By Adam Hart
CSNNE.com
Brian Cashman, carrying a wrapped sub sandwich, enters a Yankee Stadium office suite. He gingerly places the food offering on the large desk, at which sits Hank Steinbrenner -- more Dom DeLuise as Julius Caesar than Cosmo G. Spacely, minus the treasure bath.
Cashman: Here you are, a nice salami and ham sub with extra hots.
Steinbrenner: Glances disinterestedly at the wrapped sandwich Hero. We call it a hero. Sighs, heavily You know why you're here, right?
Cashman: To bring you a sandwich?
Steinbrenner: Of course. Burps. But I need to know why you didn't sign Clifford Lee.
Cashman: He didn't want to come here, boss. Yankees fans were nasty to his wife. Real nasty.
Steinbrenner: Laughs Right. My fans behaving unmannerly. Good one.
Cashman: Seriously.
Steinbrenner: Squints angrily I don't like you, Cash Man. You know the motto here Checks palm, on which the motto is written: "Money wins every time." We're money! We don't lose.
Cashman: Well, money lost this time.
Steinbrenner: That's it. Youuuu're pauses wait. If I'm firing you, how do I do it?
Cashman: Slaps hand on thigh. Aww, and you were doing so well, too. You've sure come a long way from when you first started. But the big guy would always yell, "You're fired!"
Steinbrenner: Smirks Ok, good. You know how nervous I get in the big chair. Gets face in order. Clears throat. Youuuuu're fired!
Cashman shrugs, gripping both hands on his chair's armrests to launch himself upward.
Steinbrenner: Wait! Wait. Whispers What do I do now?
Cashman: Tell me to collect my things. In about five minutes, call my office. Okay?
Steinbrenner: Got it. So . . . go collect your things.
Four minutes and fifty seconds have passed, during which Steinbrenner has been staring at his digital clock -- never could understand those danfangled analog ones. Cashman lounges in his office chair. He is smoking a cigar and drinking a V8 because he seems like the type that would enjoy V8. Weirdo.
Phone rings. Cashman rests his hand over the receiver for one ring, two rings, three rings. He picks up.
Cashman: Hello, Brian Cashman here.
Steinbrenner: Hey, Brian. So what's next?
Cashman: You tell me how disappointed you are in me. You take back the firing and say you'll be keeping your eye on me.
Steinbrenner: I'm very disappointed in you. I take back the firing and I'll be keeping an eye on you.
Cashman: Geez, way to make it your own, Hank.
Steinbrenner: Hey, I did my best. Burps.
Cashman: I know, I know. Looks out the window and smiles at his kingdom. See, now don't you feel better about the whole situation?
Steinbrenner: Like the slow classmate who finally understands the multiplication table for the number five. Yeah! I do, actually. Thanks, Brian.
Steinbrenner hangs up his phone. With a smile, he unwraps his hero.
Steinbrenner: What the? I asked for extra hots, not no hots. Taps his inner-Spacely Cashmaaaan!
Cashman's office is empty. He is gone, and so is his team checkbook. Left on his computer screen are Google directions to Russell Martin's hotel. He's got his groove back (55 second mark), and all thanks to that near brush with unemployment.