Jack Brett raged at his nice boy son. And George Brett learned to fear failure. He learned to fear embarrassment. He learned to fear that voice, the rumbling voice of his father, tearing him apart over an error he made in the third or a swing out of the strike zone. After one such conversation, George tore the phone off the wall in the clubhouse. After more than one, he headed out into the night to find relief.
George Brett did not grow up to be a nice boy. He took a bat to the toilets in ...
“I’m tired of talking about 1985, I really am,” he says. “I am sick and tired of it. You know? You can only look in the past for so long.”
George Brett is awesome.
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