[Westheim]

The 2005-06 offseason started out awful for reasons unexpected. Vince, our head scout for 15 years, told me that his old body couldn’t withstand the grueling travel anymore, probably a result of him having to walk 12 miles to work every morning when he was nine years old. He had inherited a little farm close to his home town with a few workers from a distant aunt and had decided to retire there, voiding the rest of his contract.

Stay well, old friend, you hear me? (lips are shaking) You hear me-e?

Enter the Mexican Prick. Before I could even get the phone up to call a veteran scout to replace the irreplaceable Vince Guerra, some pale guy with a shoddily knotted tie, who looked honestly like he couldn’t pour himself a glass of milk without help from mom, entered the office and announced that he had been sent by Mr. Valdes jr. Ah, the prick. What is he up to now? Does that poor impersonation of a Sunday school action figure actually hide a concealed gun to shoot me with? Or otherwise terminate me?

Nah. He merely announced that he was the new head scout, appointed my Mr. Valdes jr., right when Slappy innocently walked in without knocking to ask whether I had seen his pack of cigarettes, upon which Slappy inquired with me who Mr. Valdes jr. was. “Why, the prick!” I replied, much to the shock of Paleface. Slappy nodded, grumbled “Hate that fool” and trotted off, leaving the door open.

Paleface introduced himself as Mike Abrams, sweating visibly. I didn’t say much at all. Paleface Abrams explained in way too many words how he had studied this and that and knew how to evaluate players, and he used the word algorithm quite a lot. When he inquired about where his room would be in the office, I raised an eyebrow. What office? Wasn’t he willing to crawl through the Venezuelan jungle to uncover talent under gunfire from separatist militias? No, he said, all data he needed to evaluate players was in his notebook. I told him that there was no scout’s office at the Raccoons. But if he insisted, he could ask Slappy to get a share of the room for the cleaning equipment, which Slappy didn’t use much anyway.

Before he went off to get his Notebook of a Thousand Wonders from his Subaru, he also handed me an envelope from Mr. Valdes jr., a.k.a. the Prick.

That envelope contained nothing pleasant at all. The Prick pointed out in no uncertain terms how Paleface’s contract was interminable by anybody else but him, and also that he had bought Vince’s farm. Aunt Estella had been a fake to replace Vince, a semi-sociable guy you could drink a glass with while watching the Brown Botchers on the field while staying sentient – nobody stayed sentient when Slappy brought the booze – with this college kid that hadn’t seen sunlight since ’96.

Well, neither had the Raccoons.