Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#151 Post by DrewV »

Legacy
September 9th, 2028
"War Room," Office of Richard McCoy


With a neutral expression and a firm grip on the vogue-era office chair, Richard McCoy reached for his tumbler without taking his eyes from the mounted television.

The volume was turned down, in favor of KWAR’s Mike Madigan. His crackling voice rang through the old office like an automated subway speaker, as if Mad Madigan might transition from the 2-2 pitch to Dmitri Hill to a very northwestern “stand clear of the loading door, please.” It suited Duluth.

His collar was unbuttoned, his tie loose—a decorative decanter caught the afternoon light on an otherwise unglamorous metal desk. It wasn’t even good scotch—a gift from the Board of Directors—but it would do. It reminded him of the nights under the loading docks of Kuwait, where a young and wide-eyed First Lieutenant McCoy traded an unlabeled brown bottle with the other company officers of 3rd of the 41st Infantry, under the ominous glow of the port lights. A different time. He rolled up his sleeves.

Richard hadn’t removed any of Mark Kierstead’s photographs from the wall of the office, save a couple personal framed shots of Mark at his son Ichiro’s signing into the Minor Leagues. The corners of those photographs were curled in the frame, and both a proud Mark and ambitious Ichiro seemed to stare accusingly at Richard from the walls. So he put them in a box and instructed his secretary, Denise, to ship them to Mark—wherever he was.

“Dmitri Hill up now, the former Longshoreman—an impressive run at Duluth this summer with an OPS upward of seven-ninety…”

From his window, Richard could see the empty expanse of the stadium—rising like a proscenium from home plate, with the newly-added upper rows a tinge darker than their original counterparts. They still looked brand new—covered by the large, green boards for “better media image,” given their perpetual inoccupancy.

“That’s a high fly-ball to shallow center, and Harry Hutchins will put Hill away, one down.”

Shifting his gaze from the new seats to the old scoreboard—a refurbished gift from the Minnesota Twins Historical Foundation, Richard watched the large, green “1” against the afternoon sunlight in the well-groomed field. What he wouldn’t give for a Pat Holman right now. There were several large photographs on the wall of the tall, confident New Englander—one with Joel Dobney, at his signing, and several more—and happier—posed photographs with a beaming Bill McKenzie, above a framed copy of the now-famous “Holman’s a Keeper” memorandum.

Ricky played against Holman in an All-Army exhibition game with some major leaguers in D.C. back in 2006. Holman was 18, and Ricky was on his first stint as the All-Army Left Fielder fresh from Iraq. He remembered how Pat would talk to the pitcher, encourage him, even though he was too far away to be heard. It was like he was pitching and catching at the same time. Ricky went 0-4 that game—and the major leaguers were going easy—but Pat still stopped him after to say he had a clean swing. He would never forget that.

“Yoshida gives some orders from the dugout—Howe to pinch-hit for Morrison—clearing nearly .280 for a respectable season. Here’s the look from Garcia at the mound.”


Kijuro Yoshida was a masterful manager. Well-worth the million Duluth fed him every year (ten times Ricky’s own salary)—he deserved a better team. He took a pay cut from the Shisa to come to Duluth—a team he saw through the LRS scandal and merger—through 17 years of building a team up, playoff year after playoff year, always falling short, never expressing a hint of disappointment. A true stoic. Well-respected in the Great Lakes. Still, More than one member of the board expressed their discontent that Richard refused to slash the staff budget—but he was true to the strategy. No personnel moves at the major league level this year. The club needed some sense of continuity—and Richard wasn’t convinced that the staff was the problem. He took another pull of the cheap Scotch.

On Richard’s relatively organized desk, a thick stack of files labeled “Bullpen targets” sat neatly in an outbox, nearly three inches thick. It was tiresome work—scrubbing the leagues for the potential caulking that might save a sinking ship. Each decimal, each fraction, represented dollars lost or gained—empty seats—jersey sales—tension in a board of directors meeting.

