Reading Tim Leiweke’s Mind – Part III
Listening to the click from the receiver as the phone call ends
Ouch, my Goddamn ear hurts! I swear, I have never been reamed out that fucking badly before. Where is the 3-ply toilet paper when you really need it? Phil is so pissed about the team his speech was as slurred as mine the last time I was on Kings Talk, and he doesn’t even drink. For a guy who has made as much money as he has, Phil sure is the most miserly SOB I have ever come across. Old Ebenezer probably learned a trick or two from Phil. Why does the bastard have to remind me every fucking time I speak with him how much over budget we are on Hockey this season. As if it’s my fault that the team has to be successful in order for us to achieve our objective and own this whole damn town. “Hey, Susie, can you please bring me another roll of TP after you stir my Manhattan?”
To be honest though, I can’t blame Phil on this one. Everyone else in this company is pulling their weight. Phil is a genius because he hired the best CEO in the whole country, and, by God, I know how to put a deal together.
We got the arena built, have some of the top retailers in the world wanting to locate in this former slum and many of these Yuppie douche bags actually want to rent a loft around here. What kind of pussy wants to live in a loft? Come to think of it, who ever invented the concept in the first place – must have been some chickified metro sexual. I have the best concerts, the best basketball team, the Grammy museum and now with Hooters, the biggest tits, all in my empire downtown. If it weren’t for me, this neighborhood would still have the panhandlers and the perverts and the stench of urine and the last light would be off at 8:00 PM. Now I can even get a decent martini before I’m driven home after the game.
Despite all this, I still get reminded of my one failure every day by my nemesis – the Hockey team. When I think about this, I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Don’t they realize I have put this together, and everything I touch turns to gold? I mean, who the fuck do these guys think they are? I have tried everything short of putting on skates and showing them how it’s done. First, I leave them alone. Then, when that idiot Taylor proved to have one card short of a full deck, I became involved, and these assholes still couldn’t win. How come all of my other employees deliver results on time and under budget? What is it about these prima donna hockey players that they don’t perform like they are supposed to even after I pay them a small fortune? No wonder so many of the fuckers are divorced – you can’t blame their wives. Gosh, this whole experience is so frustrating that I may have to become a Pfizer customer long before I imagined.
Well, at least things got better for a while as soon as I picked Dean out of that shithole in Philly. Even the garbage in that town has a distinctive smell. His pompous ass took all the heat off me for a few years. Dean spun a fairly tale worthy of a Grimm and had Phil enthralled. Even the fans were buying the stack of shit he was peddling. I got to focus on the stuff I am really good at like making lots of money. Am I the last person left in this Goddamn country who still thinks that is a good thing? So here I am thinking the ship is sailing in the right direction, and that I don’t have to become involved. Boy, going to the games and making a fool out of myself without being responsible for the results was fun. I even got Dean the budget he needed to go get Richards and Gagne. The guy has no idea how hard I had to work in the nether regions in Denver, if you know what I mean, to get Phil to bite off on this budget. The guy absolutely, positively, categorically hates to lose even a penny on any of his businesses. But, I promised Phil we would be decent and make a Cup run. I sold him on the idea of millions of people flooding downtown LA to be a part of this thing. So now, my ass is on the line.
Well, it looks like I have a decision to make since Dean won’t. Phil has made it clear the results are not acceptable (how long is my ear drum going to ring?). I am not going to lose my job and all the great perks because some of the best players in the world can’t find the back of the net with their dicks. No, not going to happen, no way, no how. What I can’t stand is Dean’s fealty to the fucking culture of loyalty that exists in this sport. Who remains loyal to a loser? I mean, didn’t Lincoln fire a bunch of generals before he found one who could actually win a battle? Same thing goes for over the hill pylons like Hunter and Moreau. Hockey people use adjectives like honest, responsible and conscientious to describe them. In the real world where results actually matter, more apt descriptions are lead-footed, hands of stone and washed up. Why does this guy who fashions himself as a Renaissance Man and a Nobel Poet Laureate, stay with a coach whose glory days were back when humans were scratching the back of their knuckles on the ground? Doesn’t he see the same deficiencies my five-year old nephew takes great pride in pointing out to me? Talk about humiliation.
If Dean won’t move, I will. At this point, I don’t really care if the arrogant bastard and his spreadsheets and charts follows the Diplodocus right out the door. Let’s face it, he may just not be as smart as he thinks he is. In any case, I don’t need him anymore. Albert Pujols just signed down the road. The best players will come to LA if you show them the scratch and prove you want to win. Our pussy is the best on the Continent. A half-dozen unemployed coaches and GMs might pay me to take these jobs. I can’t imagine anyone could be any worse. Worst goals per game in the entire League – give me fucking break. I just know I am never going to get yelled at by Phil again. I don’t care whose ego is going to be hurt. Time for some advice – “Susie, get me Randy Carlyle on the phone, now!”