by Word “Smitty” Smith, Valhalla Rumor Rag

December 22, 2011: Somewhere in a smoke-filled room, NC — The rookie GM of the Yuma Bulldozers, Bob “Swanfeld” Mayberry, had no idea what to expect.  Flabbergasted by the noise, turmoil and frantic frenzy of his first PEBA Winter Meetings, Swanny staggered through five days of swapping, swaggering and general ballyhoo which exceeded all expectations a first year GM might have had, had he had expectations.

Some tall tales were told.  Some ballplayers were sold.

Swanny began the Winter Meetings on a difficult note: he was locked out of the room.  His passkey didn’t work.  The doorman didn’t recognize the Yuma GM’s PEBA badge and couldn’t find his name on the list of invitees.  Apparently, the name of the former Yuma GM had not been removed from the roster.  A scene was avoided when the astute PEBA commissioner instructed the doorman to allow Swanny to join the group.

Inside, the room was abuzz with baseball banter.  The air filled with cigar smoke and inflated statistics, conversations overlapping like dialog in a Robert Altman movie.  Swanny couldn’t make head nor tail of things.  He never had a chance to introduce himself before being plunged immediately into the discussion.  Today, trading was taking place on the floor of the Asheville, NC hotel where the meetings were being held.  And the tables, walls, even in the men’s’ john – though the women’s restroom was strangely vacant throughout the entire five days of the meetings.

It was a feeding frenzy!  Like tiger sharks to baby dolphins, GMs swooped down on unsuspecting prospects and jaded veterans alike.  Greed glutted the gloomy room.  Two GMs approached Swanny, but before they could offer their shining stars as bait for Yuma’s youngest and brightest, the power went out.  The room plunged into, well, not darkness exactly, but a strange whiteness; a “darkness visible”, like being snow blind.  Voices cried out, “Lights!  Lights!”  Chairs were overturned in the rush for the doors.  Swanny was bumped repeatedly and swept along in the panic.

Somewhere in the darkness, the Commish and his electronic wizards found the pulled plug and restored light, and a semblance of order to the chaos.  Swanny must have been bounced and buffeted more than he realized, because when the lights returned and he could see everyone in the room, he couldn’t hear them.

He called out, “What’s with the silence?”  For a moment, the rookie GM and Winter Meetings virgin thought it was one grand practical joke they were playing on him; an initiation rite for new GMs.  “Okay, guys, very nice, but turn on the sound.”

No one seemed to hear him.  He felt like he was in a bubble.  He could watch the others resume their trade talks, but he couldn’t hear them, and no one could hear him.  He tried to reach out, but his arms were paralyzed.  He couldn’t move.  He stood stone still, like the living statue in Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale, hearing all but unable to move.  He could speak, move his lips that is, but no one could hear him.  Swanny had that sinking feeling you get when you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake.  He was way out of his league.

Then the lights began to flash on and off.  Waves of sound reached the shores of Swanny’s ears, then receded.  He seemed to be going in and out of consciousness – or the room was being turned on and off like some museum display.

The Commish touched his shoulder.  “Are you back with us, Bob?”  Swanny nodded – discovered he could nod – smiled and listened as the sound of the room returned.  “Yes,” he said.  The Commish nodded as if he heard.

Swanny later realized he must have suffered a mild concussion during the first white-out, and the occasional lapses in sound and the repeated failure of the power in the room were happening in his head.  Trading continued whether Swanny was able to hear or not.  He occasionally had to apologize for suddenly dropping out of a conversation and ask whoever he was talking with to remind him about the deal they were cooking up before Swanny blanked out.

The occasional lapses became less and less frequent, and they disrupted Swanny’s efforts to make trades less and less as the days wore on.  Swanny looked everywhere for the iconic hot stove league – he’d heard about it since his days as a kid collecting baseball cards and listening to Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese on the Game of the Week – but he couldn’t find it.  No stove, hot or otherwise.  But that didn’t stop him from making some hot deals.

