A man journeys to the top of a mountain to find the answers.
I reached the base of the mountain. The sheer size of the monument overwhelmed me, but I knew there was no other choice. I was the only one who could find the answers.
Fear and darkness had spread throughout the land. The MLS season was at risk due to CBA negotiations, and the critical issue of free agency was the catalyst. Fans needed to know what had to be done for the players to get their wish, or to reach a compromise, and, up there, at the point of the mountain, existed the spirit of THE SINGLE-ENTITY -- the only being who could resolve this.
I moistened my index finger with saliva and rubbed it across the skin behind my right ear. Then I began my climb.
The journey was arduous. The thin mountain air brought a haziness over my mind. Several times I lost myself on the trail and spent hours finding my way again. Dreams floated before me, mirages of Jozy Altidore and Mix Diskerud signing enormous deals with the league. No, Jozy had only scored three goals total in his stints in England, I knew this. The league was too poor for this type of thing. Owners had repeatedly pined that MLS was losing money. Roster Depreciation Allowance was a trick of the mind. A $90 million TV deal? I scoffed at the weakness of the mind and wondered if I would even make it.
As I got closer to the top, my delusions grew more profound. I tried to find balance by finding a totem in the real world. I searched the heavily clouded skies for anything to clutch to and found a couple hawks flying from right to left. I regained my composure and continued the trek.
Free Agency is a waste of time.
The words echoed in an ancient language as I finally made it to my destination. It was a rich dialect and felt as if the words had total control over me. They pulled me in, trapped me and refused to allow my mind to contemplate other options. With most languages, the speaker and the words enter a delectable partnership of expression. This ancient tongue was different: it was bold, almost obnoxious.
I dared not to look at THE SINGLE-ENTITY directly. Stories had been told during my childhood of those who that did and the terrible fates that befell them. One Herculez Gomez, in particular, suffers forever in limbo, exiled from the land of the living.
Tales of the being itself were also prominent in our world, for it was a creation unlike any other in existence. There are those who proclaim that man had created THE SINGLE-ENTITY to protect the league from the sins of the past. A necessary evil to ward off greater troubles. Others protest it had been here before us all, before humans, before the ancient trees. It had existed before time, in chaos, with its twin brother, the spirit of amateurism.
If the mountain was overwhelming, the being was twice as much. It paralyzed me. I was at its mercy and felt as helpless as a child before their disgruntled mother. My heart wanted to turn back, my ears tingled and black spots filled my mind as I shut my eyes defiantly. I grew faint as blasphemous questions wriggled into my conscience like mischievous snakes.
How can the league be losing money if it averaged a higher attendance than the NHL and the NBA last year?
Would free agency really be the end of MLS? Every league that has adopted the practice had blossomed into unstoppable profit machines.
How can MLS claim the ambition of being a big league when it low-balls its own players?
Why does MLS hold back the players it champions and encourages fans to support?
Before long, I found myself in the infinite blackness of the dream world. There I saw the physical embodiment of THE SINGLE-ENTITY. It was an owl that continuously devoured an endless amount of crickets. I felt as if the crickets were an omen of good fortune but dared not interfere with the process. After observing for what seemed like 20 years -- time has no bearing in this place -- I finally spoke.
"Will there ever be free agency in the league?" I asked.
The owl paused its gluttony and turned to me, watching me with large unblinking eyes. First it laughed, then, in a grave voice, it replied. "Free agency is a waste of time. I will not make an agreement that impairs my growth."
It would have been easy to be disheartened but my journey had been for more than this. I pushed back.
"Surely there must be a way to reach a compromise, a work stoppage benefits no one," I hear my own words echo as I speak.
The owl cocked its head.
"Players 32 years of age and older with 10 years of service to the same club can become free agents," it whispered. At this point I was sure that it was mocking me. Before I could retort, it started to cackle and continued. "No, no, no. Just 28 years of age with eight years of service."
It went back to eating the crickets.
It became apparent that this being was just entertaining itself. It neither respected nor considered me its equal. I now wanted to return to relay this disappointment to the anxious populace back home. With this in my heart, I fell back into sleep and woke up, alone, at the base of the mountain.
The experience felt surreal. Had I really made the journey? Had I spoken with the supernatural? As I turned to leave, I could hear the mountain echoing:
First sacrifice to the warriors who work second jobs in order to survive,
Whom now are covered by welfare,
Laid in the tombs of heroes with their faces turned to the sunset.
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