“The answer to all your questions is money”

 

“The answer to all your questions is money” - Tony Kornheiser quoting Don Ohlymer

 

There will be times when the answers to your questions seem to be non-existent. There will be times when the validity of these questions is called into question. Just remember, when the answer seems non-existent, the answer to all your questions is money.

Guy Grand, eccentric billionaire, man of power and ingenuity. Guy Grand, the troll who walks among the .1%. Below is a snippet of Guy Grand’s 21st century foray into amateur sports.

A man with money is nothing if he is unwilling to spend and spend and spend. Guy Grand is certainly not nothing. No, indeed he is something. Behold dear reader, the story of a man who challenged the religious adherence to dogmatic rules of fair play and sportsmanship. A saint among men. A man among pigs. Behold dear reader, Grand Guy Grand.

You may be wondering, what nonsense is this that I am reading. Who could ever care about a fictitious billionaire who acts like a buffoon and flaunts his wealth when so many go without food, shelter and clothing? Well, if the concerns of under nourishment, homelessness and appropriate outerwear are the concerns you hold dear to your heart, this is not a story for you. No, this is a story for those who want to laugh—a story for those who want to point a finger at the silly rich man and say, “Look at that bloke just having a laugh! He sure seems like a grand guy!”

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principium

 

During the late summer of 2001 Guy Grand was bedridden, recovering from a heart procedure. In his private room at Mount Sinai Hospital he laid in bed all day watching TV and eating candy. On one of these repetitive days he could not find his remote to change the channel and he was forced to watch the Little League World Series. 

At first he found the programming to be loathsome and under produced, but as the game continued he was pulled in by the players' nicknames, their favourite foods and what subjects they liked in school. When the game was finished and Taiwan had beaten South Korea, Guy Grand cheered and clapped approvingly from his hospital bed. 

For the remainder of the competition Guy rooted for the Taiwanese team. Each day brought a new high as their pitchers firepower increased and their bats boomed like cannons on a South Asian pirate ship. Yu-Ting, an eleven year old boy who loved pikachu and kimchi, was Guy’s favourite player. He loved the theatrical way in which Yu-Ting would chuck his bat into the air after every hit, whether it be a bloop single or a towering homerun.

On August 25th, the last day of Guy’s hospital stay, the Taiwanese Little League Team took on Alaska in the finals. The game was moving along and each team was pressuring, but neither side was able to break the deadlock. In the top half of the sixth and final inning, Alaskan slugger Aput Kootoo crushed a hanging curveball over the outfield fence to give Alaska a 1-0 lead.

When the bottom of the sixth came around, the score was still 1-0 Alaska, Guy was sweating in his hospital bed, his newly repaired heart pounding like a jackhammer on a city sidewalk. The first batter popped out to the third basemen. The second batter rolled over on a breaking ball to ground into an easy out. 

Guy chewed his nails and clenched his jaw. This was it, the final out, and who was at bat? None other than Yu-Ting!

“Go get ‘em Ting!” Guy screams, spraying spit across the sheets. “You got this you little bastard! Make Guy proud!”

“Strike one!” A perfect pitch on the outside corner.

“Strike two!” Another perfect pitch in the same location. 

Guy watched on as Yu-Ting stepped out of the batter's box, tapped his cleats with his bat, touched his helmet, adjusted his batting gloves and stepped back into the box.

“Strike three!”

“Nooooooooooooooooo!!!!! No no no no no no no. Nooooo!!!!!!” Big, fat crocodile tears streamed down the face of Guy and Yu-Ting. Yu-Ting walked back to the bench where his team mates consoled him, wrapping their arms around him for a group hug. 

Guy on the other hand fell out of bed screeching like a wet cat. He banged his fists on the floor and produced blood curdling wails that would later be described by one hospital attendant as, “The sound a mother makes when she watches her child die.”

What transpired in Guy’s hospital room during the month of August in the year 2001 would be the catalyst for a new art form. A fine art form. An art form for the 21st century.

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praxi

 

Like all practitioners of a fine art Guy Grand had to learn to walk before he could run. He would cut his teeth with the Little League World Series. After the demoralizing defeat of Taiwan at the hands of the Alaskan team Guy vowed to concentrate 97% of his energy on ensuring that Taiwan would emerge victorious in the 2002 LLWS. The other 3% of his energy was allocated to running his countless enterprises whose collective net worth was well over 400 billion dollars.

