Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

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DrewV
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#166 Post by DrewV »

Skirmishes
November 14th, 2028
War Room--Duluth Warriors Front Office



He entered the conference room, green binder under his arm.

A long-neglected corner fan, jaundiced under thirty years or more of professional service, groaned anxiously as Ricky McCoy set his mug on the veneer table and the staff came to order.

“How was Charlotte, Ricky?” Jason York asked, wiping the remnant of a scone from his face with a blazer sleeve.

“Nag’s Head,” Ricky corrected the Assistant GM absently, reviewing a document as he stood at the head of the table. York shrugged and went back to his scone. “You shaved your mustache, Jason,” Ricky noted without looking up.

“Every season,” York said with a smile, and the staff laughed a bit. York managed the team before his promotion—and it was an open secret that he was denied his ascension to GM by the death of former owner Arne Bong. The season had not been amicable between the two.

“Ogawa signed with Aurora,” Nathan Tate, Chief Administrator, said from his chair, reading from his tablet. “Fukuda’s with Yuma, saw the bulletin this morning.”
“Yep,” Ricky said, still standing and reviewing the memorandum behind his chair. The staff looked on quietly.

Davis Earwood, one of the organizational scouts, gave a small chuckle, his arms folded. “Gonna need a used car salesman to get someone to take the shortseason job.” The group chuckled—all but McCoy. Eventually, the group returned to silence.

“So,” Jason said, drumming his hand on the old table and looking to Ricky. “How was the league conference?”

Ricky drew his eyes from the paper to York, looking him over before sitting down.

“Long.”

“Always a great time,” York said, creening his neck to the rest of the staff. “Lobster, sports cars, best girls east of the Mississippi on every arm. Hell of a time—yessir. Used to take the whole staff down, back in the good days.” The staff laughed again, quietly.

“How’s the search for the Jacobs replacement going?” McCoy said, a little loud, opening his binder and pulling a brass-lined pen from his front pocket. A few of the staff members exchanged glances.

“We think there’s a good chance he’ll re-sign,” York replied, nodding to the team. “It’s normal in these option years for guys with some WAR in their pockets to test the waters, Ricky. But just wait a bit, he’ll come around.”

Looking from his binder to York, McCoy took a pull from his mug and unfolded his reading glasses.

“Cedeno’s got two years left in Hartford. What’s the story on Gordon Fuller?”

Jose Franco, the Scouting director, cleared his throat from across the table and nodded.

“Still no extension. Great defender, good at placing the ball. Strikes out too much. Consistent, but he’s reached his limit. Won’t outshine Jacobs.”

McCoy nodded. “Cheaper, though,” He said, “and his eyes aren’t as green.”

“We’ll see what Jacobs wants, when the time comes,” York said. “Hot corner’s a tough duty. Chose, Crocker, Fuller, these guys aren’t Jacobs. Cheap, sure, but the infield’s sparse enough as it is, Ricky. Some stock’s worth investing in.”

Jesus, Jason!” Ricky shouted, causing nearly everyone in the room to jump.

Furiously, McCoy launched his pen at the table so hard that it ricocheted, launching toward a ducking scout across the table. His coffee splashed over the veneer. “That’s the sort of medieval god damn nonsense that put us in this mess!”

York tilted his head, wide-eyed, turning a bit in his chair. McCoy pushed himself from the table and stood up, flinging his binder down. Jose Franco, the most experienced man in the room, looked on thoughtfully.

“We’ve got thirteen million dollars to replace half a god damn baseball club. No bullpen, no third baseman, two outfielders, and a AAA club that looks like a Cal Ripken summer league. And you want to spend half of that on Eric f---ing Jacobs?”

Shocked, the staff stared at their General Manager, who until this point had not lost his composure once in a board meeting—in his office—not ever.
Ricky leaned forward, slamming his fist down on the papers.

“This team lost ninety million dollars in one year,” he continued, seething, rapping his knuckles on the PEBA financial report RJ Emola had compiled. “with the best-paid staff in the damn league. We have to pay ringers to fill the platinum section, for the love of god!”

“People don’t come when you trade away their heroes, Ricky,” York answered quietly, his back rigid. “Half the fans who do show up still wear their Mercer jerseys.”

“I don’t want to hear another damn word about Don Mercer,” McCoy shouted, pointed a finger at York. “Thirty million dollars for a team that couldn’t turn his home runs into wins if he hit sixty of them. Prat, Mercer, Latham, Thomas, Esquivel, Sutherland, not another damn word. Nineteen million for a clown who didn’t throw a pitch the whole year he wore green. Twenty-Five Million for a has-been starter with more injuries than Tonya Harding. The list goes on, and on, and on.”