Richard had no illusions about his reputation among the executives of the franchise. It mattered little—with Jason Bong and his family controlling most shares, the board was even more ornamental than he was as an outsider GM. Still, the nitpicking in the meetings was itself a sign of distrust—of second-guessing, and there was an undeniable sense of establishment lament that Jason Bong had not found an experienced manager, or a ballplayer, to captain the Warriors during this rebuild.

“That’s a late swing and a pop-up for Howe, shallow left-center field, mark it two away for Canton in the top of the eighth.”

One hundred and three million dollars. That was the number Jason Bong gave Richard when they first met in a crowded Peyongtaek Bulgogi shop near the Doduri Gate of Camp Humphreys.

“My dad dreamed of a dynasty,” the young, confident Jason explained, throwing his tie back to go to work on the fried dumplings. Jason came from a class of PEBA royalty—comfortable in the Orient—kids with jets and baseball legacies and familiarity with LRS that surpassed most GMs. “That dream’s dead for now, Rick. We’re looking at a 50% loss, and that’s with Mercer. I don’t need a dynasty—I need this team to survive another five years.”

One hundred and three million dollars. Ricky wondered if an owner had ever demanded that of a GM before. It was why Ricky was hired—logistical savvy, sure, and the fact that no one else would take the job.

Financial projections and reports filled the rest of Ricky’s desk. It reminded him of being a young Executive Officer, diving through powerpoint and excel in a cramped Fort Bliss office to try and squeeze just one more radiator out of Uncle Sam. Things were different in the service, though. There was always more money—you just had to find the pot. Baseball was different—and radiators were hard to come by.

The Duluth media had not been kind to Richard’s campaign against high salaries. Fan interest was at a fifteen-year low, and people still hung “Missing Persons” fliers across the city for Don Mercer, Jeff Prat, and Jesus Lopez. Seven rows of the last home-game had united to form a “LET BANDIT PLAY” banner after Ricky ordered Joe Kenny’s benching in August. He shrugged, finishing off the glass. At least they weren’t burning him in effigy like Saddam. Not yet.

He drew one final, dizzy gaze onto the field. He could see himself down there—seventeen years old, in a nondescript Omaha ballpark with dozens of polo-sporting scouts fanning themselves with overpriced programs. He could feel the ball rocketing off his bat—the anticipated hush of the scouts—the scattering of a hundred pencils and the thumbs flying over the blackberries.

“Five-tool kid. Real ballplayer. Clean swing—first or second round, no question.”

He could see it all—the Omaha ballpark, the smell of the turf, the long convoy rolling toward Baghdad like an inevitable train to infinity—alight with flares and mortars and the looming echoes of artillery. He recalled finding a baseball in the ditch of a ruined village near Tikrit—forgotten in the mud, half-buried in the concrete and steel scrap that once made up a market town. He threw it into the Tigris that afternoon. He felt a tightness in his shoulder—right inside the scar—and he tried to work it out with his arm.

“That’ll wrap it up for Duluth, folks, a nine-two loss to Canton on an unremarkable afternoon—stay tuned for the post-game show brought to you by the Minnesota Labor Union…”

Ricky closed his eyes and poured another round.
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#152 Post by Vic »

This is beautifully done, Drew. Very evocative - I can picture Ricky sitting at his metal desk (nice detail, that) and downing the cheap scotch as he listens to the game and contemplates the future and past. Nice job.
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#153 Post by DrewV »

Thanks Vic! Happy to have a creative outlet and I wanted some way to keep the very historic Unga Bunga blog going.
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#154 Post by Vic »

It’s cool you did that. What makes this league so appealing is that it’s been around a long time and there’s all this history and tradition. Some of it’s been maintained and some of it’s hidden, but it’s really cool to shine a light on it. In a way, it’s very much like world building that authors do. The league is a work of baseball alternate history and each of the GMs is writing a chapter.

