They Wouldn’t Survive a Week Today

Ranting... Curse filled, you have been warned!

Sometimes I sit back and think there is no fucking way half the guys I grew up watching would last a week in today’s game. Not with cameras on every inch of the field. Not with think pieces after every heated exchange. Not with social media consultants and curated personalities. They’d be suspended, canceled, fined, and probably charged.

But holy shit, did they make baseball feel alive.

Billy Martin was out there chain-smoking heaters, fist fighting his own players, getting tossed before the National Anthem ended, and somehow, somefuckinghow, managing his ass off. The man wasn’t managing a team, he was managing a bar fight that never ended.

George Brett once came storming out of the dugout over pine tar like someone had insulted his mother in church. I mean full-speed, eyes-bulging, foam-at-the-mouth rage. Today, he’d be trending for three days and forced to issue an apology written by his PR team. Back then? It was Tuesday.

This fucking guy!

Pedro didn’t pitch with strategy. He pitched with vengeance. He’d brush you back, freeze you with a changeup, then grin like he was mentally filing away the next time he’d drill you in the ribs. And you respected it. Because that’s how it worked. You knew the rules even if they were never written.

And don’t even start with Ohtani.

You think Pedro Martínez would give a fuck of Shohei Ohtani?
Please.

Pedro would look at Ohtani the way a lion looks at a show horse—confused why everyone’s clapping for something that’s never been in a fight. He wouldn’t care about your WAR, your exit velocity, your two-way unicorn bullshit. Pedro would brush Ohtani back just to let him know, this ain’t Japan anymore, kid. You flip a bat on Pedro? You better run. He’d put one in your ribs and smile while doing it, then strike you out on a changeup and talk shit to your dugout in two languages.

And Judge?

Oh, Judge would be his bitch.

Pedro would see that big strike zone and think, finally, a real estate investment. He’d throw that 97 with run under his hands, then drop a changeup that makes Judge spin out like he stepped on a rake. Pedro didn’t pitch to your strengths. He pitched to your nightmares.

He didn’t give a fuck about your endorsements. You could be 6'7", jacked, and perfectly polished, Pedro would cut you down like a weed in his perfectly manicured backyard.

Pedro didn’t pitch with respect. He pitched with rules, his god damn rules.

You crowd the plate, you wear one.

You show him up, you get the message.

You act like a superstar, you better earn it.

No bobblehead days. No charity strikes.
Just fastballs with consequences and changeups that told the truth.

Modern baseball couldn’t handle Pedro.
And Pedro wouldn’t try to handle modern baseball.

He’d burn it the fuck down.

These guys weren’t “brands.” These were men with grudges. Guys who hated striking out so much they’d punch a locker, the bat rack, maybe their own teammate. Guys who slid hard into second just because they didn’t like the way the shortstop looked at them. Guys who threw at you, dared you to charge, then fed you a mouthful of fist when you did.

Jack Morris once told his manager to sit down and shut the fuck up, he was finishing the game. And he did. Ten innings in a World Series game. No whining. No pitch counts. Just balls and willpower.

Rickey Henderson framed a million-dollar check because he didn’t need to cash it. Because Rickey doesn’t cash checks. Rickey remembers them.

Even the quiet ones were psychos. Randy Johnson killed a bird mid-pitch and barely blinked. He threw 99 with that serial killer glare and a mullet that looked like it had seen some shit. And when hitters stepped in? They knew. They fucking knew.

I miss that. I miss the unfiltered chaos. The imperfections. The fire. The absolute disregard for optics, algorithms, and “player image.” Guys were out there playing like every game might be their last and if it was, they were going to take someone down with them.

Now? Everyone’s best friends. They giggle on second base. They text each other after games. Bat flips are coordinated like TikToks. Pitchers scream when they strike out the ninth batter in a 10–1 game. And don’t get me wrong—I’m not mad at emotion. But this isn’t that. This is performance without danger.

The old guys weren’t “letting the kids play.” They were telling the kids to get the fuck off the lawn. You didn’t dance. You didn’t pose. You played hard or you got hit. That wasn’t toxic, it was accountability. You ran out the ground ball, or you got benched. You took a fastball off the spine and just jogged to first, because whining was weakness.

Maybe that’s the problem. Baseball’s gotten too polished. Too packaged. The dirt’s still there, but it doesn’t feel like it gets under the nails anymore.

I want the unhinged. The rogue. The guy who talks to his bat, flips off the fans, and drops a 12–6 curve just to humiliate you.

I want the fights that meant something.
I want the glares that gave you goosebumps.
I want baseball with bite, not just branding.

So yeah, maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe I’m just yelling into the void.
But I know what I saw. And I know what it felt like.

And today’s game?
It wouldn’t survive those guys.

Because they weren’t playing a game.
They were playing for keeps.