Last night, after the Red Sox crushing defeat delivered from the old, ineffective arm of Mike Timlin, the Sox lockerroom was a somber place. As the players began to file out of the lockerroom, Timlin remained seated at his locker, uniform still on, head hung low. Players passed him on the way out, some shaking their heads, other patting him on the back. Some wishing he’d just go away.

David Ortiz, the last player to leave, stops by Timlin on his way home.

PAPI: Mikey, lift your head up, buddy. [he ruffles Timlin’s hair. Timlin doesn’t react]. It’s just one game. We’ll catch those guys. Don’t beat yourself up over it.

Ortiz flashes his bright smile, hoping to cheer up Timlin, but it has zero effect. Ortiz gives Timlin one last pat on the back, then exits the lockerroom, leaving Timlin alone.

A few minutes pass, and Timlin remains seated, head hung low. Camouflage shirt poking up over his jersey.

There’s a knock at the door. Timlin springs out of his chair and hustles to the door, opening it.

In pops Arthur Slugworth.

TIMLIN: Took you long enough.

SLUGWORTH: Fine work tonight, my boy. Fine work indeed.

TIMLIN: I don’t know, Mr. Slugworth. I mean, I really let the guys down tonight.

SLUGWORTH: Ah, and a schnozberry to them. [he reaches in his overcoat pocket]

TIMLIN: I could’ve been a hero…

SLUGWORTH: Fizzlesticks to that nonsense. The so-called “Fenway Faithful” sure haven’t been all that loyal to you this year, have they?

TIMLIN: Well, I sure haven’t been giving them much hope either.

SLUGWORTH: [pulls an envelope from his jacket] I know something that’ll help ease the pain. [he hands the envelope to Timlin, who eagerly grabs it].

TIMLIN: Is it all in here?

SLUGWORTH: Yep, all 500 grand. [he smiles] For services well rendered.

TIMLIN: Tell Mr. Steinbrenner I said thanks.

SLUGWORTH: About that… I fear this may be the last transaction we have this year.

TIMLIN: What do you mean?

SLUGWORTH: While you’ve been incredibly valuable to us this season, you seem to be the only member on Steinbrenner’s payroll willing to help the Yankee’s cause. The rest of his money is being wasted on a 4^th place team.

TIMLIN: But—but—

SLUGWORTH: Sorry, Mike. We’re out of it. There’s no more work. If we were still in the pennant race, it’d be different. But we’re not.

TIMLIN: But, Mr. Slugworth… I blew this entire season. I won’t get re-signed this offseason. I may end up pitching in Pittsburgh next year. You can’t do this to me! After all I’ve done for you this year. You-- you just can’t! This is my life. My career… my legacy!

SLUGWORTH: [getting angry] It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! Your work here is done. You backed the wrong horse, so you get NOTHING! [he swipes the envelope back from Timlin] You lose! Good day sir!

Slugworth storms out of the lockerroom, his overcoat swaying violently behind him. Timlin crumples on the floor, holding his head in his hands, sobbing. He quickly lifts his head as the door bursts back open, expecting to see Slugworth with his money.

PAPI: Mikey, Mikey, it’s OK. You got a whole dugout full of guys who got your back. It’s just one game. We’ve been in worse spots than this before. You gotta pick yourself up.

TIMLIN: [wipes the snot running from his nose, looks up hopefully at Ortiz] I won’t let you guys down again.

PAPI: [helps Timlin off the ground] I know you won’t, Mikey. Now let’s get out of here. Get something to eat. Take your mind off of things.

TIMLIN: [drying his tears] Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.

PAPI: Hey, who was that old creepy guy I just saw come out of the lockerroom?

TIMLIN: Oh, him? He was nobody. Just some reporter.

PAPI: C’mon. Let’s go. We can take back first place this weekend. Tonight we party!