Returning Home
Posted: Tue Apr 21, 2020 12:11 am
A sharply dressed man approached a table just outside a cafe in one of Europe’s most famous cities, even if it’s not the first city one would think of when Europe is mentioned. At the table, a solitary figure sat staring at the tourists. The sharply dressed man sounded tired. “Istanbul, eh?”
“I thought this was Constantinople?” The reply was made without a glance up at the new arrival, who pulled out a cafe chair and sat down. Hagia Sofia held both their gazes for a moment before the conversation began.
“It’s no longer Constantinople,” the visitor exclaimed, “Just like that church is no longer a church is no longer a mosque… just like you’re no longer GM for Kalamazoo… What on earth are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the only coffee in the world that I will ever let touch my lips,” former GM Frank Esselink replied. “I might ask you the same.”
“I hunted you halfway across the globe, I think I’ve got a right to my answer. It isn’t coffee.”
“You drink anything, Paul, you wouldn’t understand.” Hardly anyone in Istanbul would have recognized him, but Paul Woodward, owner of the Amsterdam Lions, was a familiar face to his former employee.
“I understand you’ve been fired and are running away,” the owner accused. “The last time you did that it was six years before you got another job. Only difference is that last time you just ran away. There was no firing.”
“You came all this way to tell me I’m a quitter? Plus, I’ve had other jobs.”
“Not in baseball you haven’t. Not in the only thing that matters to you. If you’ll only ever let Turkish coffee touch your lips, then you’ll also only ever care about baseball. No other job means a thing to you.”
“So, yes.”
“No.”
A lengthy pause in the conversation left that last word hanging in the air. It was as if Esselink hadn’t heard it while it found it’s way slowly to his ears from just a few feet away. He was matter of fact in his reply.
“Maybe I should go live in one of those underground cities they have in Cappadocia. You know they built elaborate vents for the kitchens so the smoke would come up far from where the kitchen actually was. Supposedly helped keep the Romans from finding the actual city.”
“I’m here to give you a second chance, Frank,” the owner persisted.
“You’re just here to blow smoke up my kitchen vent.”
“Nice. I read the papers, Frank. I saw the press conference. They got rid of you the first chance they had.”
“You’d know why if you were paying attention.”
“You mean Wiggins? Miranda? That’s standard stuff every GM pulls.”
“Not guys like Abcarian or Ermola.”
“Nonsense, they make boneheaded moves every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
“So they can’t dance, what’s your point?”
“My point is Wiggins wasn’t your fault.”
“You voted against my appeal, Paul. If you thought it wasn’t my fault, why’d you do that?”
“Professional self-preservation.”
“And what about Miranda. How was that not my fault?”
“That’s different. That was dumb. Totally your fault.”
“So why, then, are you here?”
“I’m offering you a job. Back in baseball. Back where you belong.”
“You have a GM. That other Vail. Not Kevin obviously… the other one.”
“There’s 3 of them. Plus, I fired him.”
“Right, but Dan is off to Japan. I already know that. Why’d you fire him?”
“Doesn’t matter, he’s gone. I’m not asking you to play second fiddle. I’m asking you to come back to where it started.”
“It started in Connecticut.”
“Fine, you always have to be right. Come back to where you last left it. It’s been a mess since you left.”
“I left it a mess, eh?”
“I didn’t travel all this way to flatter you, I traveled to hire you.”
“Flattery helps, you know. If you’re really trying to hire me…”
“So are you in or are you out?”
“They still insist on selling frietssaus?” Esselink winced.
“Patat met of zonder?”
“Dang. I’ll take the herring, but that’s the one thing I’ll never get used to.”
“Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” the owner stood up to leave. “You start on Sunday.”
“I thought this was Constantinople?” The reply was made without a glance up at the new arrival, who pulled out a cafe chair and sat down. Hagia Sofia held both their gazes for a moment before the conversation began.
“It’s no longer Constantinople,” the visitor exclaimed, “Just like that church is no longer a church is no longer a mosque… just like you’re no longer GM for Kalamazoo… What on earth are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the only coffee in the world that I will ever let touch my lips,” former GM Frank Esselink replied. “I might ask you the same.”
“I hunted you halfway across the globe, I think I’ve got a right to my answer. It isn’t coffee.”
“You drink anything, Paul, you wouldn’t understand.” Hardly anyone in Istanbul would have recognized him, but Paul Woodward, owner of the Amsterdam Lions, was a familiar face to his former employee.
“I understand you’ve been fired and are running away,” the owner accused. “The last time you did that it was six years before you got another job. Only difference is that last time you just ran away. There was no firing.”
“You came all this way to tell me I’m a quitter? Plus, I’ve had other jobs.”
“Not in baseball you haven’t. Not in the only thing that matters to you. If you’ll only ever let Turkish coffee touch your lips, then you’ll also only ever care about baseball. No other job means a thing to you.”
“So, yes.”
“No.”
A lengthy pause in the conversation left that last word hanging in the air. It was as if Esselink hadn’t heard it while it found it’s way slowly to his ears from just a few feet away. He was matter of fact in his reply.
“Maybe I should go live in one of those underground cities they have in Cappadocia. You know they built elaborate vents for the kitchens so the smoke would come up far from where the kitchen actually was. Supposedly helped keep the Romans from finding the actual city.”
“I’m here to give you a second chance, Frank,” the owner persisted.
“You’re just here to blow smoke up my kitchen vent.”
“Nice. I read the papers, Frank. I saw the press conference. They got rid of you the first chance they had.”
“You’d know why if you were paying attention.”
“You mean Wiggins? Miranda? That’s standard stuff every GM pulls.”
“Not guys like Abcarian or Ermola.”
“Nonsense, they make boneheaded moves every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
“So they can’t dance, what’s your point?”
“My point is Wiggins wasn’t your fault.”
“You voted against my appeal, Paul. If you thought it wasn’t my fault, why’d you do that?”
“Professional self-preservation.”
“And what about Miranda. How was that not my fault?”
“That’s different. That was dumb. Totally your fault.”
“So why, then, are you here?”
“I’m offering you a job. Back in baseball. Back where you belong.”
“You have a GM. That other Vail. Not Kevin obviously… the other one.”
“There’s 3 of them. Plus, I fired him.”
“Right, but Dan is off to Japan. I already know that. Why’d you fire him?”
“Doesn’t matter, he’s gone. I’m not asking you to play second fiddle. I’m asking you to come back to where it started.”
“It started in Connecticut.”
“Fine, you always have to be right. Come back to where you last left it. It’s been a mess since you left.”
“I left it a mess, eh?”
“I didn’t travel all this way to flatter you, I traveled to hire you.”
“Flattery helps, you know. If you’re really trying to hire me…”
“So are you in or are you out?”
“They still insist on selling frietssaus?” Esselink winced.
“Patat met of zonder?”
“Dang. I’ll take the herring, but that’s the one thing I’ll never get used to.”
“Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” the owner stood up to leave. “You start on Sunday.”
