I get physically angry watching Max Muncy hit. This man just doesn't chase. You can almost hear him sneering "that's 0.16cm outside" as he takes a ball 1. Two-strike counts don't faze him. Then he'll whip out a hellacious dong on the 9th pitch. He's suffocating. He's Max Muncy.
I sat with him at a fancy dinner once, this gala charity event. We were in tuxes and he sat across from me. At one point early on a waiter brought out caesar salads, and Max started rubbing his tummy and making “yummy” noises like a toddler. Just as I picked up my salad fork—Max Muncy slapped it out of my hands. “Don’t,” he said, like scolding a dog. Stunned, I went to pick up the fork again but this time Max placed his sweaty hand on my wrist. “Like me,” he growled. He then mimed rolling up his sleeves…and proceeded to eat his salad with his hands like Cookie Monster. Lettuce and croutons went flying from his fat hands to his mouth. I was about to ask, “What the fuck?” but his blonde date made eye contact with me. She quickly shook her head, as if saying, “Just let him do this. He needs it.” I forgot to ask for his autograph: my biggest regret.
