Imagine we've had to deal with idiot sports writers who suggest we are at the Tippy-Toppa our game for so many years we're almost immune to hearing it anymore...almost, being the key word in that sentence.
We’ve got an option for $4.4M again next year, and $3.4M the year after.
Imagine doing a little math and seeing we're in like Flynn for $7.8M. Atlantic City isn’t really a major player right now, but it’s good money and if we take it we’ll maybe show up in free agency at age 36—so there’s a chance, really, to pick up another couple million before we're done.
Our agent, however, calls us into their office and—while lighting up a big old cigar—discusses a much bigger future. “Pepe, babay!” they say. “We’re so much better than $4.4M! So much better! Remember the $6.6 we soaked off Chicago? Remember that, Pepe, Babay! And you were under-paid to boot! Fricken Vitale.”
Imagine he goes on to paint a bigger picture. That pitching is at a premium, you know? A guy what can toss the horsehair is worth a hellluva lot of pretty pennies, he says while pouring you a glass of port straight from that shiny crystal decanter of his. “You were a helluvalot better than Pendleton last year, and he made a cool ten-spot, Pepe, Babay. You were the nuts, man. They owe you bigger than $4.4.” And imagine next thing you know you’ve told that greed Atlantic City brass just where they can stick that $4.4M, making an epic exit scene worthy of a movie on it’s own.
Imagine going home to tell the wife and kids that you’re worth so much more than $4.4M. Imagine the look on the wife’s eyes as she imagines even more bling than $39M can bring a family. Imagine your son’s chest puffing up in pride, and knowing that he’s going to school tomorrow to tell all his buddies that his dad is worth a whole boatload more than $4.4M, just ask his ever-loving agent. Imagine sipping whisky on the back porch the night before free agent filings, breathing in the deep, deep fumes and feeling more alive than you’ve felt since you were a “kid” 28-year-old and got the news you were getting the hell out of Louisville. Yes, imagine it, the world working in your favor once again.
Then …
Imagine waking up the next morning to the phone ringing, and it’s your agent.
Pepe, Babay! he says. The phone’s gonna be ringing off the hook! he says next, as he explains that he’s put the word out asking price of $1.4, Pepe, Babay!, $1.4!!!!!!.
Imagine going back to your son and asking him to do a little math, and your sun whipping out a calculator.
“Take $4.4M,” you tell him, your heart sinking, “And subtract $1.4M…”
