Niihama, Japan – 3 March, 2031

“When I was last here, in this room, I was sitting where you are right now, Gomez,” Roberto Ortega began, pointing at the veteran reliever presumed to be filling the Ghosts closer role. “I understand you’re new here. Many of us are. This man to my right is your new hitting coach, Kiyomitsu Kichikawa,” the towering, gracile Japanese native made a gentle bow and allowed his new manager to continue. “He might look like he’d be better off playing shooting guard for the Heat, but I’m willing to bet he could still outhit 9 of 10 of you, and teach 10 of 10 you something worth learning.” Ortega introduced the rest of the staff, including a new trainer and the retained pitching and bench coaches.

As he spoke, his voice remained level and calm, even a bit soft. Most of the players feigned interest in the introductions. Some didn’t bother. It didn’t help that they sat through a similar speech four months prior and listened to a manager that would never manage a single game for them, or that this offseason’s signings, trades, un-signings, promotions, and demotions felt more critical and more clinical. It seemed like the Ghosts were trying to win, but not let any of their young players play. The unofficial night games kept some of the new reservists placated, but there was a growing sense of the year being “lost”. With PEBA around the corner, who cares about the standings in the WIL? The six team league is a joke and most of the active roster would need a miracle season to be earn a meaningful spot for next year.

“Of course if I’m BORING you, we could always start spring training with a good bit of cardio,” Ortega’s voice boomed, startling several players out of reverie and into attention. “Gentlemen, you all are being given a ridiculous gift. You’re going to be transitioned to baseball’s biggest stage without having earned it. You now each have a choice. Do I fight to keep that spot? Or do I prove I don’t belong?” the nascent manager had the attention of the Niihama-shi Ghosts for the first time. “Gentlemen, I will not give you a damn thing. None of you has earned a damn thing. Delgado! You think you’re a superstar? Maybe you have been down here, but if you want to compete in a league with Pat Watson, you better step up your game about five notches,” Ortega announced, singling out his best offensive player. “Bleazzard, if you think that glove of yours is going to earn you playing time at the PEBA level, why don’t you ask Leon Brunelle over on the Hitman how he’s enjoying the WIL?” The room was silent.

Ortega looked over the team and suddenly realized he may have laid it on a bit thick. “Look, guys, all I’m saying is I can’t pitch for you and coach Kichikawa can’t hit for you. We’ll teach you every damn trick we know, but you’ve got to make this season the one where you put in more work than any other. I’m in the same boat. No PEBA team is going to want a manager with no experience that can’t win in the WIL to lead a PEBA team. So let’s put in the work, and show PEBA that the fifth team in the Rising Sun Division of PEBA isn’t some pushover, basement dwelling bunch of has-beens and never-weres. Let’s show them we belong!” Ortega’s last bit of speech landed about as well as an abstinence talk, but a few of the players did what they felt was the right thing and gave their new manager a few supportive claps and foot stomps.