(Ed. Note: This post was all set to go up on Wednesday. And then Milton, in one of the most appropriately-timed tantrums of all time, decided to throw the good people of Chicago under the bus AGAIN. Thanks, Milton, for being the rule that proves that there is absolutely nothing exceptional about you.)

The three-year anniversary of HJE on Tuesday got me to reminiscing about the reason that I went from a WordPress blog to an actual, by-God, blog with my own address. That reason was the B126. It’s been a while since I wrapped up the B126 with the introduction of Todd Hundley as the Bottom Cub of My Time. I never thought another Cub could possibly come close to the loathsome, worthless piece of crap that was Hundley. I certainly didn’t think a Cub could do it in a single season. Especially not when he posted a .378 on-base percentage in that one season. But Milton Bradley made the most of his 124 games as a Cub, skyrocketing himself to the very top of the list of the Bottom 126 Cubs of My Time. Bradley is exactly the type of player I envisioned when I first began the B126. A despicable, hateful, terrible human being with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Say goodbye to the Top Ten, Juan Pierre. If I decide to stick with 126, then congratulations, Sandy Martinez. You’re off the hook. Milton Bradley has passed all 126 of you clowns, circled the track again to lap you all, blown out his ACL, spat in a spectator’s face, and captured THE top spot on the B126.

What’s one of your least-favorite days of the year? I’ll give you a hint. It’s coming up soon, it often costs you money, and it’s fucking Tax Day, okay? On one of the most stressful, miserable days for every American not named Dusty Baker, Milton Bradley was born to the world with a chip on his shoulder, malice in his heart, and little to no cartilage in his knees, apparently. Why did his mother choose such a stupid name? Because Milton’s lowlife father had that same stupid name, and he decided that he would pass it on to his son without the permission of Bradley’s mother. He also passed along, apparently, his hateful opinion of the world, people, kindergarten teachers, and–oh, yeah–white people. Instead of changing his name to something more practical like Jenga or Battleship, Bradley kept the name as either a “badge of honor” or an “excuse to act like a total asshole for the rest of his life,” depending on whom you ask.

Bradley was drafted by the Montreal Expos in the second round of the 1996 amateur draft. The Expos were looking for someone who would get along with a bunch of French-Canadians, and Bradley clearly fit the bill. He made his Major League debut on July 19, 2000, at Olympic Stadium against the Mets. Bradley had an impressive debut, going 3-5 with an RBI out of the leadoff spot. And he only made three kids cry! So, they were orphans. Big whoop. What were their parents going to do about it?

Bradley spent about a season with the Expos before he was traded to the Cleveland Indians at the 2001 trade deadline for Zach Day. Eric Wedge realized how much he hated Bradley after a mere two and a half seasons. During one particular Spring Training game, Wedge and Bradley got into it because Wedge had the audacity to expect Milton to jog 90 feet. So, the Indians traded Bradley to the Dodgers for Franklin Gutierrez. It took only two seasons in Los Angeles and one tantrum which involved Bradley flinging a bag of baseballs onto the playing field for the Dodgers to realize that Bradley was the biggest sociopath in the city since Gary Busey.





Did I say one tantrum? My fault. Bradley actually threw two Dodger tantrums. During the second one, he threw a bottle into the stands, earning himself a five-game suspension right in the midst of a pennant race.

The Dodgers sent Bradley to the Oakland A’s, after which Billy Bean promptly fired himself. If you haven’t seen a trend emerging yet, you’re rather stupid. Bradley lasted only a season and a half with the A’s. I suspect that Bradley killed a couple of teammates, burned down several churches, and declared Moneyball “overrated,” but no one heard about any of that because he was in Oakland.

For whatever reason, the A’s shipped Milton to the Padres. Bradley spent fourteen seasons with the Padres, becoming the face of the franchise and one of the most beloved players in Padres hist- Nah, I’m just messing with you. The Padres couldn’t stand him after only 42 games, so they let him go at the end of the season. Perhaps they were upset that Bradley tore his ACL while arguing with an ump about an incident that had occurred IN A PREVIOUS AT-BAT. When Bud Black wakes up for long enough to hit you with a flying tackle, it’s time to reassess some of your life choices. Oh, by the way, after Bradley went down, the Padres went on to lose their lead (and the division) in that one-game playoff against the eventual NL Champion Colorado Rockies.

