5: December, 2019

I’m not sure where I ought to begin, so I’ll start with my most pressing concern at the moment; this massive hangover. I was invited to a party by the friend of a friend. Didn’t know many people there, but had a good time, I suppose. Work has been, well, a trial lately, so I was glad to have a chance to blow off steam. I met this girl there and we talked, and drank. Rather, she talked and I drank. I only remember some of what she said, but mostly I remember staring at this point on her forehead thinking to myself that, if I could stay focused on it, I wouldn’t fall over in this person’s living room. Don’t ask me, I was pretty far gone at that stage. We made plans to meet for lunch later in the week. I know this because she left a text message this afternoon confirming the date.

 Actually, I’m not sure it’s a ‘date’ date. As I recall, she seemed excited to hear that I worked for the Shisa, and I’m sure that I told her that I didn’t want to talk about work any more than I wanted to eat glass, or words to that effect. Maybe she just likes baseball?

 Anyway, all my friends want the inside scoop on the LRS meltdown. I tell them there isn’t one. I don’t know any more about it than any of you. They don’t believe me. They just nod, “sure, you don’t,” they say. I’m heartily sick of the whole business, and this morning, physically sick… twice. I have to read about the whole sordid affair in the papers just like everyone else, honest.

 There’s turmoil everywhere. My friend, Taki, is inconsolable. His beloved Arsenal are no more. I told him he could root for the Shisa now. He told me to go to hell. One of our prospects lost a father, a despondent Kuwana fan, to suicide. Not to mention the riots. I’m glad I came to baseball late, with no such strong attachments. The internet rumors about baseball executives jumping out of windows, by the way, are false.

 Meanwhile, I’m locked in my office for two weeks working on projections for every baseball player in the known world it seems, trying to prepare for free agency, a contraction draft, trades, you name it. The Shisa home office is a den of quiet, and at times not so quiet, desperation. This is a shame, as I used to consider the office a refuge of sorts. Maybe things will settle down in a year or two. I certainly hope so. Right now, I dread going to work in the morning.

 Or maybe I won’t have this job in a year or two. I stuck my neck out twice in this past month, and it may be my own downfall. First, I made myself a vocal proponent of the deal, any deal, to trade away Yoritomo Masuda. Looking at the comparables, players with similar injury histories, the Masuda injury trend, if it proves to be a trend, is troubling. Noburo Kono, who’s most closely connected with drafting the Shisa budget for 2020, quietly encouraged me to continue bringing up the injury issue in meetings. Truly, I think what sealed it for the GM was October 16^th. No sooner had the ink dried on Masuda’s new $6,800,000 extension than he broke his foot, taking him out of the playoffs. I didn’t know until that day that a person’s face could turn that shade of red.

 Second, I told management to jump at the chance to trade away Sidney Pelikaan for anything valuable. In my opinion, the move to acquire an upgrade at center field was perfect. The front office was pretty evenly divided on this deal, mostly because of differing views on Pelikaan, but I won out again. These could both turn into Pyrrhic victories in the end. Masuda’s career could undergo a renaissance, Pelikaan could turn into an above average major league third baseman, and the Trashmaster could become simply trash. I’m confident that none of these events is probable, but all of them are possible. I haven’t been too emotionally attached to the game, or the men who play it, I just go where the numbers lead me. The future will tell how accurate I’ve been in my own assessments.