And here, you’ve written a damn good one!
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#155 Post by Reg »

This is some fantastic stuff!!! The atmosphere is very real. Crazy how vividly the picture was painted. This is one of the most immersive articles I've ever read around here.
I can practically taste the scotch, haha.

GM Ricky certainly has work ahead of him, taking over a rebuild job, but now i'm REALLY interested in how this plays out!
Fabulous, fabulous job, dude! ;-D
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#156 Post by Borealis »

That was awesome Drew!! A very good job of touching the past!!
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#157 Post by DrewV »

Thanks for reading guys, glad you enjoyed it :)
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#158 Post by DrewV »

Indian Island
October 9th, 2028
Coastal Carolina, Farm Road 33




“Henry, it’s me.”

Her voice on the message was hesitant—cautious. She didn’t sound drunk—you could tell when she was by the glossy, hysterical nature in which words escaped her. She was more tolerable in those moments—an irony not lost on the 23-year old PEBA All-Star. No, she was sober—but there was a bated inflection that confirmed she’d been crying.

Henry Carter looked up from the driver’s seat of his Forerunner and deleted the voicemail before she could continue.

As the Carolina highway began to glow in sweeping arcs of gold and pink, Henry’s mind went to a phrase he often repeated—almost like a chant—like the vespers of le grande chartreuse in a faraway French monastery.

“All great and precious things are lonely.”

Why Steinbeck, of all people, should cross his mind on this Monday morning, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the asphalt conveying under the gloss of his new SUV. He shrugged, crooning his neck toward the steering wheel to light a cigarette and lowering his window. The Grapes of Wrath suited his mood.

His dad would always say, “Brains first, baseball second.” Henry would beg—plead to go into the cold of the Indiana mornings before school to get 50 pitches in before the bus arrived. Always—his father’s answer was the same—“What did you read last night?” So Henry read.

It was a beautiful morning—what Whitman or Hopkins might call the golden hour, and the Eastern Carolina pines were at last beginning to thin—light breaking through them as they soared by—a sure sign that the emerald waters of the Outer Banks were nearby.

He remembered his first trip here, back in 2023. It seemed like a lifetime ago—Henry, tall, lanky, sallow; a pale Indiana boy in the backwater reserve of Confederate country. The best pitcher in Indiana, by about five miles—he could count on two hands the number of batters in Indiana who could hit his cutter. Devastating speed. But from the moment he showed up in his vintage Pacers hoodie and shoulder-slung backpack to Lewis Field, he was an outsider—no big deal—and for the first time in his life, Henry didn’t feel like the best player on the diamond.

“There’s an island out a ways in Pamlico Sound,” Mark Livingston, one of the best left fielders in the college scene, told an 18-year-old Henry as his beat-up Ford Escape rumbled down Farm Road 33—a conveyance of old wooden shacks and rusting Chevrolets that gave the general sense that a band of musket-wielding rebels might emerge from the grass and open fire.

Livingston, a tall and proud Texan, seemed to fit in well in the environment, and he made a point to critique the tractor and feed brands as the teammates rolled along. He’d pack a comically large swab of Grizzly Wintergreen into his lower lip, spit for a minute or so out his window, and shake his head inevitably at each tractor they passed—like a disappointed father. “It ain’t a Deere, Henry. It ain’t a damned Deere.”

Livingston was bumbling, carefree, and stupid—but Henry didn’t mind him. He was friendly enough, especially to the new players, and seemed (unlike most senior classmen) to remember being new. So he had offered Henry a ride to the team gathering on the first weekend of the year. Henry accepted—but he never became close to Mark. Tall, built, tan, and usually drunk, Henry kept the popular player at a distance. He treated charisma the same as any force in nature—developed for a reason, and usually to make up for something ugly hiding under that casual smile and friendly eye. Something dangerous.

“They call it Indian Island,” Mark explained that warm, early autumn day, between his powerful, deep-chested dip-rockets out his window. “Every Pirate team since R.C. Deal himself heads out there to bury a baseball in the sand—and get thrashed, of course.”

