..."Bus...bus...bus..." as the great agent rose slowly from his subterranean lair playing with his organ.
I checked my messages. Twenty-nine from Sparano, seven from Pete Carroll, and Carroll had also sent me an air-mailed letter asking if I had any idea in the world what Tarvaris Jackson was saying. I couldn't help him, never understood a word in two years. I remember that Chilly once produced a Gangsta Rap translation guide and so I suggested he get in touch with him. I gave Pete the number of the Minneapolis Seamans Mission.
At 6pm I headed down the drive for the traditional, short, amiable bout of toss and catch with the truck driver from Wrangler (ker-ching!) who delivers my new monthly batch. Except that this week he wasn't there and there were no new jeans. That's strange, I thought. I rang Bus. Yeah, he said after a pause, they've renegotiat...
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