When I first heard the name “Kelly Johnson” two years ago, I snickered the stunningly puerile snicker of one who had spent too many morning hours listening to Howard Stern.
Kelly = a shade of green.
Johnson = ah, you know.
It wasn’t funny then. It’s twice as unfunny after today. There’s nothing funny about a Kelly Johnson. Or his bat.
Suffice it to say that for at least one weekend, the Braves are The Aristocrats [1] of the National League East. They’re quite an act.
In deference to the obscene final score [2], I’ll forego the Cox jokes.