When the Giants Come to Town, It's Bye-Bye Baby

10.01.2008
Money's Too Tight to Mention

Hmm, I wonder how our nation’s horrific financial mess will affect the Giants this off-season….

[Phone rings in a corner office in a sleek downtown highrise.]

Bob The Banker: Neither a borrower nor a lender be, this is Bob, how may I help you?  

Brian Sabean: Bob, Sabes here. Hey, is that a seagull in the background? You’re not out on the ledge, are you? I’m kidding. Listen, pal, I know I don’t usually check in with you on business matters, so let’s keep this between you and me.

Bob: Yeah, but Neukom told me…

Brian: Neukom’s not officially here yet, and Mr. “Love Me, I Built A Private Stadium” left yesterday. Which means I’m, uh, interim general executive managing partner chairperson. Which means, Bob, that I have to make some, you know, infrastructure decisions. Fast. We’re in the middle of rebuilding, and we have a few physical upgrades to deal with around the old ballyard, leaky pens, power shortages, things like that, and the guy we leaned on for years to patch things up, he’s not around any more. Plus the business is slowing down a bit, nothing drastic of course, but you know the drill, cash is tight these days. Not quite as many suits yukking it up in the luxury boxes.

Bob: Right. Thanks for reminding me. And?

Brian: And so…um…I need a loan.

Bob: A what?

Brian: A loan. Loan. Money. You know, what banks lend customers with valuable collateral and strong financial track records? Like us?  

Bob: Mmm, yes. Prudence, thy name is $126 million.

Brian: Now, hold on, that wasn’t my gig, that was, you know, someone who isn’t around anymore, not to name names, but let’s just say it starts with a “Pee” and ends with a “Gowan,” if you smell what I’m spraying.

[Silence.]

Brian: Wait. Who’s Prudence?

Bob: Where’d I put my wallet? Let’s see, I just went to the ATM, it’s your lucky day. I’ll lend you $20….

Brian: $20 mil? Oh splendiferous day!

Bob: No, $20. If you give me rights to half the profits on sales of Lincecum jerseys.

Brian: Funny guy. What about that luxury box “Happy Endings” weekend I got for you and the boys this summer? I can make that happen again, and not just when the Pirates are in town.

Bob: Sorry, Brian, we don’t do loans anymore. At least not to companies based in the U.S. whose cash flow depends on discretionary consumer spending. Bye-bye garlic fries, hello homemade cheese sandwich.

Brian: We’re not a company, we’re a franchise.

Bob: Even worse. Hey, ever heard of a credit default swap? No? Doesn’t matter. I know a guy who knows a guy at Treasury and can get you a few hundred thousand on the cheap to round out the portfolio for you and the missus.

Brian: Let’s stick to the old-fashioned loan. You know I’m good for it. I promise. I’ll be better. We’re building from within. We’re rolling our own. Listen — [grunts with obvious effort] it’s the sound of bootstraps. We here at 24 Willie Mays Plaza are pulling ourselves up by ‘em as we speak. Even so, think what Colletti and Towers and Krivsky and Cashman would say if I weren’t out there kicking a few tires this winter. They’d know something was up. Ol’ Sabes, no longer the tire-kicker he once was. Off his game, getting soft. Those guys smell blood in the water, it’s over. I might as well get a lifetime supply of SPF 50, strap a speed gun to my wrist and sit behind home plate in Sarasota.

Bob: So go kick.

Brian: Bob, babe, bubby, you and I both know you can’t kick tires without a little extra spring in your step and sole in your Coles. Boras can spot a window shopper a mile away. Plus, you never know when you’ll “C.C.” a deal you can’t refuse. Eh? Eh?  

Bob: I “C.C.” what you mean, you sly dog. Oops — call on line 3. It’s Ben Bernanke, gotta run. Tell Neukom to give me a call when he gets in. I have a fantastic collateralized debt obligation he really needs to know about.



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