“Ricky, if you want to lecture us on how to sign a professional baseball player to a team, why don’t you wait until you’ve actually done it?” York shot up at McCoy, his jaw set. The staff exchanged dubious glances as white-hot intensity gripped the room. “Thomas scorched the earth the whole time he was at Duluth, until you benched him in a slump. No one knew Latham was going to tear his damn ACL. And Mercer did exactly what we wanted him to—lure the Win-Now teams at the deadline. We just didn’t know he’d be traded for a reliever loan and utility man instead of prospects.”

The oblivious droning of the old fan was the only noise left in the room. The staff stared on. Ricky looked at York, his hands white-knuckled on the leather chair.
“Jason, I have a daughter at Princeton,” Ricky said, after staring at York for some time, “and even though most of my salary goes towards her dance degree, I feel less screwed over by the Board of Regents than a Duluth fan should by the Front Office.”

Ricky sat back down in his chair.

“Duluth’s days of spending money we don’t have are over,” he said, quieter, shuffling his scattered papers. “I want a full scrub of the depth chart with top-ten choices from each man, woman, and child on my payroll. Vacation’s over, gentlemen. And the next time I leave instructions with this room, I better see the results on my desk when I walk back in—or the next instruction will be how to cash a severance check.”

He scanned the room, looking down the staff with raised eyebrows. “This meeting is over.”

The groan of chairs eagerly pushing back from the table rose from the faded hardwood floor, and one-by-one the staff shuffled awkwardly out of the room in silence. Franco gave a sad, almost fatherly expression as he passed, and all were gone—all except Jason York—who sat looking at McCoy. McCoy looked back at him, silent.

“This ain’t the Army, Ricky,” York said calmly, tapping his pen again on the table. “And you’re not a General. That Hollywood, Moneyball crap won’t work for long.”

“Jason,” Ricky answered, collected once more, slapping his green binder closed, “the next time you interrupt me in a meeting, you’ll asking Mandy Scott for a discount in the classifieds.”

York laughed, shaking his head and folding his hands together. “You did your job, Ricky,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ll give you that. You brought home the bottom line, like a loyal little officer. Forget about the fans, forget about the players, forget about the legacy of this place. At least the books are balanced, right? That’s what Bong hired you to do. I wonder, though—now that the job’s done—what he’ll be looking for in a GM.”

“I’m not having this horsecrap debate with you, York.” McCoy answered.

“It must have been embarrassing as hell,” York continued with a smile, shaking his head, “sitting there in that fancy meeting, with all those successful GMs, seeing your name at the bottom of every damn list—bullet after bullet. Must’ve felt like hell, man. Laughing stock of the whole PEBA. I imagine there weren’t a lot of after-party invitations.”

McCoy worked his tongue against his mouth. “Is that what this is about? Dinner parties? I’m not the one who passed you over, Jason. If you’re looking for justification for your ceremonial position, find a damn mirror.”

York chuckled again. “Any idiot with a black tie can slash a roster, man. I told you, this ain’t the Army—and around here, it’s a lot easier to fire someone than sign them.” York stood up, his demeanor darkening. “I earn over twice your salary. What do you think that says about where we stand with the big man? You think Bong’s going to let you dole out a million bucks to fire his most experienced manager when he already gave you 24?” He laughed again, shaking his head and straightening his tie. “Save that General Patton crap for the reunions, man.”

He walked past Ricky and left the room.

Ricky watched him leave, keeping his eyes on the door for some time. He could hear phones ringing down the hall—the wind coming off Lake Superior on the windowsill—and the old fan, whirring with all its might, in the overheated room. With a sigh, he walked over and turned it off.






Drew Visscher (GM Ricky McCoy) | Duluth Warriors
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#167 Post by Sandgnats »

Thanks for keeping the green binder!
RJ Ermola
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*2024 PEBA Champions*
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Re: Unga Bunga: A Warriors Blog

#168 Post by Borealis »

Warriors wrote:“Ogawa signed with Aurora,” Nathan Tate, Chief Administrator, said from his chair, reading from his tablet. “Fukuda’s with Yuma, saw the bulletin this morning.”
“Yep,” Ricky said, still standing and reviewing the memorandum behind his chair. The staff looked on quietly.
And a shout-out... sorta... to the new Aurora manager... News on that coming soon...(?)...
Michael Topham, President Golden Entertainment & President-CEO of the Aurora Borealis
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