Sympathy for the Devil

I thought I’d bring in Nicky Brimstone, Esq., here, to make the case for Cashman.

Brimstone, of Fire, Brimstone, Broccoli & Cooties, has spent the last couple millennia working as Devil’s Advocate, of course. I spoke to him today at his offices in midtown, as he scarfed down a meal of grubs and locusts he’d grabbed at a nearby pushcart.

BRIMSTONE: Sorry to have to talk to you like this, but my schedule is a bear!

HORACE: That’s all right. It must be pretty busy being the advocate for, well, you know…

B: Are you kidding?! The Big Guy barely needs an advocate THESE days! Why, all I hear is nostalgia: ‘Gee, I wish somebody would offer me a beautiful temptress to go bad again!’ Or, ‘Hey, compared to this Putin guy, he wasn’t so terrible!’

Brimstone pauses to belch and pound his chest, and looks wistfully at a grub stain on his tie.

B: Hmm, I wonder if this is real locust, or just some damned grasshopper. It said halal, but you never know what you’re buying on the street. Anyway, I got to run around like crazy nowadays, drumming up new business wherever I can get it.

H: Hence your work for Cashman.

B: Exactly! And just for the record, you know the New York Yankees are the only team that you-know-who ever actively worked to defeat, what with that whole Joe Hardy thing back in the fifties. Well, all right—and the Cubs. The Big Guy always had a thing against ivy. Something to do with Eve, back in the day.

H: Not the Red Sox?

B: Nah. They were just racists.

H: Or the Mets?

B: (sneers) M. Donald Grant? Madoff? The Wilpons? Who needs Satan? (Glances at his watch) Anyway, cards on the table—

Seemingly out of nowhere, he produces an entire deck of tarot cards. Somehow, every one is The Fool.

B: So look, this Gleyber guy was hurt bad last year, right? He’s got, what, less than a hundred plate appearances at Triple-A? And this spring, he’s played like so much kugel, if you’ll pardon my French. Striking out all the time, no sign of the superstar he is oh so certain to become.

H: Um, well, that’s right—

B: So if it was just him competing against Tyler Wade, Torres would lose out, right? I mean, that would just be fair to a terrific young player like Tippecanoe, wouldn’t it?

H: Well, yeah.

B: And if Torres lost out, you wouldn’t want him sulking around on the bench, doing nothing, right? You’d send him back down to Dunder-Mifflin land to get some more at-bats, work the rust off. Am I right?

H: Right.

B: So the Gleyber is right back where he belongs, learning the game. You know in Hell you’re lucky if you make it out of the Ninth Circle in less than three centuries. Those guys know fundamentals!

H: But then Wade isn’t starting—

B: Who says he ain’t? Let him go out there and pound a few more hits, he’ll be fine. You really think Walker’s back is going to hold up for another month? Why is this season different from all other seasons? Hahaha! That’s a joke, see—

H: Yah. Anyway, what about Drury—

B: What about him? What, did I miss something? Was there some prophecy that Miguel Andujar was the anointed one at third base? If he’s so great, let him beat out the amazing Brandon Drury! I mean, it ain’t like anyone’s asking him to change water into wine—or that Stadium piss into beer! Hahaha! That’s—

H: Yeah, I know.

B: Besides, Drury’s really elevated his swing, and learned to hit home runs. Man, you should’ve seen it when Ty Cobb started trying to do that down in Hell! The Big Guy just kept moving the fences out more and more, ten feet at a time. Took Tyrus 50 years before he caught on. Was he mad! But you know, now he and the Big Guy are thick as thieves—

H: But Cashman’s crushing their souls!

B: Soul-crushing, mole-crushing! You haven’t seen from soul-crushing, my friend! And hey, what’s the worst case scenario? So you get Machado next year!

H: Yeah, but we don’t want to just buy a championship!

B: Hahahahaha! Oh, that’s hilarious! I gotta tell the Big Guy that one next time I see him. Or Cashman! No, who wants to buy a championship? You should just light some votive candles!

(Looks at his watch again, then back at the empty plate.)

B: I gotta go organic, start eating right. You know, your body’s a temple. Hahahaha—

H: I got it, I got it.

B: (hustling out the door) We good here? I’ll give Coops your regards. Hey, it’s gonna be a great season! Until that thing with the blimp crashing into the Stadium the day your Gleyber finally gets called up—but hey, I don’t want to give too much away!  Spoiler alert! Hahahaha! Trust me, your GM is Brian Cashman! He’s a future Hall of Famer! What can go wrong?