No one has explained what the knuckleballer was seeking at that altitude.
He was an old manager for team in a city near Canada, and he had gone one hundred and nineteen days since winning a pennant. On the first day the pitcher had been with him but the pitcher had been sandoval which is the worst form of unlucky and the season had ended and the old man had gone home to wait the nothing months out until spring and the start again.
“There’s a hell of a lot to be done,” Kevin Towers said. “I’m thinking of trading Paul Goldschmidt for Marco Scutaro. And I don’t like the way Ian Kennedy looks when he pitches. He says it is mechanics, but I think he’s just trying to look pretty. That isn’t the Diamondbacks way.”
“Stop it,” Brandon McCarthy said.
“Did we tell you we got Cliff Pennington?” Kirk Gibson said. “For Chris Young. The A’s were eager to take him. I am not sure why.”
“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it,” Brandon McCarthy cried.
It was very late and everyone had left the restaurant except a well-tanned man who sat in the shadow. The two waiters knew the old man was a little drunk and they knew that if he was more drunk he would put on a fake moustache and try to leave without paying.
“Last year he was fired from his job.”
“For what reason?”
“Because his team drastically underperformed expectations. Also: there were some interpersonal concerns.”
The well-tanned man tapped his glass. “Another Sapporo.”
The younger waiter went over to him. “Why did you question the motivations of Youkilis? He is a Yankee now and it is your fault. You drove him away.”
The well-tanned man nodded.