Wednesday, December 6, 2023

MLS Headquarters: Project Splash Pot

 MLS Headquarters: Project Splash Pot

By: Vidda "Davey" Grubin

The place: 420 5TH Ave, FL 7, New York, NY, 10018-0223 United States (MLS Headquarters)

The date: Sunday, December 3, 2023—10 am

The players: Twenty two of the worst dressed billionaire’s children, their valets, Don Garber, and for some reason, Alexi Lalas

(plus, Tammy (real name, Trinh Thi Ngo) the snack and coffee lady, snidely nicknamed, Tofu Tammy)

The atmosphere: Tense. The Columbus Crew have won the right to host MLSCup2023. MLS Commissioner, Don Garber, is not happy

At a long oak table (shipped from Chicago and sporting the initials, TGD—DG carved into the edge at the head of the table), The Don stands and begins the meeting. Alexi, sitting directly on The Don’s right, flips open his brand new Kindle Paperwhite.

“Where’s my tofu, Tammy?” muffled giggles fill the room

Tammy rushes from the snack cart with a plate full of Han Xi Dyn’s Number One Tofu and sets it in front of, The Don.

“Better. Now, if I have to go to fucking Columbus, again, make sure I’m booked into the Embassy Suites, Dublin. And make sure I get at least ten of those happy hour free drink tickets.” Alexi Lalas nods, making a note on his Kindle.

Alexi taps the Kindle screen, a giant image of Lower Dot Com Stadium appears on the wall behind, The Don.

The Don points at the image with a dismissive finger wag.

“This toilet has twenty thousand seats. About eleven thousand of those seats are taken by rednecks, cow farmers and 45 year old pot smoking, sweat pants wearing, Dungeons and Dragons droollers.” Long pause

“How can we screw over every one of them?”

Twenty hands shoot into the air.

The Don points at Seth Kronke.

“We could announce a change of venue. Say it’s due to faulty plumbing. And move the game to Cincinnati.” Lots of nods and smiles all around.

The Don squints and rubs his chin. “I like it. Other ideas.”

Kelsey Beckham stands up, glances at Alexi, “We could have Alexi’s band play at halftime.” The room erupts in laughter. Alexi makes a note on his Kindle.

“Book it!” says, The Don.

Billy “RedBull” Mateschitz slowly stands. “Open ticket sales for our sponsors, friends and relatives. Give them a twenty ticket limit. They’ll buy all the tickets and put most of them up for resale at 5-10 times retail. The sweatpants D and D’rs, Cow farmers and rednecks will be forced to spend hundreds per seat.”

Don Garber grins. He can barely contain himself. “That’s what were doing. Exactly that, but add in two or three days of bullshit announcements about how we’re fixing the problem and only hope for the best, while doing nothing of the sort. And, oh yeah, book Alexi’s band.” Alexi immediately sends out a text on his Kindle to his band mates. And begins jotting down the lyrics to a new song about soccer, hot dogs and Italian women in Honda Civics.

Two of the valets whisper. “You do all the ticketing arrangements, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ve got a couple buddies who write code and run bot farms for some Latvians. Can you set it up so I get them the log in credentials for the sale?”

“Sure. But why?”

“They get the log in, attack the corporate pre sale with their bots, buy up half the seats. Then, re-sell the tickets and kick back 30% to you and I.”

“Oh, man that’s perfect. Half a mill or more easy. Done. How are they going to get us our thirty percent.”

“Don’t worry. There’s a poker game here in Manhattan that those guys play in. We’ll set up a private game and have them donk off the money to us over the course of a weekend. Do you play?”

“No. Do You?”

“Yeah. I got it. Just get the ticket shit sorted.”

The Don waves at Tammy. “What’s for lunch?”

Tammy, reads off a menu. “American Humble Stew. Go Back to Your Country Pie. And, Your Leaders are Lying to You Tea.”

“Okay. Sounds good. We’ll meet again tomorrow.” The Don looks at the two valets who were whispering. “I expect a complete breakdown of the ticketing plan first thing in the morning.:

“No problem.”

By: David Burgin


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