Baseball Hall of Famer and Seattle Mariners legend Ichiro missed unanimous election to Cooperstown by one single vote. He invited that voter over for a drink during the ensuing press conference. This is an imagined transcript of that evening.
EXTERIOR: Ichiro's Singles Mansion (because he hits a lot of singles, not, like, because it's a bachelor pad), Evening
A BASEBALL WRITER, age undetermined (OK, fine, he's 58), stands slightly shivering in an overcoat outside the door, clearly waiting a bit longer than expected for it to open. He checks his watch. The faint sound of Ichiro's favorite song, "Nuthin' But a 'G' Thang," can be heard from indoors.
Finally, just as the writer is about to turn home, fueled by a mixture of shame and panic, ICHIRO emerges, wearing a sensible blazer over a turtleneck. He is alone.
ICHIRO: I'm sorry! Come in, come in. I lost track of time.
WRITER: It's no problem at all.
ICHIRO: I'm sorry again. I was lying about losing track of time.
The writer shuffles in, choosing not to acknowledge.
WRITER: Let me first say how much I appreciate the invitation. You have a lovely home.
ICHIRO: Yes.
Ichiro approaches the bar cart in the corner.
WRITER: Ooh, so getting right down to business, huh?
ICHIRO: I don't understand.
WRITER: I'm sorry?
ICHIRO: What is the distinction between "business" and "not business"? I accomplish tasks. I move on to the next one. I accomplish that one, too. My life is precision. My dreams are spreadsheets.
WRITER: I totally understand. That's what made you great, after all.
ICHIRO: Not great enough for some, it would seem. Whiskey neat?
The writer nods and gulps.
ICHIRO: This one is a special blend I commissioned. 262 distinct varieties of grain.
WRITER: Ah, in honor of your single-season hits record?
ICHIRO: I assume so, but I commissioned it one year before that occurred. Something awoke within me.
WRITER: There's no one like you.
ICHIRO: I'm not for everyone. Well, I almost am, but at the same time, empirically, I am not.
Silence.
WRITER: I apologize. I ... I thought this invitation might be to clear the air, or to share perspectives—
ICHIRO: I don't find the air unclear.
WRITER: No, no, of course, I just—
ICHIRO: My life stands on its own. In perfect balance. I can walk away and watch it sit. My resumé is not in need of appraisal.
Ichiro hands the writer a rocks glass of whiskey, then motions for him to sit down. He chooses the leather chair opposite his target, slinking around his prey like a lemur in winter.
WRITER: You aren't drinking?
ICHIRO: I didn't invite you over for drinks, plural. We will be having one drink tonight. It will be yours.
Silence. You can cut the tension with a lemur's tail.
WRITER: It was Torii Hunter.
ICHIRO: Excuse me?
WRITER: Torii Hunter. I believe in his Hall of Fame candidacy, and I was watching the ballot tracking, and it seemed likely he was going to fall a few votes short of the 5% threshold. I knew you'd make it, of course I did, but I feared that if I didn't act, Hunter's case would wither away. So I used all 10 spots, and the 10th came down to saving Hunter or sacrificing you, and I decided I could do a good deed for someone I believed in and you'd still sail past the castle walls. I'd stay anonymous forever.
ICHIRO: I understand, Jeff Edelstein.
WRITER: Dammit.
ICHIRO: And I do not blame you.
WRITER: You ... do not?
ICHIRO: You were simply doing your job. The way I simply did mine. Daily. Thrice daily. You could set your watch to it.
WRITER: I know. I did.
The writer shows Ichiro his watch, which is somehow set to a photo of Ichiro.
ICHIRO: Ah. Weird. I have great respect for Torii Hunter. And I have great respect for you. Now, you want my advice?
WRITER: Of course.
ICHIRO: Borrow my thicker coat before you head home. It's colder than two rats in a f***ing igloo out there.
The writer sips his drink.
WRITER: Ugh, this is awful.
ICHIRO: Yeah, 262 grains is way too many grains.
BLACKOUT.