All Weaver brothers need is each other
Jeff Weaver knows what you think of him.
He hears you snickering even now, about the meltdowns in Detroit and the Bronx, about the screaming into his glove, about the body language so obvious it reads like closed captioning for the hearing-impaired. He knows you have him pegged as a punch line: the soft surfer dude who couldn't cut it in New York, the hothead hot prospect who never really panned out.
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