An all too familiar darkness begins to creep into the periphery of your vision. A folksy voice in the back of your head reminds you Your offense is only as good as your bullpen. Your hands begin to tremble violently. We need more relief pitching! The thoughts encompass you. Everything fades to black...
"...vinimos a pa'iniciar, y no pa' dormir.."
Oh no. Not again. A cursory glance at your surroundings combined with the lingering scent of donkeys and tequila confirm your worst suspicions. Every GM knows that when you make a trade with the San Diego Padres, you find yourself trapped in Tijuana the next day.
But who did you trade for? And what did you give up? You scramble around the room looking for your BlackBerry. You save the incriminating photos of Ron Gardenhire and the two burros, realizing how useful these could be in the future. You finally find what you're looking for. Your stomach sinks.
You now realize you can never return to your loved ones. Sure, the Sox now have the best bullpen in the division and Viciedo will be lucky to ever hit more than 25 homeruns in the gulag known as Petco Park but it matters not to the commoners. The metheads have already razed the stadium. There is no going back.
Five years later, you've constructed a championship team out of the once lowly Guerreros de Oaxaca. You smile and relax. You finally feel at peace, not realizing that the Vaqueros Laguna were back by the cartels. You never hear the hitmen coming.