Henry shrugged. Baseball had a superstition and obsessions with legacy that rivaled the undisturbed tribes along the Amazon. In High School, Henry endured months of alienation for his refusal to eat a spoonful of icy hot. He was blamed for the following playoff loss for years.

Mark would be drafted by the Scottish Claymores two years later, then begin a rampage of injuries for the next five years. A real shame, too—privately, Henry thought he was one of the best left fielders in baseball. It went to show how wrong you can be about someone.

There’s a mysticism to the coastal Carolina wilderness that must be experienced to understand. It’s a primordial landscape, robed in a mysterious and captivating beauty that pulls at the contemplative soul like a rip tide. From the moment Henry and Mark pulled off into the abandoned field and tossed their plastic boat into the Pamilco sound, he knew he was home.

Indian Island had a poetic piece of Eastern Carolina history. Conservationists fought a losing two-decade battle with the university to keep drunk baseball players from absconding to the (technically) protected island and burying baseballs into the sand. However, Pamilico was Pirate country, and in the battle between conservation and baseball, the people of North Carolina consider obstruction of America’s pastime a personal offense. The Professors who opposed the ritual either retired or stopped complaining. The real irony, however, was in the nature of the island itself. Each storm—since the island formed in some forgotten coastal past—took a piece of the island back into the sea. It was eroding—dying a long, poetic death, pulling those signed Pirate baseballs back into the sea. All great and precious things are lonely.

A text message appeared on Henry’s Bluetooth console screen, disturbing his reverie. In an automated voice, his forerunner declared “Henry—miss you—proud of you” in robotic servant-speak. It made him chuckle—his own car turning the message into the listless and unattached tone he found so fitting. He tapped “ignore” on the touch screen.

Pulling over in the same old abandoned field, Henry could tell the island was smaller even since his last visit. He took some pleasure in thinking he was likely the most successful Pirate since Blackbeard to walk on the sandy shores of Pamilco and look out toward Indian Island. For all his brooding, Henry had an appreciation of legacy.

He remembered when she finally came to one of his games. She was sober, he remembered that well, and she chatted up the fans around her until she was the most popular woman in the stands. She had #4 painted on her cheeks in purple and gold and wore a “Carter” jersey she had bought that day. She held up a “That’s my Boy!” sign painted on poster board, and waved it around like a lunatic each time he struck a batter out. A couple of middle-aged guys with aviators and big rings were chatting her up by the fifth inning--she set the sign down. Charismatic. Pretty. Dangerous. It was his senior year.

Henry was an artist on the Carolina mound. He would study his own footage for hours in his dorm room, pausing and re-watching each game-ending strikeout like an enraptured child. He never threw harder than the one day his mother came to a game. Nearly a perfect game—one of the finest in his tenure. When it was over, he left from the dugout and never said hello. She didn’t call. He didn’t care.

He stood near the edge of the water—calm in the pale swath of morning—a chorus of birds calling from the loblollys in the new sunlight.
Reaching into his bag, Henry pulled out an already-opened box, hastily giftwrapped, with a note that said “To my All-Star—I love you, Henry. Happy Birthday.” Inside was an old and dirty baseball.

He tossed the baseball up and down in his hands—a soft, rubbery ball—the factory paint all but faded—the red glow of the stitching now an old pink. Written in equally faded permanent marker on the ball was “Henry Carter—Perfect Game, 2016.” The the last words his dad would ever write.

Henry rolled his shoulders, shaking his fingers—as if the pain and anger and cheek-streaking tears could release in the same way they accumulated; one determined act of violence--soaring out of his tall, skinny body like discarded debris. Like a fastball on the inside corner.

All great and precious things are lonely. He hurled the ball into the sound with all his strength—so brutal that the congregation of crows above him fluttered away toward the rising sun.

