Let's stick with Valverde for now. Those six words are going to ruin my Twitter page for the next week. Already there are people calling me awful names, their typing thumbs filled with sweaty rage, eyes dilated black from a blood pressure spike usually associated with Luther burgers. Valverde wasn't just the Achilles Heel in the post season last year; he was the character in Saving Private Ryan who wouldn't walk the ammunition up the stairs. We all screamed at the screen in abject futility, and after it was over we collapsed into deep depression, needing a drink and a call from Mom. Papa Grande manages, in the minds of many, to be somehow both a scapegoat and a symptom of whatever problem they've already assigned to the Tigers as an organization...
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