Well, that was cool when it was still going to happen, but what can you do? Second wind, great rotation, et cetera et cetera. But then, imagine for a second you’re Jake Peavy.

You are the biggest movable piece on what is, soundbites aside, a rapidly-sinking ship.

Your owner needs to dump your salary.

You control where you end up.

You have the luxury of pitching in an inferior league.

You also have the luxury of pitching against an offensively miserable division.

You throw half of your starts in the most pitcher-friendly park in the entire sport, possibly the world.

Your boss approaches you and says that rather than one of the teams you quite vocally professed a desire to move to, you are instead moving to the American League, to a marginally-contending squad with a lame offense that might not get you as many wins. They also play in a very hitter-friendly park (maybe the friendliest), which is not good for any pitcher even though you notch a pretty high number of strikeouts in your day-to-day wheelings and dealings.

This potential suitor of yours, they may get you into the playoffs, which offers a considerably brighter ray of hope than the abysmal outlook of your current employer, but they don’t really scream “Championship!” the way at least a few other squads do.

What’s more, they’d be asking a lot of you, young pitcher. This potential new home of yours, they need you to be That Guy, the one where opposing teams see your name and realize ahead of time they’re going to lose that day. Perhaps that is not what you like; perhaps that sort of role simply does not suit you.

But you are Jake Peavy, and that is up to you. Your call. Your decision. You have a family to consider, and let’s face it: Chicago simply does not excel in the same ways San Diego does. Winters here are cold, you know.

Spring afternoons, too.