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As I walked around the ballpark enjoying the perfect warmth of a sunny 69 degree day, I imagined Jed Hoyer sitting inside in his office, reading some scouting reports, chatting up some agents by telephone and likely housing a fish taco lunch. Then I thought about his office at his last job, probably in some early 20th century windowless tank at Fenway, the frigid winds of a Boston January seeping through the crumbling concrete as he scarfed down a quick bowl of clam chowder in between "emergency" calls from Theo Epstein, pressing him for inconsequential data about some overpriced free agent.
And then I thought to myself: well played moving to the Diego, Jed. Well played.
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