“You know, Stewart, this wouldn’t have come this far if Giamatti were commissioner.”
“No way. Bart? Now he was a fan who just happened to be commissioner, God bless him. If Bart were here, he’d have brought the sides together in an overly cramped room, probably with the heat turned way up,” Addison chuckled. A smile bloomed on his weary, tired face. “Then, he’d say something like ‘Oh sovereign owners, princely players, go back to work. You have been entrusted with the serious work of play, and your season of responsibility has come. Set aside your squalid little squabbles. Reassume your dignity and remember you are the temporary custodians of an enduring public trust.’”
“God, if it were as simple as he made things sound,” Ferris said. After a long pause, he added, “I don’t believe I’m saying this, it must be the lateness of the hour talking. Four-eighty, three years for arbitration, and I’ll try to get the enhanced free agency dropped. I think that’s pretty fair.”
“They won’t go for it, Dave,” Addison grumbled. “We’ve already placed the cap on minimum salary at four-forty. And they still insist a player have four years experience before going to arbitration.”
Ferris shook his head. “God damn it! You guys aren’t even trying to meet us! Go wake them. Why won’t you ask them?”
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