Guy granted himself a week of mourning after the finals. The real plan was incubated in September of 2001. He started by buying Global Food Preparedness, the parent company of Red Hot Wieners, who were the largest sponsor of the LLWS.

Next it was time to find his ringer. For the months of October and November Guy toured through Latin America watching local baseball and endlessly searching for that one player that could make all the difference.

It wasn’t until late November, on a breezy night in Tegucigalpa, that Guy found the player he was looking for, Juan Carlos deFumar. deFumar was a towering chap at six foot four inches. His big, beer belly hung out over the plate when he took his batting stance and his greasy facial hair was connected to his back hair and his chest hair. He looked like a Honduran sasquatch.

Guy Grand watched in amazement as deFumar crushed the first pitch he saw and sent it out into the street beyond the ballpark where it ricocheted among the street vendors' carts. The crowd of half a dozen cheered emphatically for the hometown legend. 

After the game Guy’s translator approached deFumar with a proposition.

“¿cómo le gustaría jugar en la gran liga?”

“Si. Sí por favor.”

And so the plan was in motion. Guy, his translator, and deFumar flew that night from Honduras to Taiwan, with a connecting flight in Mexico City. 

Needless to say, when they got out of the airplane and entered the terminal, deFumar was shocked to be in an Asian country and not the United States of America. Guy’s translator had a hell of a time calming him down.

“Sin secuestro. Sin secuestro.” The translator repeated over and over again.

Eventually deFumar accepted the situation and was escorted to a penthouse apartment atop the tallest building in Taipei.

For Guy, the month of December was spent in secret backroom meetings with corruptible state officials. Money changed hands constantly. The bribes grew exponentially until the documents were in order. When he wasn’t exchanging briefcases of money with officials, he was sneaking doctors into the penthouse where they would examine deFumar and produce pages of medical documentation on his ever growing list of hereditary curiosities. 

Come January, Guy had obtained a Taiwanese birth certificate for deFumar, who henceforth was to be known as Po-Yu. 

Po-Yu, a twelve year old Taiwanese native who, according to reputable doctors, was born with a genetic disorder that caused him to experience all of his growth spurts before the age of ten. One of the side effects of this condition was that he grew hair all over his body and that his stomach bulged like an over pressurized keg.

By the end of January Guy had forwarded all of the necessary documents to the Little League governing body of Taiwan. They were tentative at first to accept Po-Yu, but they could not argue with the documents that had been notarized by some of the most prestigious officials in all of Taiwan. Also, the kid could hit.

Once Po-Yu was accepted to play, Guy left him and his translator and went back to America.

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With the acquisition of Global Food Preparedness, Guy was given the reins with regard to all things promotional for the 2002 LLWS. The first big move he made was to install a series of luxury boxes in the LLWS ballparks in Williams Port, Pennsylvania. Stencilled in a fiery red on each box were the words ‘That’ll Make ‘Em Hot!!’. 

While the luxury boxes were being erected, Guy put on his managerial cap and assembled a ragtag crew of the most innovative marketing men that America had to offer. He had a simple task for them—Put Po-Yu on every American television set leading up to the LLWS. When the crew saw the pictures and reel footage of Po-Yu, they fell out of their puffy office chairs laughing—sure that Guy was trying to pull one over on them. When their laughs subsided, Guy peered at each individual with a stern look, “I thought you men were professionals. If you can’t handle the job, if it's too hot for you, well I’ll find some real ad men!” Being as all ad men are narcissistic egomaniacs, they climbed back into their chairs, straightened their ties and got down to business.

The months chugged on and before long summer settled over America. Just after the Fourth of July, Guy’s marketing men kicked things into high gear. They had achieved their goal. Po-Yu had become a household name in America and the national anticipation for his arrival for the LLWS was matched only by the nations hunger for Red Hot Wieners.

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spectaculum

 

Leading up to the opening day of the 2002 LLWS everyone in America and abroad had a take on the enigma. The debut of Po-Yu had been hotly anticipated. Sports talk radio debated the validity of his documents. Daytime TV hosts ran pieces on how it was difficult for children with physical disorders to gain acceptance from their peers. Prominent doctors went on CNN and MSNBC to discuss their work on the various genetic traits that made Po-Yu what he was. Hu Jintao called the whole thing a farce, and said it spoke to the character of the Taiwanese nation. By the time the tournament began it was harder to find an American who did not know the name Po-Yu than it was to find an American who didn’t enjoy a good wiener.

