Reservations

[Ghosts]

Reservations
May 8, 2020
by dvail

Niihama, Japan – 31 January, 2031

“It’s BULLSHIT is what it is, Yuji!” Victor Torres raised his voice yet again. Yuji Yamashita had become accustomed to the American’s brazen, if grating, voice. While he had no taste for shouting, Yuji certainly appreciated the sentiment. “Another year on the reserve roster? Fuck. This. We’re the best players in this entire organization and they want us sitting around, running drills?” Torres railed on.

Yuji, for his part, rarely made waves. He came to the Oikake Maze Training Center with every intention of running through his drills and pitching a sim game. Victor’s raw emotion, though, was on display more freely than Yuji had seen during his young friendship with the 2027 first round draft pick. Yuji, too, was frustrated to have been moved off the active roster. The 21-year-old felt ready to compete in meaningful games. Yuji met his friend’s eyes and nodded. “We can only do what we can do, my friend. They will need us soon and they will call. They must.”

“Three years, eight months. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen any real playing time, since I’ve hit when the score mattered. I’m a baseball player. The score matters, Yuji. I’m sick of this shit!” Torres pounded his fist into his knee.

“What can we do, my friend? We must be patient,” Yamashita counseled.

Victor nodded softly. “Patience. That’s what they’re counting on. Our patience. Our compliance. I’m done being compliant. They can trade me. Or they can cut me. Yep, that’s it,” Victor stood and turned away, wiping his eye on his sleeve. “I’m going upstairs,” he announced, brushing away Yuji’s outstretched hand.

Vanessa’s desk phone, that archaic, gray box that occupied entirely too much of her tiny desk surface, rang with alarming volume, startling her from a rare morning reverie. She was the first one in the office, and she’d only arrived twenty minutes earlier. Normally, she’d get a good hour or two before spotting another person in the office. She glanced toward the simple LCD display, and read FRONT DESK SECURITY. “That’s… odd,” she mused aloud, reaching for the receiver. Listening for a moment, she smirked and disarmed the apologetic guard, “Thank you for not hurting him. Please stand down, there’s no need for any alarm.” Vanessa replaced the receiver, adjusted her jacket, and straightened her desk, waiting patiently for the ding of the elevator. As it complied with her expectation, she waited for the doors to open – they were always a tad slow, much to Vanni’s daily dismay – and smiled as Victor Torres, clad in a pristine Ghosts uniform, stormed out into the hall.

He had the look of a watch dog that found itself in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by scary new people and scary new sights. His body searched for a direction to point toward, a target to attack, but his eyes darted about like a lost little kid and betrayed the otherwise solid job Victor was doing at appearing imposing. Vanessa waited for him to notice her, as the only other person on the floor, and once he did she stood, pulled her jacket taught, and met his gaze. Victor Torres took up something of a charge as he marched down the long hall toward the owner’s office, where Vanessa stood waiting, hands folded gently in front of her.

Victor’s pulse quickened further, elevated now not by the anger he shared with Yuji, or the adrenaline of blowing by security, no those both took a backseat, but by the nervous energy of pride. You better not bend now, little man. Don’t let that voice crack, sugar butt. He mocked that version of himself the would back down now, smothering it in bravado. He raised his finger, pointing at Vanessa, and inhaled, feeling the dryness of his mouth as he did, and prepared to shout a string of demands so long that he’d be traded to Shin Seiki in minutes, just as soon as he let that monumentally stupid owner hear what he really thought of him.

“It looks truly excellent on you, Mr. Torres,” Vanessa announced, just ahead of Victor’s onslaught. “Truly excellent.” Victor only really heard her the second time, breaking free from his inner tirade. “What?” he replied, pausing an awkward 20 feet from her.

“The uniform, it looks like you were born to wear it,” Vanessa smiled warmly, giving Victor the time he needed to switch from tirade to conversation. “Could use a little dirt.”

“Thanks… listen, is Mr. Bruno… is Vanni Bruno…” Victor stumbled, “IS HE IN THERE?” There it is. Take control. You’re the star here. Who the hell is this lady, anyway?

“I’m afraid Vanni doesn’t make it in until much later, Mr. Torres. It’s barely 6:00 AM. Most of the front office staff doesn’t get in until 8 or 9 – Vanni, however, is on his own time. Is there something I can help you with?” Vanessa offered.

“I’m not here to talk to a friggin’ secretary. I want to talk to the owner, and tell him I’m done. I’m out. Trade me, cut me, whatever, I’m done waiting for you all to play me. You can tell him that. No, forget that, I’ll wait and I’ll tell every damn idiot that walks through that elevator just how done I am. So why don’t you call him up and tell him VICTOR TORRES IS NO LONGER A GHOST. Pass that along to old Vanni,” Victor concluded.

“I’ll certainly do that, if you wish,” Vanessa replied coolly, steeling her gentle smile into a poker face of sorts. “Of course, once one rings that bell, it cannot be un-rung, as they say. It would be a shame for someone with your talent to be stuck in the World Independent League, but since the only teams we can trade with until we join PEBA at the end of the season are WIL teams, it seems that would be our only recourse.”

Victor stared at Vanessa in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ah, darn. I wasn’t supposed to let that slip before Friday’s announcement. You won’t tell anyone, will you? Of course not. You want to be traded. I’m sure Kuwana could use a top flight shortstop prospect like yourself. Hey, maybe they even play you some this year! Then again, you’re still struggling with your Z-contact percentage, and for as physically gifted as you are, your baserunning and defense aren’t translating yet, so you might struggle to displace Super Mario and end up as a backup, but these are the risks you take, no?” Vanessa turned toward her smartphone and considered her next move – do I put him on the spot now, or make an appeal? If I lose this guy, Vail won’t forget it. I need to be certain.

Victor Torres stood waiting to see what other surprises this secretary – no, “Executive Assistant” – he read off her name plate, had in store. When it appeared she was through with her speech, he recalled his anger and started in again, “Listen, I…”

“You’re pissed,” Vanessa dropped the calm persona and spoke plainly. “I get it. You’ve been training here for three years and you’ve played about five minutes of barely meaningful baseball in front of half a crowd. It’s not what the 4th pick of the draft should want. That said, your progress has been slow, and that’s partly on you. You were drafted early, straight out of high school, and in the big boy world of PEBA, no one goes from high school to the bigs in less than three years. Shit doesn’t happen there, and it’s not going to happen here, because this organization is PEBA-level. We’re getting our spot back, and I happen to know that the new GM is quite hopeful about your prospects of making it to baseball’s biggest stage. You’re close. WE’RE CLOSE. But I hear you, you’re tired of being patient. You need to play a game that means something, and 2032 baseball is 16 months away. So, I have a proposition for you, if you’re willing to listen. Otherwise, I’m happy to let the owner of the next PEBA franchise know that you just cussed him out.”

“I’m listening,” Victor offered.

“I’ll bet,” Vanessa quickly countered. “Go down to the facility, call a players meeting for the reserve roster guys, and tell them to meet you at the facility tonight. 10PM. You can be the one to tell them about the move to PEBA, but so help me God, Victor, if that shit leaks before Friday I’ll personally guarantee you rot on a WIL reserve roster until you’re arthritic, capiche?”

Victor unclenched his teeth long enough, to ask the obvious, “And just what the hell am I gathering them for?”

“A game, dummy. With an audience.”