I stood outside the door.
In the locker room on the left, Gary
was on the phone to his agent, trying to get out of his contract. In the locker
room on the right, David was taking out his anger on a punching bag.
And in-between the two, in a tiny office, the booker was
staring at the wall, trying to come up with something, anything, to get himself
out of this mess, to get these guys to play ball and go out there and perform.
He needed a savior.
Perfect time for a bastard like me to take advantage…
No comments:
Post a Comment