Interior, La Quinta Hotel conference room in Southern New Jersey
The Flyers's front office team is assembled around a long wooden conference table. Ed Snider glares nervously at Paul Holmgren, "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
(more after the jump)
Suddenly, a thick conference door swings open and Ruben Amaro Jr., GM of the Philadelphia Phillies, enters.
Amaro, to Proefrock, “That thing connected to the printer, Carl?”
Proefrock confirms that it is.
Amaro stares condescendingly at the Flyers management team: "Yeah, I'm here. Now what? Has the fee been taken care of? Okay, let's go you hayseeds, for f**ks sake, I don't have all day. F**king lacrosse...”
Paul Holmgren presses a saved number for Steven Stamkos' agent on his own Blackberry and slides the phone across the table to Amaro.
Amaro begins: “What’s the kid’s name? Yeah, I don’t care. Who are you? What? Nevermind. They want him. No, shut up. Shut. Up. He’ll sign. I said shut up. Who cares how many years?”
There is silence as Amaro agitatedly listens. Holmgren and the Flyers brass, amazed, watches him reverently.
Amaro puts the phone on the table as Stamkos' agent talks and gives it the middle finger--then another with his left hand. He grabs his crotch, thrusts it toward the Blackberry, and then picks the phone back up.
Bob Clarke shoots out of his chair and screams, “BREAK A KOHO ACROSS HIS F***ING ANKLES, RAUL!”
Holmgren instantly shoves him back into his seat and turns to Snider, frustrated. “Does he really have to be here?” Holmgren gives Clarke a juice box.
Amaro smiles at the former Flyer captain and GM- the two warriors share an unspoken bond.
He attends once more to the phone conversation, interrupting the agent: “Here’s a good lesson I learned from a wise man once: don’t be an asshat. You’re welcome.”
Clarke rises again with excitement, but Amaro holds his hand up and continues to bark into the phone, which he is now holding horizontally six inches from his chin:
“Look Timmy, all I know is that this is gonna happen whether you like it or not. So just relax and take it, okay? Toronto?! Are you kidding—that’s not even a real place. Nothing but communists and draft dodgers up there. You may as well threaten to have the kid play in Florida or some sh*t.”
He covers the mouthpiece and whispers towards Holmgren, “Does your league have a commissioner?”
Holmgren quickly answers, “no”.
"Is there a salary cap?"
Amaro returns: “So here’s what I’m gonna do. You listening? Cause this is final. No, no. Stop. Shut your mouth and listen.”
There is a long, tense pause as Amaro toys his with his prey.
“Okay... here it is.10 years, 51 and a half million. What? No, you asshat. American. That’s what you’re gonna do. Okay. Sound good? That’s what I thought. Oh, and the Houston Astros are paying seventeen of that. Send the paperwork over to my man Carl and we’ll get this done.”
Amaro listens for a beat before abruptly ending the call and dismissively skipping the phone back across the table to Holmgren.
Amaro: “F**kin Canadians... Okay, you got yourself a striker or whatever. Press conference tomorrow. You’re welcome.”
The Flyers' front office team sits in stunned silence as Amaro smugly turns and strides out of the room crotch first, Proefrock in his wake.