As people, we worry. We want to be secure. How can I be secure? Through amassing wealth beyond all measure? No. That’s a sickness. That’s a trap. There is no measure. Only greed.
All I’m saying is that I’d do myself a disservice if I didn’t look around.
Of course, of course. But hear me out. Stocks, bonds, objects of art, real estate. Now: what are they?
Uh. Things I’m going to be able to buy shitloads of once I cash in my free agent chips?
They’re an opportunity. To what? To make money? Perhaps. To lose money? Perhaps. To “indulge” and to “learn” about ourselves? Perhaps. So f@#king what? What isn’t?
Okay.
I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. ::Takes out a small map and spreads it on a table:: What is that? Boston, Massachusetts. Greatest city in the world. Maybe the universe. So listen to what I’m going to tell you now…
Look, we’ve been through this before. I do love it here but I’ve got to do what’s best for me. My wife loves Seattle, and the Yankees, well… they’ll give me whatever I want just to bust your balls.
You do realize you just went 1-for-8 in the playoffs? After hitting .267 in the regular season?
That’s exactly what Mr. Cashman told me. Although he also pointed out that my 36 home runs were a nice improvement over Melky’s 13.
::sighs:: So… have you ever thought about how cool it would be to make $17 million a season?
With my own plane? F@#k yes.
* * * * * * * *
So I’ve been thinking.
You have?
Assuming you guys don’t pick up my five million dollar club option…
You are wise to assume that.
I’m perfectly happy with my three million dollar player option. I can be the back-up catcher and, y’know, help the young kids and serve as the “voice of reason” in the clubhouse.
Yeah?
Also, y’know, I could help out with other things. Like changing the oil on your Mercedes and stuff.
::Walks in abruptly:: Car’s all set, Mr. Henry. Oil changed, tires rotated, and a fine shammy on the interior.
Thank you, Victor.
Shit.
* * * * * * * *
Alright. If we’re gonna compete in 2010, I’m gonna need a bat. You got any leads?
Here. You get three leads.
::Looks them over:: Are you pulling my chain? Ortiz, Lowell and Drew? We’ve already got these guys. How am I gonna win a ring with these f@#king deadbeat wogs?
A lot of money invested in those “wogs.”
Ortiz is done. Toast. He can’t hit and no one’s gonna take him. He’s a f@#king black hole in the line-up. DFA his ass and let’s move on.
I’m thinking “off year.” Get him into a strength and conditioning program, maybe some of those “Met-RX” shakes. It’ll be 2004 all over again.
This is bullshit, Theo. I want the good leads. You got Adrian Gonzalez in there? ::Tries to peek at the other leads::
Look, Mitch and Murray gave strict orders: Only closers get the top leads. You bring us a title, you get the good leads. Get bounced out in round one, you get these.
A DH who can’t hit. I hope we’re not planning any 2010 parades just yet.
By the way, our contract with the Bigelow people is up. You gotta pay for that green tea, baldy.
* * * * * * * *
I hit some bad luck. Could happen to anybody.
Indeed.
Bad luck. That’s all it is. I pray in your life you will never find it runs in streaks. That’s what it does, that’s all it’s doing. Streaks. I pray it misses you. That’s all I want to say.
Okay.
But I just need to know that we’re cool.
Why wouldn’t we be?
Well, all this talk among the fans about how I blew game three and that Bard should be the closer. Don’t get me wrong, Bard’s a fine man. We know what he is. He’s fine. I don’t want to tell you your job. All that I’m saying, things get set, you get a certain mindset. We know that I can handle the closer role, but can he? That’s all I’m saying.
Okay.
So here’s where you tell me that you’re not going to trade me.
I’m not going to trade you.
F@#kin’ awesome.
Unless…
Huh?
Well, hypothetically, I could put you out there as part of a package for a bat. Maybe some team takes a bite, maybe they don’t. But if they do, I move Bard into the closer role, grab an Octavio Dotel and use him and Saito and Oki to fill in the gaps.
Uh. “Hypothetically” means make-believe, though, right? Not something you’d do.
Depends, really. Hypothetically, do you have time to run downtown and grab my dry cleaning?
Done.
Great. And for the love of God, put your pants back on.