On August 16^th, Guy Grand settled into his luxury box with a group of investment bankers, ad men and Hollywood starlets. The catering was supplied by Red Hot Wieners. There were battered wieners, steamed wieners, grilled wieners, boiled wieners, and, by special request, campfire roasted wieners. Coolers were overflowing with domestic beer and RC Cola.

When the starting line-up for Taiwan took the field against Australia, Guy leaned over the railing and whistled. He let out a guttural cheer and wagged his finger at the gigantic first base man.

In the bottom of the 1^st inning, Po-Yu stepped into the batter’s box, the info graphic on the TV in the luxury box read as following:

 

 Po-Yu:                  Taipei, Taiwan

Age:                       12

Fav Subject:       béisbol

Fav Food:            plato típico

Aspiration:          béisbol

 

Taiwan made easy work out of the Aussies and Po-Yu was replaced in the third inning after two at bats and two homeruns. When the game finished, Po-Yu was escorted back to the hotel. He would not be giving interviews throughout the tournament on account of his “crippling anxiety and immense stage fright.”

Po-Yu fever spread like chlamydia at a swingers convention. Pilgrims set out from across America and made their way to the quaint town of Williamsport. They travelled by plane. They travelled by train. They travelled by automobile. All the towns and campsites were booked long in advance so that makeshift villages began popping up in box store parking lots and local parks. All over town flags and banners were hung with the image of Po-Yu. You could not look down the street without being accosted by his dumpy mug.

Taiwan cruised through the round-robin stage and successively pounded the tar out of Bangladesh and Japan before advancing to the Finals where they would meet Alaska for the second consecutive year.

On the day of the finals the ballpark was surrounded by 100,000 hopeful Americans who were dying for the chance to see Po-Yu in person. The crowds had surged to the point that the governor had requested that the National Guard be brought in to pacify the rowdy citizens. Before the game started the streets of Williamsport were swarmed by guardsmen and light armoured vehicles.

                That afternoon, Guy and his entourage took their place in the luxury box. A bookie was called, bets were placed and they were ready for action.

                The game played out like a nauseating wave of déjà vu for Guy. Sweat streamed down his beet red face and his heart thudded against his chest.

                “Gee Grand, you don’t look so hot” said one of the starlets.

                “Put a wiener in it toots!”

                But it was true, Guy did look worse for wear.

                The game zipped by and at the start of the sixth inning the score was still 0-0.

                In the top of the sixth inning notorious Taiwanese killer, Aput Kootoo, leaned into a hanging slider and sent it into the Woodstockian crowd beyond the center field gates.

                The fans were torn between their desire to root for country and the scrappy enigma, who was due up third in the bottom of the frame.

                The horrific replaying of last years final had caused Guy to go into a trance. He gripped the railing. His white knuckles trying their hardest to break through the constricting skin.

The first batter popped out to the third basemen. The second batter rolled over on a breaking ball to ground into an easy out. 

Guy chewed his nails and clenched his jaw. This was it, the final out, and who was at bat? None other than Po-Yu!

“Strike one!” A perfect pitch on the outside corner.

“Strike two!” Another perfect pitch in the same location. 

Guy watched on as Po-Yu stepped out of the batter's box, burped, scratched his ass, spat and stepped back into the box.

                The next pitch came in high and hot. Po-Yu was slow to react and it beaned him in the forehead. He toppled over like Goliath, blood streaming out of his open head wound and flooding home plate. When he hit the ground, Po-Yu grabbed a handful of dirt and rubbed it into the gash. He stood up, brushed his pants off and took first base.

                “Now batting, Yu-Ting” said the stadium speaker.

                Guy rambled off the prayers that he could remember from his days at boarding school and held his breath.

                “Come on Ting! Make Guy proud.”

                The first pitch was a weak fastball center cut, and Yu-Ting made no mistake. In one swing of the bat he erased his failure of the year before and vaulted himself into Taiwanese baseball history. When the ball finally landed Yu-Ting was right behind Po-Yu, who was taking his sweet time rounding the bases.

                From the luxury box the barbaric sounds of Guy rained down over the patrons. His screams and cries were louder than those of the winning team. He grabbed a starlet and planted a big fat one on her face.

                “That’ll make ‘em hot!” he said repeatedly.

                The streets of Williamsport exploded with joy and soon thereafter teargas and bean bags. When all the dust had settled the main street of Williamsport was reduced to smouldering bricks. Thousands of citizens had been detained and at least a hundred guardsmen were injured, three dead.

                “That’ll make ‘em hot.”