Time for a Change, Boys

[Ghosts]

Las Vegas, Nevada - November 16th, 2029

"Fireworks! You showed! Guys, Hancock is here!" a bleary eyed Alfredo Vega announced to his guests, and to the rest of their nascent friends co-occupying their space. Nearby, Fred Benjamin sat up, turned his head, and managed to creak open one eye against the harsh fluorescent lighting. "I'll be damned. If it isn't the man, the myth, and the legend himself," Benjamin uttered hoarsely. "A little late dontcha think?"

"I thought there were no clocks in Vegas," Markus Hancock retorted. "Although, I understand there's a clock on every social media recording device that one or more drunk people might use to torpedo his reputation." Hancock allowed the silence to speak for itself. "It makes for a helluva TMZ headline, at least. Pat, I loved the tweet about your ex-wife. Very sweet. I'm not sure she'll take you up on the referral to the Spearmint Rhino, but I'm sure it'll mean a lot to her that you care about her financial well-being as she spends that alimony."

"How about you go outside and play hide and go fuck yourself, Hancock?" Pat Lilly rose quickly at the jab.

"Oh calm your shit, Pattycakes. I got it handled. The brass in Bakersfield sent some social media twerps with me; they'll delete everything before it gets too far," Hancock offered carelessly. He pulled a baseball from his coat and casually tossed it up and down, continuing, "you know they actually hire people to play on the internet all day anymore?"

Felix Maese, a little more with it than the rest of his motley crew, asked, "Wait, you brought Bakersfield staff with you to our championship reunion? The hell for?"

Markus paused his tossing and stared intently at the seams on the ball, gliding his thumb over them to feel the "For years now I've listened to each of you moan about the good old days, about life after baseball, blah blah blah. My god, look at the lot of you. Some of the greatest stars in baseball history, from the greatest team in baseball history, and here you sit. Or lie, as it were. Feelin' ok there, Vega?" Alfredo had excused himself to the corner so that he could visually inspect the remainder of his dinner.

"Guys I told you strip club seafood in the desert was a bad idea," Vega trailed off.

"And I told you: never mix dark liquors and shellfish. Especially not into 'cocktail sauce'," Benjamin chimed in. That got a chuckle out of Pat Lilly, who seemed to be trying to actively cool himself by pressing his exposed chest to the bare floor.

"Listen up: it's time for a change, boys. I've discussed it with the front office. They're so impressed with what I've done as a pitching coach that they were willing to make you all coaching offers without so much as an interview. You all fly out in the morning. Which is in roughly... now." Hancock announced with the greatest of ease while playing a game of no-look hacky-sack with his wrist, forearm, elbow, and his baseball.

Maese, perhaps the only one capable, met his gaze carefully, "You ditch our party, show up with suits, and expect us to come running because you said so?"

"I mean, yes. Why, do you have something better to do?" They both looked slowly over their comrades, chemically battered, and certainly worse for the wear. "Or do you think maybe you've done enough meaningless garbage?"

"I think, probably, yeah, enough meaningless garbage," Maese agreed, not breaking his gaze from the scene.

"Good, because your collective bail was about 150% of my salary from last year." With that, the greatest players in Bakersfield history peeled themselves and each other off the benches and the floor of the Las Vegas County holding cell they graced, signed a few autographs for their nascent compatriot inmates with spare balls Hancock brought, and headed for the exit.