Off Topic
Transcript Leaked From Hidden Logs of the Bikini Krill Front Office
July 15, 2058: Forever Land – Bikini General Manager Ron Collins wipes his hands down the thigh of his pant legs. It’s come to this. Yes, indeed it has. With a glance to the “summer” weather outside his window, which is really just the weather, since nothing ever really changes when it comes to that here in the Marshall Islands — Every day, rain. Every day, sun, every day a gentle breeze — and with the taste of salt in the air, Collins presses the final button to complete the call.
“Every day another ground out to the shortstop,” he whispers to himself, realizing that this part of the numbness he can finally do something about.
The phone rings twice.
“Hello,” the voice on the other end says.
“Richie, baby!” Collins replies. “So great to hear your voice again.”
“Crap, Ron. How many more times do I gotta tell you I’m not signing an extension?”
“That would be a big-fat zero, Richie baby. A big fat zero.”
“Good to hear.”
“But I wanted to let you know that you and your .179 batting average can pack your bags alongside your -3.1 zone rating.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t pretend your ears are suddenly bad, Richie baby. We all know it’s the eyes that gots the problems. At least I won’t have to watch you pretend to keep the eye on the ball, anymore.”
“You’re releasing me?”
“Oh, hell no, Richie babay! No way I’d pay you four million smackers to sit on your ass like that.”
“What, then … oh.”
Collins sits while the news filters down to the kid. The whole saga has been one huge mess, and he’s finally happy to be on the kicking end rather than the receiving. Four million smackers! Jesus! He shakes his head. Or, at least with the deal that’s down to three million, minus the rest of the year. At least the finances aren’t so bad he’d get even deeper nightmares than he got watching the daily replays of Dares trying to play shortstop for those smackers.
“You’re trading me?”
“You got it in two, Richie babay.”
“Am I going back to Charlotte? That would be great. I loved it there. They know how to take care of a guy and get him properly motivated.”
“Nope, Richie-roo. No Charlotte.”
“Oh, all right. Where am I going?”
“Let me ask you a question. Which team in the league would be willing to give me a million bucks for you?”
The silence was deafning.
“No,” Dares finally says. “Not Long Beach.”
“Don’t worry about it, Richie, babay. At least you’re not a 37-year-old pitcher. But between you and me, I’d avoid drinking the water there. I hear it’s got something going around with it.”
With that, Collins hangs up.
He kicks back and breathes in the salt air.
“All right,” he says, swiveling back to his desk and taking a look at the stat sheet for one Wilson Andrade. “One down. One more to go.”
July 15, 2058: Forever Land – Bikini General Manager Ron Collins wipes his hands down the thigh of his pant legs. It’s come to this. Yes, indeed it has. With a glance to the “summer” weather outside his window, which is really just the weather, since nothing ever really changes when it comes to that here in the Marshall Islands — Every day, rain. Every day, sun, every day a gentle breeze — and with the taste of salt in the air, Collins presses the final button to complete the call.
“Every day another ground out to the shortstop,” he whispers to himself, realizing that this part of the numbness he can finally do something about.
The phone rings twice.
“Hello,” the voice on the other end says.
“Richie, baby!” Collins replies. “So great to hear your voice again.”
“Crap, Ron. How many more times do I gotta tell you I’m not signing an extension?”
“That would be a big-fat zero, Richie baby. A big fat zero.”
“Good to hear.”
“But I wanted to let you know that you and your .179 batting average can pack your bags alongside your -3.1 zone rating.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t pretend your ears are suddenly bad, Richie baby. We all know it’s the eyes that gots the problems. At least I won’t have to watch you pretend to keep the eye on the ball, anymore.”
“You’re releasing me?”
“Oh, hell no, Richie babay! No way I’d pay you four million smackers to sit on your ass like that.”
“What, then … oh.”
Collins sits while the news filters down to the kid. The whole saga has been one huge mess, and he’s finally happy to be on the kicking end rather than the receiving. Four million smackers! Jesus! He shakes his head. Or, at least with the deal that’s down to three million, minus the rest of the year. At least the finances aren’t so bad he’d get even deeper nightmares than he got watching the daily replays of Dares trying to play shortstop for those smackers.
“You’re trading me?”
“You got it in two, Richie babay.”
“Am I going back to Charlotte? That would be great. I loved it there. They know how to take care of a guy and get him properly motivated.”
“Nope, Richie-roo. No Charlotte.”
“Oh, all right. Where am I going?”
“Let me ask you a question. Which team in the league would be willing to give me a million bucks for you?”
The silence was deafning.
“No,” Dares finally says. “Not Long Beach.”
“Don’t worry about it, Richie, babay. At least you’re not a 37-year-old pitcher. But between you and me, I’d avoid drinking the water there. I hear it’s got something going around with it.”
With that, Collins hangs up.
He kicks back and breathes in the salt air.
“All right,” he says, swiveling back to his desk and taking a look at the stat sheet for one Wilson Andrade. “One down. One more to go.”