Int. bedroom, Orlando, FL.
Junior: Tough call. Go home to Seattle where my career started, or go to Atlanta and be closer to my family. Well, better sleep on this one. *turns night cap backwards, begins to fall asleep*
Disembodied voice: Griiiiiffey! Griiiiiffey!
Junior: Holy crap, Lou?!
Ghost of Lou Pinella: Damnit, Junior! Call me coach!
Junior: Sure thing, coach. Say, when did you die?
Ghost of Lou Pinella: Nevermind that, you need to get your candy ass back to Seattle on the double!
Junior: What do you care, coach?
Ghost of Lou Pinella: It’s just the right thing to do. Tonight, you will be visited by three Mariners ghosts who will show you the path. Listen to theeeeeeem!
Junior: Sure thing, coach! *gives thumbs up, thumb breaks in half* Darn it, not again!
Disembodied voice: Look alive, fuckface!
Junior: Bones?
Ghost of Jay Buhner: You bet your sweet swinging ass! But tonight you can call me the ghost of Mariners past.
Junior: Got it.
Ghost of Jay Buhner: Listen up! The Mariners are the team that made you the superstar of the entire league back in the ’90s. Without them living up to their word to your Daddy, you could have rotted down in Anaheim with that dick face Tim Salmon!
Junior: Egads! The horror!
Ghost of Jay Buhner: No shit. So do the right thing and come on back home. They need you. Bad, kid. Oh, and A-Rod’s gone, so the locker room is a lot less gay.
Junior: Thanks for the advice, Bones.
Ghost of Jay Buhner: No problem. Hey, can you sign this 1989 Upper Deck rookie card? Edgar Martinez and I need a case of Bud Lite and some smokes.
Junior: Sure thing.
*Ghost of Jay Buhner disappears*
Junior: That was weird.
Disembodied voice: You tink dat weild, me go pee pee in youl coke!
Junior: Cripes!
Ghost of Ichiro: Just kidding. But I like to play up the stereotype sometimes. Keeps me from having to deal with the media.
Junior: Good call.
Ghost of Ichiro: Oh, and I’m the ghost of Mariners present. Listen, our clubhouse is in complete disarray. Everyone is pointing fingers and we’re losing hundreds of games a season. We need someone of your status to come in and smooth things over.
Junior: I don’t know…
Ghost of Ichiro: Listen, I know what it’s like, being the superstar outfielder for the M’s. I’m living it. And I’m saying that I can’t do it without you. I need you to divert some attention while I hit a measly .325 and score 100 runs while no one notices.
Junior: Well, I will sure think about it.
Ghost of Ichiro: Good. Well, I’m afraid I must be leaving now. Ching chong a chingy chingy chong. Ha ha, just kidding again!
*Ghost of Ichiro disappears*
Junior: Those guys really want me. Wait, didn’t coach say there would be three ghosts?
Ghost of Lou Pinella: Well, we tried to get a Ghost of Mariners future, but that’s not looking so hot right now. So here’s a shot of Randy Johnson in all his ugly glory.
Junior: *wakes up in a cold sweat* Ahhhhhh! Oh, good, it was just a dream! *reaches for phone* Hello, Bobby Cox? I’m in!
/scene
Griffey is an oft-injured 39-year-old who’s a liability in the field — he’s not exactly the missing component from a team that needs just one more piece to be a contender.
But dammit, he’s SEATTLE’S oft-injured 39-year-old defensive liability. And those Atlanta assholes tried to ruin it.
We got him.
Suck it Atlanta!