Neil Olshey, hearing his phone ring, took a moment to steady himself before answering. “Neil Olshey speaking.”
“Hi Neil. It’s Rob Hennigan from the Magic. Hey, have you been crying? Your voice is all wavery.”
“Allergies,” Neil responded, gazing longingly at a framed picture of LaMarcus Aldridge which sat in the middle of his desk. An observer would take note of Neil’s red eyes, tearstained cheeks, and snotty nose. “You know how it is.”
“If you say so,” replied Rob, distrustfully. “Anyway, let’s cut to the chase. I’m trying to find a team to take Moe Harkless off our hands.”
“By putting it that way, you kind of weaken your position,” Neil said. “If you’re TRYING to get rid of him, nobody’s going to offer jack squat. You might as well just let him walk.” He again looked at the picture of his departed star. Realizing he was about to cry again, he reached over and placed the picture face-down. “I can offer a future second, but that’s it. All of our real assets are off the table.”
“Done. Oh, thank god!” Rob exclaimed in relief. “You’re not going to believe how little hustle this guy has. It’s like he sleepwalks through games.”
“Yeah, and the guy you get with that second rounder, you’re not going to believe how much he blows dick at basketball. Oh wait, you already have a lot of experience with guys who blow dick at basketball, given how your entire team is nothing but.”
Rob didn’t seem too terribly effected by Neil’s outburst. “What crawled into your butt and died? You still stinging over LMA taking his talents to south Texas?
“No.”
“Liar. Anyway, I’ll have my people fax over the paperwork and you can take this bum off our hands. We’ll see who’s laughing when the season starts.”