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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#159 Post by Borealis »

That’s amazing Drew!!! So captivating!!
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#160 Post by Sandgnats »

awesome Drew!
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#161 Post by Vic »

Beautiful.
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#162 Post by DrewV »

Cedat Fortuna Peritis
October 10th, 2028
Glensheen, Duluth waterfront
Estate of Jason Bong



Note: ((Thanks to all who are humoring me by reading these. I've missed out on free writing since college and this has been a great way to delve into some subject matter and blow off a little steam!))

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The headlights of Ricky McCoy’s 1973 Toyota Celica settled across the iron-wrought gates of the Jacobean manor, and he drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel as he waited. Eventually, a squat, elderly guard emerged from a small booth to peer into the window with a furrowed expression.

“Mr. McCoy?” the balding, wide-bellied guard asked suspiciously in a perfect Minnesota accent, a styrofoam cup misting the window of the silver roadster in the balmy evening light.
Nodding, Ricky offered a Driver’s License, which the guard declined with a flat hand as a grin spread across his whiskered face.

“Nah, Nah, I know who you are, now that I see you. Just didn’t take you for a Toyota man.”

Spreading his own soft smile, Ricky brushed the dash affectionately. “Family heirloom,” he replied, tucking his license away in a faded brown wallet.

“Aren’t we all,” the guard muttered, wiping his beady brow with a wide palm and waving Ricky through with a salute from his Styrofoam cup. The iron gate gave a mechanical groan and reeled open.

Proceeding through onto neatly-kept red brick, the warm glow of Glensheen came into view behind the large wall running adjacent to London Avenue.

The invitation to the manor was certainly a surprise to Ricky, who had finished a short interview with KWAR just hours before Jason Bong’s secretary, Anna Preston, politely informed him that he was expected at the Bong home for dinner at eight o’ clock. A little late, for a dinner—Ricky didn’t bother mentioning he’d already eaten. As if he had anything else to do tonight, anyway.

The mansion was impressive, looming out of the pines and gray evening like a stately predator, hunched and foreboding. Uncomfortably aware of his own lack of pedigree, Ricky recalled once serving as an aid to General Abrams—back in his FORSCOM days. He smiled nervously to himself, recalling the General hosting some French Gendarmerie dinner from his headquarters suite. With Michelle being a Parisian, Ricky was invited along—a high honor for an aide. As dinner progressed, one particularly drunk French Brigadier berated Ricky for placing his fork and knife on the plate together.

“Qu'une belle femme soit gaspillée dans un barbare!”

The French Officers got quite the laugh out of that—along with General Abrams, who spoke fluent French.

“What did he say?” Ricky asked Michelle, long afterward.

Michelle only smirked whimsically, running her long fingertips through his black hair.

“It means you’re a lucky fellow,” she whispered in her wonderful high parisian accent, pulling him closer by his thin, service-uniform tie.

Later, General Abrams had looked up from a stack of Memorandums at his office desk, telling Ricky off-hand not to worry about those ‘frog asshats.”
“Generals always hate Captains with pretty wives,” the General said, scribbling his signature on one incredibly important government document after the other. “Now take these back down to Corps, Ricky. If they need any more corrections, your next dinner will be with the f---ing Russian ambassador.”

Working his jaw, Ricky threw the old Celica in park and stepped out, straightening the only decent blazer he still had in his apartment closet and spent three antagonizing minutes debating if a green tie was ridiculous or not. He went with black in the end; his lucky tie—one of the only articles left from his old uniform.

Glensheen was an impressive estate, but it felt forgotten—despite the immaculate landscaping and recently renovated red walls. The Corinthian columns that lined the doors on the upper porch had a very striking sense of dignity, with a newly-added Eastern flair in the form of an inner koi pond that spoke to Jason Bong’s personal tastes. Michelle would have hated it.

Half expecting a Victorian valet to emerge from the oak double-doors, Ricky was greeted instead by a beaming Mrs. Bong, pearl earrings shaking as she pecked him on the cheek and ushered him in to the foyer.

