Theo Epstein recently sat down with Scott Boras, agent for both Alex Rodriguez and Jason Varitek, to discuss, among other things, the possibility of A-Rod joining the Red Sox next year.
This statement, apart from the immediate bout of nausea and vomiting that it inspired when I first read it, also made me aware of one unlikely fact: Alex Rodriguez and Jason Varitek have the same agent. Many Red Sox fans may wonder, and in fact have wondered, how this could be possible. Well, never fear, for I have rationalized this crazy situation to my own satisfaction. So read on, and sleep better for it, my friends.
Scott Boras, is, as far as Major League Baseball is concerned, first and foremost, an Agent. He may be a father, he may be a husband, he may, for that matter, be a complete asshole and a cockring. But he is still an agent. And, let's face it, he's one of the best agents available, which is why both A-Rod and V-Tek pay him a significant slice of their annual salary to represent them. Here's how I imagine Boras operating:
Scott Boras walks into a room where one of his clients sits. He extends his hand, smiles widely, and says "Hi, I'm Scott, your agent. I'm here to do everything in my power to make sure you make as much money as you can possibly make, no exceptions, no excuses."
Now, say the client is someone like Alex Rodriguez. At this point in the conversation, Alex takes Boras's hand, smiles even more widely, and says "Sounds perfect, Scott. Do whatever you have to do." Then A-Rod reaches down and presses a button on the table (a button that he brings with him everywhere he goes), which results in a sound like that of a cash register drawer opening (k-ching!), at which time A-Rod's pupils turn to dollar signs, and his tongue rolls out of his mouth, down onto the table, and continues to unroll like a red carpet, down onto the floor and out the door of the room.
Sound good so far? Okay, now imagine the client is someone more like Jason Varitek. Scott Boras walks into the room and gives the same intro about making Jason as much money as he can possibly make. Jason smiles meekly, takes Boras's hand, and says "Sounds good, Scott, that's your job, but I want to play with the Red Sox again next year. I love the city and I love my teammates. If it's not possible, then you do what you have to do, but staying in Boston is my first priority."
And what does Scott Boras, premier agent extraordinaire, do? He does whatever Varitek says, is what he does. Because, at the end of the day, he is still an agent. He works for Varitek, not the other way around. Which is why, when Alex Rodriguez turns down an option to make more money than God for three more years, working in the Second Greatest City in the World, for the formerly Greatest Baseball Franchise in the League, and people say "Oh, that's classic Scott Boras," they are wrong. They are fucking wrong. It's classic Alex Rodriguez. End of story.
Don't ask me why I'm so angry about this.
~ n e w s e c t i o n ~
On an unrelated note, I went to the grocery store yesterday. The shopping went largely without incident, so I won't talk about that. I'll assume that everyone reading this has been shopping at a grocery store and knows how it works, or, at least, has seen it done on television. Instead I would like to relate to you what transpired after I arrived at the checkout line.
When I pulled up, I chose a register where there was one couple about to finish paying, and nobody else waiting. I commenced to unload my groceries onto the belt. Meanwhile, the cashier (for sake of anonymity, and because I purposefully forgot his worthless name, let's call him George) is trying to clear up some confusion about a pair of rolls that the couple has picked out for themselves from the bakery.
"What kind of rolls are these?" asks George.
"I don't know, they were four for a dollar, I think," says the woman. A reasonable response, given that George should know how to charge fifty cents to someone without knowing what kind of rolls they are, along with the fact that they were obviously just fucking rolls. But no, George tells the couple that they need to go back and find out what kind of rolls they are, or he will risk overcharging them, which he, of course, doesn't want to do. So the man trying to buy the rolls goes all the way back to the bakery and looks for the name of the fucking rolls. Meanwhile, I have emptied my entire cart onto the belt, and am looking at George.
George is just fucking standing there doing absolutely nothing.
This is a good time to mention that George is about seventeen or eighteen years old. He could be as old as 21, but I'm still not willing to accept that as being completely possible. Soon, the man comes back and gives George the name of the rolls: "Tapeta rolls. T-A-P-E-T-A," the man says in a clear voice and in English.
"Ta...what?" says George. The man repeats the nonsense word, followed by a slower version of the spelling. After repeated attempts, George's ability to repeat the word that he has heard, but not to spell it out, convinces everyone within earshot that he has a learning disability. He is also unable to find the Tapeta rolls on his little magic screen of foods. George calls over his supervisor to help. The supervisor sees the problem immediately, and also solves it swiftly by charging the couple fifty cents and sending them on their way. Thank God for George's supervisor.
This would be a good time to mention that George's supervisor is a fifteen-year-old girl.
Finally, it's my turn. Before he starts to scan my items, I hand George a coupon for $1.50 off of a gallon of milk, which he sets aside for later. He then asks me a question that I am ready for: "Do you have a membership card?"
This is my first time at this particular chain of supermarkets, and I anticipate future visits, so naturally my answer is "No, but can I get one?"
"Oh, no, I'm sorry," is George's response. "I mean, I could scan mine for you, but . . . you'll have to go over there to the desk and get one after you check out."
"Well, can't I get one now?"
"Well, no, I mean, unless you're already a member, I can't . . . you know what I mean?"
"No. What do you mean?" George, of course, can't tell me what he means, because he doesn't even know. At this point, I am amazed he is standing on two legs all on his own. He begins to scan through my items, which he places on a small platform surrounded by plastic bags. Not in a bag, on the platform. The bags are closer to him than the platform, but he continues to reach past them with every item, to place it on the small platform. There is no bagger present, so I start to take the items down and put them in bags. George comes to a bag of romaine lettuce. He knows he is supposed to do something, but he is not sure of what. He looks at me.
"Is this celery?"
"That's romaine lettuce?" Are you from another planet?
"Oh, romaine lettuce. What are these?" He holds up another bag.
"Those are jalapeno peppers," you fucking retard. It goes on like this.
Then, mercifully, we are at the end. George reaches down to the register and picks up my coupon. He looks at it. "Oh, oops." He forgot to scan it. He looks at it for longer. You've got to be fucking kidding me, George, I think, just scan it in, or type in $1.50 off or something, and let me leave. But no, George has other ideas.
"Well, it's good until '08, do you want to just keep it, and use it next time?" No, no I do not, but I can see that I have no options here, George. At this point, I would like nothing more than to call over your supervisor and demand my $10 that you have cost me by 1) denying me the ability to apply for a membership card, and 2) neglecting my coupon, except that your supervisor is a fifteen-year old girl, and, frankly George, I am already so embarrassed for you that I can't take the scene that it would cause. No, I will pay the bill and leave quietly, George, but be warned: I will tell your story. I will tell it on the internet for all to read. I will change your name (unless it really was George, in which case, I apologize), but that is more than you deserve.
Good day, George. Good day.
