::Somewhere in suburbia::

Best thing about no longer managing is losing that Bigelow Tea contract. ::Pours himself a double bourbon:: There’s my little pre-game pick-me-up.

::Knock at the door::

The f#$k? Who dares come between a man and his whiskey?

::Runs into apartment, jumps up on the coffee table:: Oh captain, my captain!

The hell are you doing, Pedroia? That end-table’s worth more than your car.

Sorry. I was just doing that thing they did in “Dead Poets Society” when they didn’t want their teacher to leave.

I see.

So, you’ll stay now?

Son, I’ve got no say in the matter. The dice have been cast. They needed a scapegoat for 2011. And I’m wearin’ the horns.

Look if this has something to do with Lackey and Crawford, I know people…

Hold on. What the f$%k is that noise outside?

::Stands in front of Teet’s condo holding boombox over his head, playing “In Your Eyes.”::

Jacoby, are you nuts? It’s after midnight. People are sleeping!

Can’t help it, coach. We want you back.


Well, there’s me and Dustin. And I think DeMarlo said a few nice things…

Just shut off that radio and get inside, will you?

I took the liberty of packing you a bag and re-stocking your office. Let’s go.

Boys, I appreciate the love-fest but there’s no going back. I’ve been canned. Axed. Forced to carry the blame for everything that went down in September.

But–it’s not fair.

If I had a dime for every time I thought that after a Carl Crawford ground out or a John lackey meltdown, I’d be set for life. But I just kept it all inside and spent every night of the 2011 season shaving my ass and squatting in a tub of whiskey. Sometimes, that’s just the way you have to deal with things.

It won’t be the same without you, Teets.

It’s nice to think that way, lads. I’m just a guy carrying on a rich tradition. A tradition that includes folks like Walpole Joe and Clell Hobson and that Grady fellow. There were plenty before me and there’ll be plenty after me. I’m just proud I got to wear the uniform and get those titles.

I’ll protest! I’ll leave the team. They can’t treat you like that.

Ah, youth. Let’s say I fix a batch of Toll-House cookies. I put together a brief powerpoint that encapsulates my feelings on leaving the team. I’ll fire it up for you guys, and promise to leave out the last few slides intended solely for Henry, Werner and Lucchino that may or may not contain shots of my genitals.

Check it! Here comes Kevin Millar on a hovercraft!


What’s up, gentlemen!

What are you doin’ here?

Don’t you guys read the Twitters? I’m the new manager of the Boston Red Sox!

Get the f%^k out of town!

Damn skippy! And I’d like to introduce you to your new first and third base coaches…

Hi! We can’t read!

We’re doin’ the presser at the Cask! Hop on and let’s go.

Hells yeah!

Uh… you guys still want those cookies?

Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. We’ll be back. At some point.

::Millar’s hovercraft zips off in a cloud of bio-appropriate dust::

How quickly they’ll move on. Looks like it’s just you and me, Peter Gabriel.

Yep. By the way, did I just hear “In Your Eyes”? Cuz if I did, someone owes my ass $8.50.