So happy to see you,” she chirped, the warm aroma of a well-cooked meal sneaking in from the inner rooms.

Mrs. Bong was tall, thin, and dignified in her golden age, known around Warrior Hall as the “Grande Lady of Duluth.” She had a knack for aristocratic socializing, no one could deny—the old money of her East Coast family saw to that—but underneath the keen sense of dignified sociality, Ricky suspected there was a genuinely kind and enthusiastic person.
Offering his niceties, Ricky wondered if it was odd that he had never stepped foot in the mansion before. His junior officer senses kicked in, and he suspected trouble—but really, there was none to be had. If was to be fired, he’d walk away $350,000 richer. And maybe Mandy Scott from the Duluth Times would stop hiding under trashcan lids and hydrangeas to get another soundbite. Getting fired, at this point, would mean little more than a vacation for one to somewhere dry and quiet. Somewhere far away from muggy, green Duluth. Somewhere far from France. Besides, despite his lavish tastes in real estate, Jason Bong was a straight shooter. He wouldn’t waste a steak dinner to tell you you’d been canned.

“Jay-jay’s out back, Ricky,” Mrs. Bong continued, leading him through the surprisingly modern interior. A magnificent, full-bodied portrait of the late Arne Bong in a three-piece suit hung above an open marble fireplace in the den, looking down on the two with an upright expression. Beneath, encased in ornate glass, was an old Medal of Honor, still polished, and a citation for the heroic World War II pilot, with forty golden stars surrounding the medal. Ricky paused to admire it.

“Richard Bong,” Mrs. Bong said fondly from behind Ricky. “Richard, like you.” She smiled warmly. “I think you two would’ve gotten along. Old Arne never stopped talking about him.”

Outside, a large hardwood patio had been raised above a more old-fashioned stone courtyard, with a large gas grill that Ricky suspected cost ten or eleven thousand dollars glowing beneath a rack of T-Bones, manned carefully by a balding man with an aquiline nose and a tinge of Mediterranean olive in his prominent features. He wore a striped polo with khakis, a towel thrown over his shoulder. A few bottles of Lake Superior Red Ale swam in a sweating metal ice pale.

“Hey, Ricky,” Jason Bong said casually, flipping a sizzling steak over with a nod. “Nice tie.” He tapped a long cigar over an ashtray and winked at Mrs. Bong, who gave a playful, admonishing look at her husband and turned on a heel back to the kitchen.

“Nice place,” Ricky replied, folding his arms behind his back and looking out over the expansive courtyard, flush with flowering bushes and manicured walkways. Jason Bong shrugged.

“Not my style. Dad loved it, though. I could buy the Amsterdam Lions with the property taxes we’ve sunk into this haunted old castle.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He offered Ricky a beer from the ice pale, which Ricky refused with a polite nod.

“Not much of a drinking man,” Mr. Bong noted, keeping his eyes on the steak and prodding a few with his spatula. “I can respect that.” He re-adjusted the cigar, spitting into the deck below the grill. “Thanks for coming out.”

Ricky nodded, watching the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard, producing a steady flow of water across three rims lined with dancing angels carved in blue soapstone.

“Talk to me about Medina,” Jason said casually, reaching for a handful of homemade seasoning in a cut-out half-gallon carton. Straight to business. Ricky shrugged.

“Not much to it. Won’t even talk extensions. Probably thinks a bigger market will pick him up.”

“What does Kijuro say?”

Ricky smiled to himself. Bong already knew damn will what the legendary Duluth manager thought—he was a weekly guest at Glensheen. Much closer to the owner than the GM.

“Vincente’s FIP was 4.10 this year, Jason. What’s Japanese for ‘good riddance?’” Bong chuckled at that, reaching into a box of Cohiba #2s and producing one for Ricky. This time he didn’t refuse.

“A man of taste,” Bong said approvingly, tossing a cutter and a box of long matches over. He puffed on his own, shaking his head. “I liked Medina. Smart guy, good chops. The fans liked him, too.”

