When I was a young’un, I was brought up to have firewater in my belly, to harrumph and garrumph over any transposition of the unwritten rules of base-ball.
Albert Pujols, strangely, was a guy who really got my goat (Sammy Sosa was such a friggin’ ham, his dumbass hop somehow escaped my radar). Pujols would hit mammoth homers and stand in the box and stare at them, like a robot or marble statue.
(I mean, hell was my problem? First, this is nothing compared to what we see today. Second, once he gets out of first gear, Pujols is like sprinting around the bases, not milking the moment.