May 4th, 2031
The Shores of Lake Superior, Duluth MN
“Really not much of a choice, Ricky.”
Ricky McCoy sat next to his former boss on a newly-installed wooden bench, eyes out over the lake. He was leaning forward—green tie drooping toward the uneven pavement of the old pier-side walk. He looked over to Jason Bong and nodded, his hands folded between his knees. “That’s baseball.”
Jason Bong sighed, running a hand over his shaved head. He looked out over the water.
“Mendoza and Carter. The Sharp deal. The drinking. This shit with your assistant—and with this start, Rick…” He exhaled sharply. “Medoza threw a perfect game, for Christ’s sake. The same god damn day the Board voted.” Jason searched for more words, but found none, and so he sighed again and leaned back on the bench, eyes over the water.
Ricky considered that, working his jaw a bit. He rapped the tips of his loafers over the pavement. “God, I wish I could stay long enough to fire that asshole Jason York.” He let a dark chuckle escape him, then pointed to the large stone edifice that loomed between the two of them and the water—a brass statue, still fresh with a new granite foundation and a gleaming inscription. “At least I stuck around long enough for this.” He motioned to the looming figure on top of the granite pedestal.
Jason gave his own rueful chortle, letting his own eyes drift to the effigy. “That’s baseball.” He reached into his jacket, producing a flask and pulling from it. When he offered it, Ricky refused with a polite shake of his head.
The newly unemployed Ricky McCoy dusted his slacks and stood up, wincing a bit. He’d somehow managed to age ten years in the last four. His mind went to the photographs on the wall of his office—photographs he studied on his first day. Bill McKenzie. Mark Kierstead. Now Ricky McCoy.
“I told you the day I hired you, Ricky,” Jason said, rising as well. He fiddled with the buttons of his jacket and threw his large sunglasses back over his nose. “My dad wanted a dynasty. I wanted the team to survive.”
“Well,” Ricky said with a faded grin, looking back to Jason, “we survived.” He reached out his hand.
Jason nodded, shaking Ricky’s hand, and looking back to the pier. “You’re a god damned shitty GM, Ricky McCoy.” He let his attention drift to the statue. “But you’re a warrior.”
The owner of the Duluth Warriors gave Ricky McCoy a two-fingered salute, then fished into his coat pocket, flicking a quarter toward the feet of the statue. With that, he turned on a heel and headed back down the long, shoreline path that led back to the stadium.
With sunset coming in from beyond Lake Superior, Ricky McCoy looked up to the statue of Arne Bong, a Duluth legend and the first owner of the Duluth Warriors. The old man was in his Warriors Jacket, one hand on a cane, the other on an old radio. With his back to Lake Superior, old Arne Bong’s gaze was frozen forever on the looming stadium in the distance—a long, hopeful, and tired gaze. Ricky asked the artist to make it look like old Arne was searching the top of the stadium for a home run ball. It was perfect. A final addition to the rebranded Duluth Warriors. He smiled softly, stooping low to trace his hands over the inscription below:
ARNE BONG: 1946 – 2016
FATHER, PHILANTHROPIST, FRIEND, FAN
“LET’S BUILD A BALLCLUB.”
FATHER, PHILANTHROPIST, FRIEND, FAN
“LET’S BUILD A BALLCLUB.”
Reading the inscription, Ricky couldn't help but remember the last thing his own father ever told him.
“You just can’t rebuild a life like you can a ballclub, boy.”
“Joke’s on you, asshole,” Ricky mumbled to the ghost of this father—wherever he was. “I can’t even rebuild a ballclub.”
After some time, Ricky stood up. He reached down into his satchel bag, removing a large, green binder and placing it gently at the old’ man’s feet.
Next, Ricky put a hand into his coat, producing his cellphone. He hesitated with a hand over the screen, his brow furrowed and a gloss building over his blue eyes. He took a breath, looking back over the water as he pressed “send.”
Moments passed. The line rang in cold staccato. Finally—a voice. Ricky stood perfectly still. Finally, he spoke.
“Hey, honey.” He ran a hand over his failing hairline as the rising wind forced the green binder open, pages spilling into Lake Superior. A long silence gripped the other line—while Ricky waited and waited for a response. The horizon beyond Lake Superior seemed to fold and pull and empty itself with anticipation as an aging Ricky McCoy clung to the cellphone like a soldier to a flag. An eternity seemed to dirge along the line—until, at last, a voice.
“Hi, daddy.”