Ricky nodded. He worked the edges of the cigar with the cutter with an expert hand, tilting his head to light the dark cigar. He exhaled. “Lots of fish in the sea.”

“Tamura, too?” Bong looked up from his cigar.

“Can’t make ‘em stay, Jason.”

“I suppose you’re right.” The aging millionaire sighed, folding his arms across a barrel-chest and looking up in to the dusk.

Ricky felt uncomfortable, keenly aware of his black tie and Carolina drawl. He bounced on the balls of his feet, puffing on the cigar in silence.

“You know, besides the press releases, we haven’t talked much about your time in the service.”

“Ancient history,” Ricky replied with a wry grin, reaching over to ash the cigar in the tray.

“I was in the Army myself, you know.”

“That so?”

“Yeah,” Bong smiled. “Artillery. Four years in the 82nd. Saw action in Kosovo.”

Cedat Fortuna Peritis,” Ricky cited with a nod. Bong gave a keen and nostalgic grin.

“That’s right. Dad wanted me to be a pilot, like his dad. I sure showed him.”

“Artillery’s an honest line of work.”

“Couldn’t stand officers,” Bong said with a laugh, pointing his cigar at Ricky. “Idiots in Charge, all of them. No offense, of course. Thought they knew everything. A lot like baseball club owners, actually.” He laughed again. “Cedat Fortuna Peritis.

He looked back to the steaks, checking a couple with a small frown and looking at his watch.

“I read an article yesterday,” he continued, moving some of the vegetable kebabs over, “that you were a war hero back in the Iraq days.”

“Not a hero,” Ricky answered, shaking his head. “Just lucky.”

“Silver Star for valor, that’s what I read.”

“War has a funny way of exploring the limits of truth.”

“They say my granddad was humble about his Medal of Honor, too,” Jason said with a chuckle. “Not that he lived long enough to deal with it. Died when dad was still a baby. Must be hard on your kids..I know it was hard for my dad, living up to that little piece of metal hanging over the fireplace.”

Ricky suppressed a small wince.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Would’ve made a fantastic press release. ‘War Hero Ricky McCoy takes command of the Warriors.’ Oh, well. Too late now, I suppose.”

“I was a Supply Officer,” Ricky reminded Bong.

“I’d love to know why a top-twenty MLB prospect decided to hang up the cleats and go to West Point, just to become a Supply Officer.”

“Life’s complicated.”

“Amen to that, brother.” Jason saluted Ricky with his bottle. He set it down gently and produced a thermometer from his front pocket. “The citation says you got blown up pretty good.”

“Shot in the shoulder, too.”

“No kidding?”

“Wish I was.”

Jason stopped, looking Ricky over with an appraising expression. “Right shoulder, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Must’ve screwed up your swing something awful.”

Ricky nodded. “Can’t throw, either.”

“I’m sorry, Ricky.”

He shrugged, waving the cigar smoke out of his face. “Could’ve been worse, Mr, Bong.”

“Could’ve been better.”

Nodding in agreement, Ricky tilted his head, working his tongue against his cheek.

“No disrespect, sir, but did you invite me out here on a Tuesday night at the last minute to talk about Iraq?”

Stopping his cooking, Jason looked over to Ricky with a grin as he wiped his hands on his flowered apron.

“I like you, Ricky,” Jason said, tilting his head. “Dad would’ve liked you, too. He loved the Warriors. Loved them irrationally, unconditionally, like a high school sweetheart. He’d take an old radio out to the docks and pace back and forth during the away games, hobbling around on his cane, cursing and hurling rocks into Lake Superior every time the opposing team scored.”

Ricky smiled at that, leaning on a Corinthian column as he listened.

“I loved my dad. He was a good father and a good man. But I don’t love anything irrationally. Not even the Duluth Warriors.” Jason looked back to his steaks. “And if you keep robbing Duluth of her heroes, not all the Silver Stars in D.C.’s gonna save us from the Duluth Times.”