Swanny had come to the Winter Meetings prepared to unload his $12 million infielder David Goode for next to nothing just to recover his salary (which constitutes more than half of Yuma’s entire salary budget), but no one was interested.  He began thinking maybe he could pull off a coup by packaging Goode with Yuma’s Wunderkind winner Carlos Guerera, unloading in one swell foop his most expensive player and the guy who will make the biggest salary demands in the coming years.  With such a talent-packed package, Swanny hoped to land a Baseball America Top 10 Prospect and an early round draft pick.

Great plan.  Didn’t work.

Without ever planning to, Swanny swapped his best player for two very young and talented prospects (Francisco López and Kenneth Bridges) plus Bakersfield’s 4^th round draft pick.  Not bad, Swanny thought.  Then the news hit the trading floor, and GMs began mumbling about what Yuma was up to.

“Giving away the chickens and the farm?”  one GM mused privately to Swanny.

“No,” Swanny heard himself answering, “just selling this year’s eggs for more chickens in a couple years.”

“I think you’ve counted the chickens way too long before they hatch.”

Swanny couldn’t follow the metaphor.  He wanted to explain that not only would Guerera quickly become more expensive than the Bulldozers could afford, but that Lopez, an outfielder, and Bridges, a shortstop, filled holes in Yuma’s offense, while Guerera was backed by a host of young first basemen.

But he didn’t have a chance to make his explanations.  The Commish was announcing the conclusion of yet another day of trading.  It was already December 20^th!  Where had the time gone?  Swanny tried several more times to find a new home for Goode and his multimillion-dollar salary.  No luck.

Instead, Swanny found himself in the midst of a blockbuster deal with Crystal Lake.  The Sandgnats were after Swanny’s top prospect, catcher Pepe Espinosa, and one of his promising young pitchers, Curt Turner.  Turner’s greatest claim to fame is his moniker – “Cobra” – but his performance last year at AA Calgary was disappointing, to say the least: a 8.50 ERA.  But Espinosa had been the centerpiece in Yuma’s plans, the young catcher who Swanny expected to help mold the young pitching staff.  Espinosa was ranked 51^st among PEBA prospects, the top ranked young player in the entire Yuma organization.

Swanny was reluctant to part with Espinosa, but the Sandgnats had a lot to offer.  When Swanny surveyed the talent they had at all levels of their organization, he was envious.  Swanny wanted minor league teams like that, filled with quality prospects at every position.  So Swanny listened while the Gnats began piling young talented players on the table.  First, three young hurlers, all with better scouting reports than any of Swanny’s minor leaguers: starting pitchers Kelly Burns, Mark Wood and Shawn Burris.  Then a fine outfield prospect (Brad Howell).  Finally, to salve Swanny’s wounds from parting with Guerera, a 28-year-old first baseman with some punch (José Pérez).

Swanny was tempted.  He hadn’t eaten much for three days now, his head was buzzing from tobacco smoke and he was popping pain pills for the recurring flashes that turned the Winter Meetings into a snowstorm in his brain.  He admitted he was interested – how could he not be?  Five young players – three of them starting pitchers – for one major league prospect and a promising but as yet unrealized pitcher.  Before he said something stupid, Swanny told the Sandgnats’ GM that he just couldn’t give up his best catcher without a catching prospect in return.  To Swanny’s surprise, the Gnats added their AA catcher, Robert Cooper, to the mix.

”Holy Hammerin’ Hank,” swore Swanny.  Six prospects for two!  There’s a future for Yuma on that trade table.  Time to eat up.

As the Gnats and Dozers closed their deal, the Commish announced the conclusion of another day of the Winter Meetings.  When it was all said and done on Wednesday and the exhausted Commish publicly announced the last of the 24 trades completed during the meetings, a desperate Swanfeld tried one last time to get someone to take Goode off his hands.  No such luck.  Crushed and still dragging Goode’s $12 million behind him, Swanny packed up.  Glasses were raised for the Commish as he announced the final trade.  One over-zealous GM shouted out, “Everyone take a shot for the Commish!”

In his white-out stupor and the depression brought on by still having to carry the no-good Goode, Swanny heard the toast as, “Everyone take a shot at the Commish,” so, since he was standing right next to him, Swanny punched the Commish. Some said in the head, though Swanny swore it was only to the shoulder. The Commish went down, Swanny snuck out, and at 4:52 EDT on the Winter Solstice, the Winter Meetings ended as they had begun: in unutterable chaos.