Rob Manfred feels trapped.
“I’m the commissioner of Major League Baseball. Woop-de-freaking-do. It’s like being the Governor of Iowa. It’s like, who cares? Does anyone else even want this job? It’s God damn Iowa. Cows not only outnumber the residents and but are also far more attractive.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking when I took this job, the owners were like ‘Hey, tell you what Rob, we have a challenge for you. We want you to make watching paint dry EXCITING.’”
“It’s the damn economy. I wish I could be an accountant. I wish I could be a late night security guard at a library. But you try finding another job that pays $10 million dollars in this environment. I’m stuck here. My friends all laugh at me. They invite me out and I have to tell them no. I’m working. ‘On WHAT?’ they say. And then I have to tell them. I’m trying to make baseball not the worst game in the entire world.”
“It’s like, really? You’re trying to make poop not stink? How about next you try to make Twitter a friendly place? I’m set up to fail and everyone knows it.
“My wife looks at me in shame. Frankly, I think she’s having an affair with Goodall. I have evidence, like, she seems to be suffering from post-concussion symptoms. I can’t even blame her. She wants a real man. You won’t find that around baseball.”
“And now it’s November and I’ve just signed on for 5 more years of this crap. 5 more years of baseball. 5 more years of cans of corn, and Texas league singles, and sacrifice bunts, and bullpen changes, and 4 hour games. How can anyone like this crap? Each and every fan is a complete and total moron, and the only joy I get in this job is dismantling the game they are wrong to love.”
“But it still sucks. Baseball season is coming soon. And it’s my job. There I will be. We each owe a death — there are no exceptions. But, oh God, sometimes the baseball season seems so long.”
“I’ll tell you what I do during baseball season. I stare out the window and wait for winter.”