if i were a big leaguer, i'd have a translator, too. but my translator would be there to translate for all of the meatball, low-brow, baseball fans. it would be like wrestling. i'd also have a personal financial analyst in the dugout and i would speak to the translator in a british accent and wear romantic-era british clothes and strut about. translator: sulleymon would like to tell all of the women in st louis to stop chanting his name when he steps to the plate, as he finds them all repugnant and, most probably, in-bred. he would also like to ask st. louis men why they all hate him, of course he wouldn't touch any of their piggish sister-brides if they were the last prostitutes on earth. after all, doesn't he throw caviar out his car window when he drives by the unfortunate-looking people of this pathetic city?