The millionaire sighed, shaking his head.

“Baseball’s a dream, man. A memory we all wish we could go back to—a mirror you can’t ever wipe clean. People look out from those cheap seats in section 120 and see themselves, clad in the emerald stripes, doing battle like we’ve been doing for a million years. We pour our money into the chance to be that free. Dad dumped half his fortune into the Warriors, and all it ever got him was rocks at the bottom of Lake Superior.”

“He made some money, now and then.” Ricky noted. Jason laughed.

“If dad cared about money, I wouldn’t be sitting here grilling steaks in an old, haunted mansion.” He sighed, looking up again at the night sky, which was finally revealing traces of starlight through the dissipating clouds. "But me, Ricky, I care about money."

“You go out there and find another Medina and another Tamura,” Bong said, dumping his cigar into the ashtray and spinning it in circles, “another Kenny, and another Thomas. We need fans in the seats, Ricky, and you need players to have fans.”

“I understand, Mr. Bong.”

“I hope you do, Ricky,” Jason said with a nod, returning his attention to the grill. “I hope you do.”

After dinner, on his way out, Mrs. Bong fetched his old blazer with a warm smile at the door.

“Handsome guy like you needs a wife to keep you company, Ricky,” she said with a stern, matronly tone. Ricky did his best to smile back.

“Married to my work, ma’am.”

“Yes,” she said, giving another wink to Mr. Bong. “Lucky you.”

On his way out, he paused for the security guard to open the gate. The old guard’s hut was lit up in the glow of a small television; he was watching the post-game show of the Imperial League Wildcard. A champagne-soaked Don Mercer beaming with his sky-blue teammates. The guard finally turned and noticed at Ricky’s Celia.

“Oh! Sorry, there!” He stood and waddled over to the car. “Hell of a series. Hell of a team, those Claymores. Uff-da! What a turnaround.”

“Yeah,” Ricky offered, rubbing his eyes.

“Would be nice to see our Warriors win a Wildcard,” the guard said with a nod. He leaned on the window. “You gonna get us a decent reliever next year, or what?”

Shaking his head, Ricky looked to the ceiling of his Celica. “I don’t know. If I don’t, maybe they’ll give you my job.”

“Wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” the guard said with a chuckle. “You have yourself a pleasant evening, Mr. McCoy. Nice tie, by the way.”


When Ricky finally climbed the staircase to his apartment, he collapsed, exhausted, on his couch, slinging his tie across the room and uncorking a bottle of Macallan 25. He turned the television on to BNN, with a proud and ecstatic Vic Caleca interviewing from Indiana earlier in the day. Fireworks appeared behind him—a celebration at his home.

“Here’s to you, Vic,” Ricky said to the screen, not bothering with the tumbler as he saluted his television and took a long, undignified pull.


When he finally collapsed into the couch, blazer still on, he dreamed of emerald outfields, the fireworks morphing to rocket-propelled explosions, and her. Always, her. “Lucky,” he muttered to himself below the spinning ceiling, an arm over his eyes. Mercifully, Sleep came like the rain.
Drew Visscher (GM Ricky McCoy) | Duluth Warriors
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#163 Post by Borealis »

That's Great Drew - and my first car was a '73 Celica! Silver, stripes, with a black vinyl top!!
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#164 Post by Vic »

Very nice, as always Drew. I notice Bong ordered poor Ricky to go out and sign a bunch of stars without offering a bigger budget ... owners. Sheesh.

And you got the detail right - Caleca still hasn’t visited Scotland. Claims he’s allergic to plaid ...
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#165 Post by DrewV »

Borealis wrote:That's Great Drew - and my first car was a '73 Celica! Silver, stripes, with a black vinyl top!!
Haha get out of here, I would love a Celica. My uncle has an old one from high school he restored and still drives around.
Drew Visscher (GM Ricky McCoy) | Duluth Warriors
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