“Sorry, Cliff. I have too much integrity, too much love for this game that I am so privileged to lead, to do something so base as to rig the draft. You, sir, are out of line.”
“And you are going to be one sorry motherfucker. I come out of retirement, to do a favor or a marquee franchise, and this is how you treat me? After what I did for you? Enjoy the afternoon. Savor it.”
Fletcher had always been a big-talker. And 1997 was a long time ago. Sure, Cliff had helped him out with that little bellhop situation, but it’s not like he couldn’t have handled it himself if he had to.
Still, Cliff could be a bastard. And he did know some shady people–the guys who helped out with the bellhop would definitely not have been admitted to the Yacht Club. And what did he mean about enjoying the afternoon? A strange feeling started to come over the Commissioner. It took two full minutes to realize what it was: worry.
“The Commissioner does not get worried,” he said out loud, to no one in particular. Still, perhaps he should go home early. But what kind of example would that set for the marketing interns? Next thing you know, some of them would want to leave before their 8 p.m. quitting time for “family reasons.” Should he stay, or go home early?