Spring Training, Part II

[DrewV]

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Three Weeks Earlier
Arne Bong Foundation Building, Superior Street
Duluth, MN


Ricky McCoy smoothed out his green tie, one methodical hand after the other, his knee bouncing as he watched a pair of angel fish dart around a chique aquarium display in the center of the large lobby. The wall beyond the reception desk was wrought with silver-framed moments of the late owner Arne Bong; breaking the ground on Doyle Bluth Stadium, shaking the commissioner’s hand, signing Pat Holman, and more. The neatly positioned photographs ended with Mark Kierstead hoisting the championship cup into the air at home plate. Over three years ago.

“Sicily will see you now, Ricky.”

Sicily Bong had the silliest name of all Arne Bong’s children—Jason, John, and Sicily Bong. All middle-aged, all millionaires, all inheritors of a high, dark brow and aquiline scowl. Bong. What a stupid god damn name. Sicily’s assistant lifted a brow before returning to her computer, tilting her head toward the office.

“Great.”

Ricky wondered if the eyes of dead memories on the wall followed him into the office.

Inside, Sicily Bong flipped through a portfolio, buried in her work. Her glasses were low on her nose, and she motioned Ricky in with single hand as she turned a page.

Beyond, a midday Lake Superior spread out across the horizon through the downtown skyline, peppered with barges and other ships that cut the deep gloom of the inland sea.

“Ricky. Glad you could make it.” She flipped another page, slowly wrapping her fingernails on the expansive oak bureau.

Ricky offered some guttural formality in return, setting his green binder in his lap as he sat.

“Go ahead and sit,” Sicily said, after he had done so. He cleared his throat awkwardly, setting his binder aside and tilting his head a bit.

“I’m guessing there’s a reason you called me up here today?”

At last, Sicily snapped the binder shut, folding her hands primly on top of it and looking Ricky over.

“That’s what GMs do, Ricky,” Sicily answered politely, a thin smile. “the communicate with their owners.”

“There’s only one owner, Sicily,” Ricky corrected.

“The Warriors are owned by a Board.”

“Well, 49% is owned by the Board.” Ricky leaned forward, his tie drooping down as he padded his loafers on the carpet. “I’ve doubled this team’s profits in two years. Fan Interest hasn’t been this high since you won the championship. If you didn’t call me up here to say ‘thanks,’ then I just wasted twenty bucks in parking fees for a math lesson.”

Studying Ricky for a moment, Sicily pushed herself up, turning to watch Doyle Bluth Stadium from the window. She crossed her arms, sighing, while Ricky looked on.

“The majority share is unfortunate, yes. Jason’s like dad was,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Ricky. “Never was good at running a business.”

“Seems like he did alright for himself.”

Sicily chuckled lightly, shaking her head as she turned back to look at Ricky.

“It was easier, back then.” She paced over to one of the heavy-framed mahogany bookshelves, gently lifting a portrait of her father hugging a giddy, college-aged Sicily in an oversized Yale sweater. “Men in suits doing favors for their pals. A lot like baseball.” She turned to look at Ricky again. “I’m—ah—sorry to hear about your dad.”

Ricky nodded once. “Thanks.”

“Were you two close?”

“Not particularly.”

“I was.” Sicily took the photograph to her desk and set it in front of the binder, seating herself once more as she looked at it. “You didn’t have authorization to trade Carter and Mendoza.”

“I didn’t need it.”

Sicily’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from the photo. “High-profile are supposed to be reviewed by the Board.”

“Sicily, I’m a baseball player. I’m running a baseball team. You think those two kids were planning on staying anywhere near Lake Superior when the team control ran out? They’re future goddamn superstars.”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“If you want a GM to come crawling downtown every time they make a trade, you better find some way to get rid of me.”

“I’m glad you brought that up, Ricky.” Sicily provided a polite expression, flipping the portfolio open once more. Ricky lifted a brow.

“I know Jason hired you because your grandpa flew with ours.” She lifted a few photos of the Medal of Honor Recipient Jason Bong from the portfolio, holding them up to the light. “Must have been a lot of pressure growing up, Ricky. General James McCoy, Senior. General James McCoy, Junior. And Lieutenant Colonel Ricky McCoy—never even made full bird.”

Ricky watched Sicily quietly, his head tilted. She stared back at him before flipping another page.

