45.07 It is done...
Posted: Tue Dec 29, 2020 11:16 am
One by one, Shoeless plucked the post-it notes scattered across his desk, crumpled them into balls, and tossed them in the direction of the waste paper basket by his office door. He hadn't showered in two days. He hadn't even left his office outside of random bathroom breaks, caused by the countless empty ginger ale cans and empty bottle of Absinthe strewn on the floor next to him, along with several overturned Chinese delivery boxes. The Mad Popes were in the midst of another topsy-turvy season under his leadership, and the doldrums of a lackluster June left the team clinging to the fourth wildcard spot in the Frick. Do we even have enough to hold that spot ... or to maybe make a run at those idiots in Hawaii for the Pacific crown? The questions clung like a thousand bats to the roof of his mind.
He lifted the screen of his laptop and read again, for the hundredth time, the message he received from former Crusader GM and current Twin Cities GM, Ted Schmidt:
He lowered the screen again and placed the laptop on the counter behind him. "Dor ... ," he tried yelling before clearing his throat. "Doris! Doris, you out there?"
His secretary of six years came to his door, saying nothing. She still held in her hand the romance novel she was reading at her desk.
"Do we have any of those legal pad things laying around? These damn post-its aren't cutting it right now."
Doris rolled her eyes and walked away. Moments later she returned, tossing a plastic wrapped three-pack of yellow legal pads onto his desk. She looked at him as if to ask if there was anything else.
"Thanks, Doris. That's all for now." He ripped open the pack and dropped two of the pads onto the floor along with the wrapper.
He grabbed a pen and at the top of the remaining legal pad he wrote in large letters, "Simpson --- Extension??????" Underneath, he began making marks:
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
//
One-hundred sixty-two marks -- one for each million David Simpson wanted for a six-year extension with the Popes. 162. Million.
"I can't do it. It'll hamper us for years," Shoeless shook his head, sighing. "The fans will revolt. There'll be blood."
He pulled his laptop back to his desk, lifted the screen again, and began copying down the list of names the Popes would get in return -- six pitching prospects, a decent outfielder to take Simspon's spot in the lineup, and a turd second baseman in short season A-ball.
Shoeless went back up to the top of the page and scribbled the name, Tony Alomar, next to Simpson's, then added, "4 years ---- $42m". Then, underneath the list of prospects he get in return, he added the name, Render, underlining it several times. He ripped the sheet from the pad, leaned back in his chair, and held the sheet above his head, staring at it. He rocked his chair from side to side, his eyes never leaving the paper.
After several long moment he yelled, "Doris! Hey, get your old boss on the line. You know, the one boss you actually liked. Then, order me a damn Reuben sandwich and a coke from Roxie's Deli. I can't eat another bite of this Chinese shit."
He lifted the screen of his laptop and read again, for the hundredth time, the message he received from former Crusader GM and current Twin Cities GM, Ted Schmidt:
He lowered the screen again and placed the laptop on the counter behind him. "Dor ... ," he tried yelling before clearing his throat. "Doris! Doris, you out there?"
His secretary of six years came to his door, saying nothing. She still held in her hand the romance novel she was reading at her desk.
"Do we have any of those legal pad things laying around? These damn post-its aren't cutting it right now."
Doris rolled her eyes and walked away. Moments later she returned, tossing a plastic wrapped three-pack of yellow legal pads onto his desk. She looked at him as if to ask if there was anything else.
"Thanks, Doris. That's all for now." He ripped open the pack and dropped two of the pads onto the floor along with the wrapper.
He grabbed a pen and at the top of the remaining legal pad he wrote in large letters, "Simpson --- Extension??????" Underneath, he began making marks:
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
////////////////////
//
One-hundred sixty-two marks -- one for each million David Simpson wanted for a six-year extension with the Popes. 162. Million.
"I can't do it. It'll hamper us for years," Shoeless shook his head, sighing. "The fans will revolt. There'll be blood."
He pulled his laptop back to his desk, lifted the screen again, and began copying down the list of names the Popes would get in return -- six pitching prospects, a decent outfielder to take Simspon's spot in the lineup, and a turd second baseman in short season A-ball.
Shoeless went back up to the top of the page and scribbled the name, Tony Alomar, next to Simpson's, then added, "4 years ---- $42m". Then, underneath the list of prospects he get in return, he added the name, Render, underlining it several times. He ripped the sheet from the pad, leaned back in his chair, and held the sheet above his head, staring at it. He rocked his chair from side to side, his eyes never leaving the paper.
After several long moment he yelled, "Doris! Hey, get your old boss on the line. You know, the one boss you actually liked. Then, order me a damn Reuben sandwich and a coke from Roxie's Deli. I can't eat another bite of this Chinese shit."