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August 2, 2012 In A PickleNine StoriesDeadline Day this year contained nine trades and involved the following 14 general managers: Brian Cashman, Ben Cherington, Kevin Towers, Chris Antonetti, Jed Hoyer, Jon Daniels, Dayton Moore, Walt Jocketty, Michael Hill, John Mozeliak, Neal Huntington, Ruben Amaro, Ned Colletti, and Brian Sabean. You've read the analysis on this site, but it's time to go deeper. What follows are nine one-paragraph, 150-word (exactly) short stories (or, in one case, a one-act play) about the men who do the business. * * * The mirror stared back at Ruben. Impassive. Pitiless, even. Intellectually, he knew it was his own reflection, but he saw more. Judgment. Disapproval. His youthful indiscretions showed in every line, every gray hair. He poked at his stomach—nothing to be ashamed of, certainly, but not the stomach of the 27-year-old he'd been 20 years before. He straightened up, suddenly put in mind of his first baseman. The one turning 33 before Thanksgiving. The one who'd be making $25 million four years from now. The one with a .329 on-base percentage. What odds that he ended up as fit in 2016 as Ruben was today? His shoulders slumped. Flags were supposed to fly forever, right? Rings to glitter? So why did last place feel so awful? Why did the half-decade of dominance fail to cushion the fall? Ruben leaned in close, probing the eyes of the man staring back. * * * Why don't I have a mustache? Ned has one and it makes him look like that cigar-chomping scout stereotype. Brian's got the goatee thing rocking. Jackie Z doesn't have facial hair, but he doesn't have any hair at all. What's my excuse? I'm over 50. I played the game. I've actually been an on-field coach, ferchrissakes. And I'm quit of the Yankees, so I don't have to follow their stupid rules. I really should have something on my face. I mean, hell, didn't I just trade this dude who was pre-med at Yale for a guy whose defining feature is that his name almost rhymes with "Fat Albert"? HEY HEY HEY. Mustache mustache mustache. Kelley wouldn't care. I work 18 hours 363 days a year. A mustache is the least of her worries. That's it. I'm doing it. * * *
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That's what's wrong with Creative Writing schools: they teach students that there's only three writers in the world: Jane Austin, William Faulkner, and Franz Kafka...
I dont have any idea what this means.
Not to put words in his mouth, but I believe he is saying this is as good as Kafka, Faulkner and Austin rolled into one.
I think there's actually a Kafka story about that.
Not sure what "creative writing" school you went to, but . . . no.
Faulkner wishes he could write tick-tock like that. Especially now that he's dead.