Bradley signed with the Rangers during the offseason and put together arguably his most complete year in Texas in 2008 when he hit .321/.436/.563 with 22 home runs and 77 RBIs in only 126 games. The Texas Rangers are, to this date, the only team that has ever said anything good about Bradley. Perhaps because they fear him. Perhaps because they wanted to keep his value high in case he was tradeable. At any rate, even they had issues with Bradley. Bradley apparently got pissed and sad that Ryan Lefebvre, THE KANSAS CITY ROYALS’ TELEVISION BROADCASTER, compared him unfavorably to teammate Josh Hamilton. Never mind that Lefebvre’s words couldn’t have reached more than the eighteen Royals fans who were watching the game. HOW DARE HE COMPARE A CLEARLY BLACK MAN TO A CLEARLY WHITE MAN!?

After Bradley’s solid 2008 Jim Hendry naturally extrapolated his numbers to determine that in 2009, Bradley would hit eleventy hundred home runs and drive in a quintillion RBIs. Though no other GM in Major League Baseball really wanted to make a serious offer to Bradley, Jim Hendry leaped to his feet (very slowly) and offered him an absurd three-year, $30M-dollar contract.

I’d write a few sentences about each atrocity Bradley committed against the Cubs and their fans, but that would take too long, and no one reads the articles here, anyhow. To sum up, the crap that Bradley did in his brief stay in Chicago is as follows:

  • Refused to take part in Ryan Dempster’s Spring Training picnic, or whatever the hell it was. To be fair, I can hardly blame Milton for not wanting to have his tuna fish sandwich sprayed with seltzer water.
  • Injured his knee in his very first at-bat of the 2009 season.
  • Only played 124 games.
  • Slugged .397, his worst percentage in a “full” season ever.
  • Ruined my mom’s day as we sat in the stands on the Friday afternoon when Milton caught a fly ball for the SECOND out of the inning, posed, and tossed the ball into the stands. As I was watching Milton set up to make the catch, I turned to my mom and said, “He has no idea how many outs there are.” “You’re adopted,” she replied. It was a weird day.
  • Accused a bunch of PRE-SCHOOL CHILDREN (and their parents and teacher) of hurling racial slurs at his three-year old son.
  • Was such an asshole in the clubhouse that Lou Piniella called him a “piece of shit.” He then REFUSED TO ADMIT that Lou apologized to him for the incident.
  • Accused Cubs fans of being racist to the point where he said he was receiving racially-charged hate mail. Worse, he suggested one of the letters might have come from within the organization. And they’re all addressed to Kris Kringle! Did anyone in Chicago give enough of a fuck about Bradley to take the time to write him a note, find an envelope and a stamp, figure out his home address, and MAIL HIM A LETTER? When is the last time you mailed ANYONE a letter?
  • Accused all of the waiters in Chicago of rubbing his food on their taints before they served it to him. Well done, by the way, fellas.
  • Was such a disruptive presence, that Jim Hendry finally suspended him for the end of the 2009 season.
  • Got traded for Carlos Fucking Silva.
  • Sent Jim Hendry on a “chemistry” kick that culminated in him signing Kevin Fucking Millar.

To put some perspective on this, all top B126er Todd Hundley did while he was in Chicago was sweat pure gin, strike out a shitload, and flip off the fans. Sure, when he left, he got hammered and endangered the lives of his daughters by driving them around, but Bradley has the whole rest of his life to do something like that. Moreover, Hundley had an additional season to truly earn your hatred and to learn to hate you back, but even he thinks Milton should probably buy a stress ball.

Now, it’s Milton Bradley translation time!

If you don’t know me and I don’t know you, don’t approach me, and I won’t approach you.

TRANSLATION: I only know one person. And that person is RAGE. (closes eyes; reopens them, and they’re fucking GREEN)

Don’t insult me, and I won’t insult you, because you don’t know what I will or won’t do.

TRANSLATION: Don’t look at me, or I will fucking kill you. (sharpens bat; don’t ask how)

I don’t play this game to make friends.

TRANSLATION: I have no friends, and I’m actually lonely on the inside. (gives stink eye to a happy-looking couple)

I didn’t always follow the rules. I didn’t always do it the way it’s supposed to be done. But I did it.

