Sir John Fowler Jr. sat back in his office chair, the old leather creaking in protest. He had been hunched over peering at a venerable mountain of papers through his bifocals for too long and his back had finally lodged a voracious enough protest to force a break. There was always much to do as a billionaire businessman based out of London, but Fowler had been busy even by his standards of late.

The London Underground owner could sometimes be prone to flights of fancy, a trait shared by many so-called eccentric billionaires, and only accentuated by his advanced age. The latest concerned news circulating through his business backchannels that one of the British-based Formula One teams was putting out feelers on a possible sale and was looking for interested parties. Though not necessarily a fan of motorsport in particular, the allure of owning one of just a handful of teams in the world’s most exclusive and prestigious racing league was great. He had gone to sleep numerous times over the last few weeks to the thought of bringing a championship to a Formula One team as the final feather in the cap of his long, successful life. The team was reportedly looking to remain in British hands, greatly reducing the pool of eligible individuals who could cough up the significant amount of cash required for such a purchase – estimated to be in the billions.

Complicating matters was, ironically, the sports franchise he already owned. After years of futility, mediocrity, and an ever dawdling rebuild the team had made successive playoffs and made runs out of the Wildcard both times. The team’s value was on the rise but surely not yet at its peak, putting him in an awkward position. Smart business savvy said he should continue to ride the current momentum of a young, cheap team capable of making waves on the field in order to eventually sell at a price premium. But a Formula One team might not be for sale then and he needed an influx of liquidity to make himself look like a serious bidder.

That was not to suggest that Fowler did not enjoy baseball or the Underground, in fact he was overjoyed with the team’s recent success after so many years and had attended an increasing number of games over the past two years. His many years owning a baseball team had eventually cultivated a joy for the game that he did not necessarily possess when he bought the team despite his father’s best efforts. His hiring of an outspoken and brash American as General Manager had been questioned by many but he counted the hire of Cyan Winters among his best decisions since purchasing the team and had grown quite fond of the man after working closely with him, even though he made no secret of his disdain for Fowler’s unwillingness to open up the warchest to allow for what Winters was fond of calling “a real PEBA budget”. As much as he cared for the team and the game, Fowler had a bottom line to maintain and had always intended that the Underground not just remain financially solvent but that it serve as a revenue generating asset, so “a real PEBA budget” was always going to lag behind ticket and media revenues. 

He sighed, looking down at the wasteland of paper. Memos, reports, white papers, each sheet another ripple in the ocean of information he was trying to gather, consume, and catalog. He had long ago reached the point where he felt like he wasn’t learning anything more no matter how much he read, but what else was there to do? He pushed away from the desk, and leaned further back. As he physically disconnected from the work he looked over to the wall where his 2036 Underground team calendar hung. He noticed he had not changed it recently, and so it still hung on October with a dramatic shot of Giampaolo Eremitani hitting a home run against the Kentucky Thoroughbreds during their 2035 playoff series. Fowler recalled fondly how “Clogger” had carried the team to an upset victory in that series and earned MVP honors in the process. He had argued with his General Manager about the decision to offer such a large contract to Eremitani and had eaten his words like so much spaghetti that postseason when “Clogger” earned every penny. This team needed Winters, he thought, realizing the tragedy it would be if he sold the team to a new owner who surely would want to install their own personnel. What a shame it would be for all their work together to be washed away. For whatever reason that thought sparked an idea in his mind. A crooked smile curled up his lips and he slid the chair back forward and picked up the phone.

“Get me Winters.”