Reading Tim Leiweke’s Mind
The buzzer sounds the end of the game; the Kings lose 3-0 to Edmonton
Shit, another loss, and another drink; this team is unwatchable. Losing like this hurts worse than the hangover I’m going to have tomorrow morning. What do we have to do to get this right? I mean, we’ve built up Downtown Los Angeles, constructed a beautiful arena and spent a fucking fortune on these God damn, prima donna players. Phil almost reamed me a new one when I told him we had to pay Doughty $7 million for the next eight years. Lucky for me his wife was around and calmed him down. Nancy is a real sweetheart. She wants a Cup more than anyone; I don’t know how I could do this job without her.
When we first got here over 15 years ago, we thought winning a Championship would be the easy part. Hell, these players have no loyalty to anyone, and you pay them enough money, they’ll play for the Devil himself. It was those piss ant bureaucrats in City Hall who had us scared. Who the hell do these cretins think they are telling us where we can build on our own property with our own money? Making sure these epsilon, semi-morons get ‘taken care of’ is almost as expensive as icing a full roster. We finally get the arena built and that schmuck Taylor comes to me and says he is going to build a winner here. I feel like such a sucker believing him, I mean the guy couldn’t draft and develop players to save his life. That means I have to go through 10 seasons catching hell from those uppity season ticket holders because we sucked. Why do these simpletons think just because they buy a ducat or two that they can call me all sorts of names and actually boo me? I swear Phil doesn’t pay me enough money to put up with this crap.
So, I finally wake up and realize I don’t know what the hell I am doing and bring in that smart ass Lombardi. Boy is he cocky. And every time he goes through one of those presentations with the spreadsheets, I have to pop a couple of bennies to stay awake. But, lo and behold, the guy actually knows what he is doing. Right before our eyes, he is bringing in players we would have never gotten 10 years ago. We actually have some real talent down there, the best goaltending situation in the league, probably the best complement of defencemen and some serious depth at center. Now when I go to a cocktail party and tell the other guests I run the Kings, no one laughs hysterically any more. I can even raise ticket prices without having to apologize. That fucker Bettman even said something nice to me the other day. The nasty midget never has a kind word for anyone.
Now, the pressure is really on me. We got all these tenants down here paying us gobs of money in rent, but the NBA is out for lunch and the Kings have to carry this thing. If we can just get an NFL team down here, that will seal the deal and give AEG full ownership of the largest and most profitable sports and entertainment complex in the world. They will have to rename Pico Boulevard Leiweke Way to thank me for putting the whole damn thing together. The shoe salesman from Jacksonville was here the other day hinting he may sell his football team, but that pompous jerk Goodell is hesitating letting us buy into the League. The self-righteous SOB says we never won anything and wants to make sure the team going into the second largest television market in the country has ‘competent’ ownership. Who the fuck is he to diss me like that?
But, I wasn’t worried, Dean told me we are ready to win now, and I opened up the wallet wide like a whore spreading her legs. Hell, we are going to lose a bloody fortune on the team this season, but, it will all be worth it if we get the NFL. What I didn’t count on was we were going to hire a Diplodocus as a coach. I mean it is bad enough that we are losing, but we are boring and predictable on top of it. How the fuck can guys like Penner, Gagne and Richards star everywhere else and look like they just shot their load right before every game when they arrive in Los Angeles? And, why is it that we trade some loser who can’t cut it here, that he blossoms as soon as his plane lands in a new city? I mean come on! Dean is telling me to be patient, but fuck him. We have too much riding on this. We can’t let someone else get the NFL or have stadium built elsewhere. This is our only shot. We need to win goddamn it, and I am sick of Lombardi telling me what to do. I run this fucking team, and no one is going to tell me otherwise. I swear to God, that asshole Murray better turn things around and quick.
So, what am I going to do? I’ve got to let these sons of bitches know I am pissed as hell, and that I am not going to take it any more. I could ask that handsome devil Rich Hammond to interview me, he is a really gifted and completely unbiased blogger. No, that is way too predictable. Yes, I got it – I’m going to email Surly & Scribe. Those guys are a bunch of pedantic jackasses who don’t know diddly squat and are probably just a couple of fucking nerds who sit in front of a keyboard all day. But god damn, their writing is clever, and they will never shy away from an ‘f’ bomb. They will get my message across, and none too subtly at that. Terry and Dean and that guy with the vertical neck who calls himself a power play coach will shit in their pants after they see how enraged I am. But, I mean business. I am going to bring a Cup to Los Angeles, and I don’t care how many asses I have to kick or how many heads are going to roll.