ball? I want to throw it in your face! No, you don’t have a ball? LET’S FIGHT WITH OUR BODIES. One time I threw down with my “manager” Lou Pinella. He was in the locker room all like, “Baseball, blah, blah, blah, look at me yelling at full-grown adults!” and I was like I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR CRAP. So we fought and I won. That dude is such a hothead.

A lot of people don’t know this, but I broke my arm in that fight. Still pitched the next day. Struck out 12 guys on six pitches, world record. That’s why it really sticks in my craw when pretty boys like Strausburg stop pitching because they have boo-boos on their arm. They’d have to drag me off the mound with a complex pulley system operated by dinosaurs before I voluntarily left the game because my arm had an owie. YOU’LL TAKE THIS BALL FROM MY COLD, DEAD HANDS, PINELLA. The way I figure it, some boy in the stands came to the game with his dad for the first time just to see me pitch, and I’ll be gosh darned if I let that kid down. I want him to say, 20 years from now, “Daddy, remember that time we went that baseball game and that pitcher gave up 38 runs and then his arm exploded and we never heard from that pitcher again and the franchise had to move because they had invested so much in that pitcher? I LOVE YOU, DAD.”

DIBBLE, OUT.