Once upon a time, and contrary to popular belief, House was young. When he was five, his mother called him Gregory (all three syllables carefully enunciated). His grandmother called him "that odd little boy," and his father said he'd never be President, not with that temper, but maybe, just maybe, with hard work and a lot of discipline, he'd get to play major league ball one day.
So he took young Gregory out into the yard. Threw balls at his head. Greg learned when to swing, when to step back; he learned how to run, fast and far and hard. He learned that the Yankees, no matter how many games they won, were cheating no good scum to be booed at every turn.
"Hey, batter batter batter," his father'd say. And House would swing.
He would run.
*fin.
[once more into the fray]