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10.03.2009

Bruce, Brian, Welcome to My Underground Lair

Please, gentlemen. Come in. Welcome back. No, no, all that is in the past. I mean it when I say welcome back. Whatever disagreements we have had are forgotten, and by disagreements I mean blog posts that I have written and you were never aware of. But now that my staff has come to fetch you -- you can take the blindfolds off them now, Chone -- you are full of awareness, no? A simple, clear awareness, like a revelation that comes to you upon waking in the middle of the night. Ah! You are saying. If not now, you will be soon. Everyone will be. Everyone, all over the world will finally understand! And those who don't...

Where was I? Ah yes. We are once again a family; you, Brian, in your heated skybox, Bruce, you standing with calm attention at the dugout rail with a healthy, anti-oxidant rich post-game spread awaiting you, and me, the black sheep of the family, I guess you could say, ha ha, out beyond the left field fence freezing my fucking balls off and hundreds of dollars the poorer every year. But what is family if not a sacrifice? Hm? 

Please. Come sit. Sit. There, and there. I insist. Comfortable? If you reach to the side, there's a lever that eases you back into a reclining position and produces a footrest. Quite the innovation. I believe it is called a La-Z-Boy. Wonderful! Drinks? My assistant will refresh us. For you, Brian? A Hefeweizen? With what? Please, speak up. A lemon wedge? Why not a pink umbrella while you're at it? I kid. Of course, Hefeweizen coming up. And you, Bruce? Tap water? Bien sur. We are in an underground lair, and the water comes directly from a subterranean river, triple purified through miles of granite. I call it Eau de Malo. You shall find it to your liking.

Here you are, gentlemen. Thank you, Nomar. Leave us, you may retire now. Please, sip, enjoy, lean back. Sip again. Remember to focus on the sound of my voice...the sound...of...my....sound....my....my voice. Voice. Vuz. Voos.

Straps, Brian? What straps? Oh, those things? Just a little device I've installed in my La-Z-Boys to keep my guests from, shall we say, falling off. Insurance premiums these days, don't get me started. Of course you can't move, Bruce. You're relaxed. You're very, very, very...

Relaxed.

Yes? Good. Do you hear these chimes, gentlemen? Bing-bong-bing. These three notes are my signal to you to continue what you are doing. Brian, if you are discussing a contract with a 32-year-old free agent, and his agent demands five years and a no-trade clause, all you have to do is say, "This conversation is over," and bing-bong-bing. Isn't that a lovely sound?

What's that, Brian? What if he's an All-Star, a Gold Glover, and a former .300 hitter? Oh, Brian. Don't say that. Please don't make me press the bad button. Don't -- Brian -- I -- OK, I warned you.

Bruce, do you see how uncomfortable Brian is right now? Do you want to be uncomfortable, Bruce? No. You're shaking your head vigorously, which must put quite a strain on your neck. I don't blame you; no one wants to feel discomfort. And no one wants Eugenio Velez as the lead-off hitter except in an emergency, or Randy Winn starting against lefties -- though you probably won't have to make that decision next year. I agree, Bruce, with more plate discipline Velez could be an effective player. Well, theoretically yes. But I like it when you say "plate discipline." Bing-bong-bing. Happy chimes.

I think we're starting to understand each other quite well, gentlemen. I'm going to leave now. You talk amongst yourselves about whatever -- free agents, trades, lineups, rosters. Chit-chat stuff. I'll be in the other room with the chimes and the bad button. The chimes. Or the bad button. When I feel I can ignore them completely, it will be time for you to go. You will not remember this conversation, or my underground lair, or my Farrah-Fawcett poster, or my Tarantino DVD collection, or the man standing in the corner wearing the bow tie. You will remember none of it. But you will remember this sound -- bing bong bing -- and the very bad feeling when I press this -- Ooh. Sorry. A bit too hard -- and come April, I won't have any occasion to gnash my teeth or pull my hair out. Right? Thank you, Brian. Thank you, Bruce. Help yourselves to a mint. They're sugar free.