Trevor Bauer Bet His Friend That He'll Take A Paintball To The Crotch From Ten Feet Away If He Ever Signs A Multi-Year Deal
This bet is such a nonsensical lose-lose that, even by insecure teenage boy standards, it's one that could only be mildly explained by the influence of rapidly chased shots of grain alcohol. Trevor Bauer doesn't drink, so take that as your introduction to the type of grown ass man child that we are talking about here. I never thought that a fuck-ton of financial security would become the sworn enemy of toxic masculinity after fueling it for so many years, but if the Indians' pitcher was willing to put his testicles in its crosshairs (guns, fuck yeah!) then maximizing one's worth must also be one of the many things that are now "for pussies".
Look, as much as I'd like to sit here and besmirch the entire existence of the type of Trump supporter that worships the ground on which the Donald waddles, the truth is that this "gentleman's agreement" that was made between two immature idiots is a win-win for society as a whole. It's not quite natural selection, but Trevor Bauer is likely going to end up retiring with the regret of wages lost to the exacerbated aging process of starting pitchers (or the unforgiving blades of a drone) or he's going to put his ability to reproduce in the hands of a highly pressurized paint pellet.
Personally, I'd rather the latter come to fruition, but since he's seems adamant about overvaluing both his balls and his word, I think we're better off crossing our fingers that he misses out on as much unearned money as possible. I'm usually all for professional athletes securing the biggest possibly bag during the limited window in which they are able to do so, but - judging by the shocking sobriety of his beer muscles - there's no better person to be left clutching his sac as that window closes on him than Trevor Bauer. You get what you deserve when you consider stupidly sourced personal pride to be priceless.