By Bert Miller, Players of Fortune Magazine
Thursday, December 1, 2016

The blare of the foghorn woke him with a start from a dream that seemed all too real, until he saw the glint of steel in the corner and he realized it wasn’t a dream.  His boss, the editor of Players of Fortune Magazine, actually was crouching on the seat of his visitor chair, shirtless and unshaven, holding a combat knife and regarding him with an empty, unblinking stare.

“Sleeping on the job again, Miller?” he said in a hoarse voice not much louder than a mutter.

“Ju-just resting my eyes!” I blurted, jerking upright. (Yes, dear reader, the protagonist in this sordid little narrative is none other than yours truly.)

My editor grunted.  Sweat dripped from his gleaming torso.  “How’s that review of Palm Springs’ top prospects coming along?  We’ve got pages to fill for the December issue.”

“I-I’m still working on it… I’ve had trouble coming up with a fresh angle.”

“You know, Miller, they call them dead-lines for a reason,” he said, glancing casually down to his knife and back.  “I don’t care how obtuse your ‘angle’ is… I want it on my desk before tomorrow.”

“But… I… ulp…”

The silence stretched uncomfortably.  The editorial eyes narrowed.  “For God’s sake.  Just wing ‘er,” he growled.

“Y-y-yes, sir.”

He flipped himself sideways over the cubicle wall and vanished. Unnerved by this discomfiting exchange, I retreated to the safety of a bathroom stall to regroup.  I had to think of an idea for the story if I didn’t want to be gutted like a perch.

While I changed into an unsoiled pair of underwear, I pondered the issue. I continued to ponder for hours, but nothing came to me.  The only thing I’d come up with was “the lower levels of their farm system are beginning to brim with burgeoning ballplayers, bringing a base for building beautiful baseball,” and I knew that wasn’t going to feed the bulldog.

With time running down, despair was beginning to set in.  My head was spinning like a hamster wheel.  I turned my editor’s last words over and over in my mind.  “Just wing ‘er,” he’d said.  Just wing ‘er.  Just.  Wing ‘er.  Just wing ‘er… just Winger.

Of course!  Just Winger – examine the Codgers’ most promising young farmhands by likening them exclusively to hit songs by the 1980s lite-metal band Winger!  I sprang back to my desk and watched the piece practically write itself.  That editor of ours is a Zen master.  A wild-eyed, Rhodesian-mercenary-obsessed, disrespectful-of-personal-space Zen master.  Read the article and be amazed.  It turns out desperation truly can lead to inspiration.