I see London, I see France...

There's not much I love more than a man who could fell a tree and/or survive at least one minute in a bear fight, so I have a warm spot in my heart for Brett "The Hitman" Wallace and his massive lower body. The man is a beast. Like, he could fell a tree while fending off a bear and mashing with his non-dominant hand. Like, he's going to go Hulk-style up in here if you look at him the wrong way. Like, watch your back, Chuck Norris.

So the boys and I are at Modern Woodmen Park (hee hee) to scout the Hitman last Saturday. HMW is eating a hot dog covered in death and delicious bacon. Sir is promising to tell me a story so amazing it cannot be shared at a minor-league ballpark. And I am mentally planning the ice sculptures at my extravagant wedding to Brett while I watch him lumber about third base.

Next half inning, I'm eying him on deck while he's stretching, taking a couple practice swings, giving a fine display of his beefy form ... and, wait, is that a panty line? Yes, that’s a panty line. The Hitman is rocking it dad-style in tighty whiteys, and there's no hiding them in those baseball pants.

I suspect he can't find any BVDs that can contain his powerful thighs, but now that he's rolling in signing bonus there's no excuse. Get some custom-made D&G diamond-encrusted boxer briefs, stat. Seriously.