By
Ryan Finley
Well, yesterday's Major League Baseball trade deadline has come and gone and I guess I have some explaining to do. This is a world of haves and have-nots, and - for now - the Arizona Daily Wildcat is a have-not in the world of journalism.
So I did the right thing. I traded everybody.
If we don't have a chance to reach the top this season, we might as well build for the future. But don't get me wrong - this was a talent-for-talent journalism decision. Our sports editor, Connor Doyle, has been shipped out to the Arizona Daily Star in exchange for a pair of prospects, one of which is an exciting 12-year old with a disturbing knowledge of sports and excellent use of prepositions. His youth and enthusiasm should be able to help us out immensely.
Our news editor, Katie Clark, was traded to the State Press, our counterpart at Arizona State University, for future considerations and a one-year supply of In-N-Out burgers.
It was an easy decision: our newsroom was hungry for Double-Doubles and Clark's high ($38 dollars per issue) salary was simply too much for the Wildcat - a relatively small-market paper - to continue paying.
Oh yeah, and we put our arts editor, Graig Uhlin, on waivers. If he's not claimed by Monday, we can send him down to our AAA club, the Falcon Flyer, Catalina Foothills High School's school paper. Sure he'll have to re-enroll in high school for a year or two, but the seasoning might do him some good.
All joking aside, yesterday's trade deadline further reinforced why I like baseball. With all the games (162, not counting playoffs) being played each year, baseball is a way of life. Not a real way of life, of course - it's more of a bizzaro world where men are comfortable in tight pants and the decision-makers wear facemasks and weigh 300 pounds - but it's a world I want to live in.
Imagine a world where spitting and scratching would not only be allowed but encouraged.
Dinners would consist of endless supplies of sunflower seeds and smokeless tobacco. The hotfoot - the clubhouse prank in which gum is tied around someone's foot and subsequently lit on fire - would be commonplace.
Phone conversations would consist of one thought, just like a call to the bullpen. "Hey, Cindy, do me a favor and tell Thompson in payroll to start getting warm. We might need him if Harris in advertising doesn't come through."
Everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - would have nicknames. The funnier, the better. Names like Pokey, Catfish, The Big Unit, Gookie, Boogie Bear, Crime Dog, Iceman and The Thrill would be put on credit cards and painted on the front of office doors.
You can't tell me "Ragin'" Ryan Finley wouldn't look good on a business card.
It would even change the way business gets done. Let's say Phil in accounting is pissing you off. You could throw a 90 mile-per-hour fastball at his head only to tell him that it "slipped."
If someone made a bad decision, you could turn your hat around, spit a little bit, and bump the decision-making party. What's the worst thing that could happen? They'd kick you out of work? Big punishment.
You could pinch-hit for people in the office that aren't carrying their weight.
All accomplishments, no matter how big or small, would be met with a firm pat on the butt. Everyone would wear the same uniforms - the dirtier, the better - completely eliminating any sort of morning decision-making.
Inner-office "slumps" could be cured by ritualistic sacrifice, failure to wash or superstitious mumbo-jumbo.
And when you DO finally succeed, you could douse your co-workers with champagne and smoke huge, imported cigars.
Just thinking about the beauty of office mascots brightens my day.
And the trades? Well, back to the trades. Imagine finding the most annoying person at work (even though I don't work there, I find Rick from the Empire Glass TV commercials pretty maddening), sitting them down, and informing them that they've been dealt for a dynamic, hard-working team player that "understands the system" a little better.
Look out, Wildcat staff. I've heard great things about a certain 12-year-old.