TRANSLATION: Wait, you’re NOT allowed to slap umps in the face and spit gum at them? Huh. I did not know that. THEN WHY DO THEY GIVE US GUM??? (flips over table full of Big League Chew)

Ed. Note: When searching for the story of how Milton spat gum on an ump, I Googled “milton bradley sp” when, lo and behold, Google auto-completed it to read, “milton bradley spite and malice.” Outstanding.

I’m a different type of person, which makes me interesting.

TRANSLATION: Assholes are different and interesting. That’s how Tom Green got popular for that one week. (humps dead moose)

I’m not like everybody else. That’s boring. That’s just me. It’s not right, but that’s me.

TRANSLATION: Who would you rather hang out with? Some boring-ass accountant or A MURDEROUS SOCIOPATH WITH NO REGARD FOR HUMAN LIFE!? (swings infant around over his head)

Of course, you know Milton just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, even after leaving the Cubs. His hate mail comments on Wednesday included, it’s actually been twice in the past week that he’s come out and blasted Chicago.

Two years ago, I played, and I was good. I go to Chicago, not good.

TRANSLATION: I know in Chicago they love to cheer for terrible players who make a shitload of money, so they were clearly booing me because of the color of my skin. (looks longingly at picture of Shawn Estes)

I’ve been good my whole career.

TRANSLATION: My career started and ended in 2008. (catches fly ball for second out; crosses arms defiantly; three runs score)

So, obviously, it was something with Chicago, not me.

TRANSLATION: My three-year-old son will be an absolute monster. (steps on toy truck; burns house to the ground)

Just no communication.

TRANSLATION: Why won’t anyone come talk to me? I’m sitting right here at my locker, carving “HATE” and “HATE” into my knuckles with a Bic pen. (spells “HATE” wrong)

I never hit more than 22 homers in my career, and all of a sudden I get to Chicago and they expect me to hit 30.

TRANSLATION: It’s easy to hit home runs in Texas. (drives away in pickup truck with Confederate flag in the rear window)

I’m going on record as stating that there is no worse human being than Milton Bradley. If the B126 ever needs to elect a president, the vote should be unanimously for Milton Bradley. Anyone who ever defended this lowlife (myself included) should be ashamed. If you’re like me, you go to a job every day which you might not particularly care for. You have to tolerate people who might not be QUITE as annoying as Ryan Dempster, but they’re not your favorite people. You make a living, but you’re almost definitely not making $10M a year to go to work 124 times. Yet you manage to find happiness. You find it in an unseasonably warm day during a long Chicago winter. You find it in the smile of a beautiful girl (or boy; no judgments). You find it in the drumming of the rain, the irresistible wagging of your dog’s tail, the beauty of a new snow, a baby’s laugh, or the smell of cut grass. You find happiness in your friends, your family, your God. Now, imagine if every time you thought of those things, Milton Bradley was fucking them in the ass. That’s how he chooses to feel EVERY DAY. And he plays baseball for a living. Fuck him.

Low Point: There are so many to choose from. The baseball-related one is clearly the aforementioned game on June 12, 2009, at Wrigley Field against the Twins. With the Twins leading 5-3 with runners at the corners and one- that’s right- ONE out in the inning, Aaron Heilman got Joe Mauer to fly out to Bradley. Bradley caught the ball nonchalantly, posed as Nick Punto scored from third and Brendan Harris raced toward second base, looked around at all the fans booing him, and thought, “Oh, they must just want the ball.” He tossed it into the stands, allowing Harris to make it all the way from first to third on a fly-out to right field.

But a far greater low point was Bradley’s accusation that the faculty of his child’s preschool were calling him racial slurs. People know where Bradley’s kid went to school. People know that teacher. As a former teacher myself, I know educators have to be ever-vigilant of protecting their reputations. The slightest sniff of controversy can ruin a teacher’s career for life. Milton Bradley is a despicable person for accusing that poor teacher of racism. It’s unacceptable, it’s inexcusable, and it makes me wish that DCFS would come and save his poor child from what figures to be a horrible upbringing.

Did You Know? Bradley went to the same high school as Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn? I’m not certain, but I doubt Gwynn got kicked off the baseball team his sophomore year, jumped by gang members for playing on the “predominantly white” baseball team, and ended up shunned by everyone at Polytechnic High. That stuff ONLY HAPPENS TO MILTON. Maybe it’s because Tony sounds like a white guy.