Ask anyone who’s anyone or no one who’s no one, and they’ll tell you that Frank Robinson is a good, tough egg. In doing so, they’ll likely use a sampling of the Lord’s nouns like “toughness,” “class,” and “dignity.” But what if Mr. Robinson were forced to wear red pants paired with a red top? Would he still be tough, classy and dignified? Or would he, by mere virtue of the sartorial affronts inflicted upon him by, say, the Indians of Cleve’s Land, become something less? That is, do clothes make the man, or do they unmake him?
And what hope is there for the rest of us?
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