Dateline, Los Angeles. Zero hour approaches. Midnight Thursday. Without a contract, it will be zeroes accross the board: zero for Daisuke Matsuzaka, zero for the Seibu Lions, zero for Scott Boras, zero for the Red Sox, and a winter of discontent for Red Sox Nation. I, for one, am ready to do whatever it takes to make sure this deal gets done.
"Luca Brasi held a gun to his head, and my father assured the bandleader, that either his signature or his brains would be on the contract."
-- Michael Corleone
Alright, that's a little rash. A little.
Last reports are that Red Sox brass took flight, unsolicited, accross the country, hunted down the Wild Boras with a Black & Decker bullshit detector, and have been bidding against themselves while the gamesome superagent stares at them as if they were alien life forms speaking klingon, perhaps reaching out occasionally to touch their faces and insure they're real and not holograms. Meanwhile, superagent's naive, mono-lingual client sits in the office down the hall, feet up on the desk, practicing the gyroball grip with an autographed Pudge Rodriguez ball plucked off the superagent's deal memento shelf, eating Doritos, accepting the occasional Diet Sprite refill from the superagent's tomato of a secretary, thinking all this is normal in America. It's not. Maybe it is. Whatever.
Dice-K, if in your boredom you hop behind superagent's desk, grab the mouse, surf the net, and stumble onto this site, buddy ... I don't know how to say this in japanese, but get your arse down that hall and tell superagent to stop f'ing around
Thanks, Scott. I really wanted to spend the next two days hitting the refresh button on Rotoworld and Fenway Nation, between re-watches of the Dice-K YouTube collection. I hate you like poison.
I won't rest until I see this held in the air:
FYI, if you don't know what all the fuss is, I recommend reading up on Dice-K on this blog.
Get. It. Done.
That is all.