Headwarmer: You fainted.
Cashman: I did?
Headwarmer: Also, you pissed yourself. See your trousers? They’re wet with your own urine. I find that unfathomably awesome.
Cashman: I don’t understand…
Headwarmer: Look, you saw the guys finish off the Sox. You squealed, muttered something about cupcakes, then flipped backward over the railing. I tried to revive you…
Cashman: You did?
Headwarmer: Actually, I scooted off to grab a beer before the stand closed. But I did come back.
Cashman: So we won. Trumped the Red Sox!
Headwarmer: In a spring training game. Yes.
Cashman: So the Burnett Project has been a smashing success.
Headwarmer: If you want to call five scoreless innings against the likes of Angel Chavez and Brad Wilkerson a success, then… yeah.
Cashman: And they laughed at us. Called us fools for shelling out that kind of money. We’ll see who’s laughing when they’re staring at our asses mid-July, thirty-six games back in the standings.
Headwarmer: Whatever. I’m more concerned that our ultra-stocked line-up couldn’t solve Tim Wakefield for half the game. The guy’s as old as f@#king Abraham Lincoln and he made Teixeira look like he was wearing fifty-pound brass tits.
Cashman: But we did pack the house.
Headwarmer: For a while, yeah. Toward the end, you couldn’t have cleared the place out faster if you announced a free Fred Durst concert.
Cashman: You know, Headwarmer, you’re a bit of a downer.
Headwarmer: I’m a realist. I’m strapped to your useless noggin all day and I read your fear. You know you have to deliver a World Series title with this billion-dollar crew, and anything less will be failure unlike anything professional sports has ever witnessed. Think of me as your snuggly warm, 100 percent cotton tether to reality.
Cashman: Well I was impressed tonight. So awestruck, I passed out.
Headwarmer: Real men pass out, Baldie. You fainted.