“Honestly, I’m surprised nobody found it sooner, Ricky.”

He worked his jaw, spreading a small grin and shaking his head. Sicily’s expression remained passive.

“Your official discharge just says honorable,” she noted, looking through some notes. “No one had to know you got a DUI, right?”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“I’ve always wondered why you never talk about the Army. I always assumed it was some misplaced sense of humility.” She shook her head. “They forced you to retire when you ran your car into a ditch in Jeju. How many favors did you have to call in to keep that BAC out of the news?”

Ricky rubbed his temples with one hand, sighing to himself.

“Your ex-wife was awarded full custody of your child fifteen years ago…the decision cited alcohol dependency and fits of rage.” She looked up again. “Did you hit your wife, Ricky?”

Ricky scowled; his voice low. “Of course not. You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You were bailed out of Orange County jail your senior year at West Point by your dad, General James McCoy himself…big surprise here, Ricky. Driving under the influence. Looks like it cost him his fourth star.”

She slowly shut the portfolio a second time, a satisfied expression. “Does Jason know?”

“You think I’d be sitting here if he didn’t?”

She frowned, shaking her head. “Poor Jason. He’s under a lot of pressure to live up to dad. Which, honestly, isn’t a high bar. I loved my dad dearly…but he had no idea how to run a baseball team. He’s like you, in that way.”

“Does this Humphrey Bogart bullshit have a point?”

“Ricky, how do you think the fans—and the sponsors—would feel about learning their GM is a disgraced alcoholic, making trades after a fifth of rum—or do hedge fund guys like you prefer scotch?”

“Why are you doing this?” Ricky looked genuinely curious, his demeanor calm.

“Because,” Sicily answered, leaning forward with just a hint of acidity in her voice, “I am tired of the good old boys. I’m tired of rich, connected weasels like you worming your way into a job you didn’t deserve and destroying the legacy my family worked for.”

“No offense, Sicily, but it didn’t take a connected weasel like me to nose-dive your legacy into the abyss.”

“Of, fuck off, Ricky!” Her voice carried into the hall. She stood up. “So smug all the time, with that sarcastic know-it-all bullshit. If you’ve got some nihilistic fantasy to live out your baseball dreams, do it with somebody else’s goddamn team.”

“Sicily, I’m here to win baseball games.”

“You have until the end of the season,” Sicily replied, adjusting her cuffs and sweeping the portfolio off the bureau. “I’ll make the same deal the Army did—because I’m a decent person. Resign and find some other white-collar venture capitalist to shit all over.”

“What is this, blackmail?”

Sicily lifted and envelope from the folder, revealing a photograph of Ricky and Tania leaning against the outfield wall, smiling at each other.

“What do you think Mandy Scott over at the Duluth Times would say about a midnight date with your assistant the night of the big trade, Ricky?”

“Are you being serious?”

“Womanizing, drunk, good old boy, making drunk trades to impress his assistant. You think Jason will keep supporting you when the sponsors pull out?” she shook her head. “I know your type, Ricky. I grew up with them.”

“You’ve got me wrong, Sicily.” He stood up as well, the anger in his eyes flaring. “You have no idea who I am. And spare me the proletariat monologue, Mrs. Downtown Duluth.”

She only smiled back. “Until the end of the season, Ricky.” She paced over to the door and opened it. “Thanks for stopping by.”

With a final bitter nod, Ricky collected his binder and walked out of the office. The door snapped shut behind him. As he left, he paused at the large aquarium in front of the reception desk, staring for a moment at the two angel fish that chased each other in perpetual circles around the bowl.

“Good luck at Spring Training, Ricky.” The assistant’s tone was only barely ironic, a pleasant smile on her face. Ricky didn’t look up.

“Thanks,” he replied quietly, watching the two fish a bit longer before he sighed and walked away, still adjusting his tie.

When Ricky was long gone, Sicily sat at her desk, a soft sigh, leaning her chin down on her arms and staring at the aging photograph of her father’s proud smile—looking down on her with his wide arms and tacky Warriors jacket. Very carefully, she reached out one finger and traced the edges of her father’s face, a soft smile on her lips before she set the photo back on the bookshelf. Returning, she pressed the call button on her desk.

“Bring in Kijuro Yoshida.”

[Borealis]

Dang!! She's a mean one, Mr. McCoy... I think she means business...