I will never not think of Dirk Hayhurst's recollection when I think of Rick Renteria. I doubt that Cubs manager Rick Renteria remembers the day that, back during his minor league managing tenure, he told my High-A team that our opponents, the San Jose Giants, bent us over and stuck it up our collectives asses. I remember. As a matter of fact, it's hard to forget when a man as relentlessly positive as Renty loses his cool and, in lieu of the normal postgame chitchat, pounds his fist violently into his open palm screaming, "Boom, boom, boom! No grease!" That's right, No grease, because if the image of getting sodomized by the other team wasn't stark enough to paint a picture of how you badly you've failed, knowing they didn't even respect you enough to use lube should drive the point the rest of the way. No pun intended. Ironically, none of us thought too hard about Renty's words at the time. We didn't dwell on the symbolism or substance. The point of the lecture wasn't the words themselves, it was that we played bad, beat ourselves and that the other team had no reason to respect us because we didn't respect us. We all sat at our lockers, heads down, tails between our legs, whimpering at Renty's words, not because we necessarily agreed with the analogies used to describe us, but because our master was angry and he only gets angry when we do wrong. Days later, when the team righted its bad play, we thought about the words more. The meaning, the implication, even the humor -- Did he really scream no grease? I mean, who on God's green earth uses grease for what he was implying? Goose grease? Axle grease? That's hardcore, bro. How could a man yell something that silly? Stranger still, how could something that silly be so impactful? I mean, we were playing better because of it.