So, certain previous comments made on this blog about the Met’s prospect have turned out to have been wildly optimistic, and Mike Pelfry is now back in the minor leagues, where it had been increasingly, and increasingly painfully, obvious that he belonged. But, with El Duque still injured, there doesn’t seem to be any good options to take his place, leading one terrified bloger to speculate that something like this might be about to happen:
Willy Randolph, Omar Minaya, and some of the special assistants are talking. Their faces are dark and drawn. They walk away with their heads down. Randolph looks like he just saw one of his players miss-play a ground ball while killing a kitten.
A special assistant picks up a phone: he talks softly, in a defeated voice—it is as if he is calling up the bank; he is telling them to take the family farm.
In the Dominican Republic, a short fat man in a cheap suite returns a battered old telephone to its cradle. He is puffing on an odious, cheap cigar, a look of triumph on his face. He thumbs through a rolodex of filthy cards, removes one, and leaves his dingy office.
He walks down the dusty streets, to an increasingly run-down part of town. He walks into a bar that smells of spilled rum and urine and broken dreams. He exchanges a few hushed words with the bartender, who points to the back of the bar. There, a stout woman is standing by a table, in a dirty mini-skirt. She is wearing enough lip-stick and mascara for a county in Long Island. She is yelling at the man sitting at the table, but he is not paying attention to her, staring dolefully into his glass of rum.
The short man in the cheap suite runs his hands through his greasy hair and approaches the man at the table: “senior Lima, por foavor…”