Editor's Note: This is a reprint of an article originally published in a major metropolitan newspaper in the early 1990s.
Mmmmm... I see you're back. Perhaps you remember our last encounter. As I recall, my hands were busy. It may have been mid-December, but they were not occupied filling stockings. If memory serves me right, our chance meeting took place in a dugout just like this one. The dugout is Greg Briley's natural habitat. A vulture has its perch, and Greg Briley has his securely capped Gatorade cooler. This place is the perfect vantage point from which to scout out possible additions to the Kingdome Kuties, as I like to call them.
I look left, I look right. If it is sunny, I cup my hands around my eyes to reduce glare. I sneak in at night and order pizza to this address, just in case the delivery is made by a lovely female. Usually it is not.
Let me show you some of my maneuvers. I have one I like to call "The Unlandscaped Smaller-Than-Regulation-Diameter Golf Hole." Let me show you what it looks like.
It's also known as the "Kiwi, Kiwi, You Can't See Me." See the subtle difference Greg Briley has indicated? Now I be dangling.
For undisclosed reasons, it has also been called the "Twenty-first McNugget." I received a municipal citation for performing this one in the women's restroom of an Oakland-area Baskin-Robbins franchise. And then in the storeroom where they keep the sprinkles. And once again in the parking lot, using a discarded booster seat for leverage.
You want to know about the catcher's mitt? It is actually an integral part of the performance when wedged behind the knee of either participant.
Hold up. I think I see something I like walking over there.
Nope. It was just a cotton candy pole. I got mixed up with one of those before. Never again. I had to go to the doctor. Cotton candy was in Greg Briley's ear.
Before I go, let me tell you one more name for this particular move. Come closer. I have to whisper it into your ear. "The Polanski Fun Dip Repulsion." Do not ask me to explain that one to you. All I know is that your crouch must be low enough or there will be hemorrhaging.
Oh, and if you invert that last one, it goes by the name "Oath Spurt." I have tried that one time. My back was sore.
Editor's Note: Before this article went to print, it was sent to a number of Greg Briley's teammates and opponents. This is what they had to say.
Dave Fleming: "A tip of the hat to the guy. I was in the clubhouse late one night icing my arm, I wandered into one of his get-togethers. When I wandered out, my glaucoma had cleared up, I had a tattoo on the bottom of my foot, and the ring finger on my right hand was permanently bent towards my wrist. Nine months later, my wife bore me three sons and a daughter."
Scott Erickson: "Don't talk to me about Greg Briley. Greg Briley is the reason I'm wearing this rubber jacket. Go away."
Ken Griffey, Jr.: "He said he what?"
Ricky Bones: "One day, I see heem, and he do... how you say... 'Upside-Down Pineapple Spank?' The girl... she no pretty... ees grande, muy grande. It look very hurting. But I give 'C' por caliente. Caliente Greg Briley! Caliente!"
Editor's Note: Greg Briley was offered the chance to retort, but did so in a very non-specific fashion.
What gender would you say that groundskeeper over there is? Oh, wait, that is a plastic bag.
Wait, do not leave Greg Briley alone! There is still time for the "Seven-Layer Salad Handshake."
Greg Briley did not think things through. Tonight, it gets stroked. What has just transpired maked Greg Briley wish he had three hands.
And fourteen fingers.