OOTP Developments Forums - View Single Post

Alerak · 03-26-2016, 04:42 PM

Chapter One: Spring

“When you think of baseball, what comes to mind?” Really, it’s an easy question to answer. I blink for a moment, looking at Jose Munoz, the general manager of the Newport Gulls, searching for any indication that there’s more coming. He nods back at me, his eyes betraying that he already knows what I’m going to say. “Well?”

Fine. Easy enough. “Home runs. Balls and strikes. Rounding the bases.” This last suggestion elicits a small smirk from Hunter Kinney, the assistant general manager who practically looks as though he’s fresh out of high school. Not for the first time, I wonder where Jose found Kinney and what on Earth could have made this young kid qualified for the job. “The World Series,” I add, stretching the limit of my admittedly small amount of knowledge about the sport.

Munoz sighs, looking at me with a neutral face. The Massachusetts native has been in the game a long time, bouncing around various front office positions with both failed and successful independent league teams. Most recently, he oversaw the financials of the Cascade League, a small independent league in Washington and Oregon. Or, rather, he would have had the Cascade League not folded before a single game could be played.

“Right. That’s what most people tend to think of.” He lists off a few more, including several names of Major League players that I’ve heard of only in passing. “Really, it’s this sort of stuff that dominates the game as far as the general public is concerned. Home runs are sexy. Going to the ballpark on a hot summer day, having a couple of beers, watching Trout or Stanton or Ortiz blasting home runs left and right, that’s what people think of when they think of baseball.” I can tell he’s reaching the point of his rant as he flows through the crescendo.

“You know what nobody thinks of when they think of baseball? Playing in the damned spring in New England.” Kinney laughs at the sudden abrasiveness in his boss’s voice, and I find myself slightly taken aback. Munoz, however, looks nothing but serious. “Did nobody think of this? I swear this place never gets warmer than 40 degrees in the spring.”

I can’t say that I blame Munoz for his annoyance. Major League Baseball, as it turns out, plays all of their spring training games in either Florida or Arizona, retreating south to the warmer climates so teams like Boston and Minnesota won’t have to play their practice games in the snow. The New England Baseball Association, however, doesn’t have this luxury. At this point, Munoz knows much more about the finances of the league than I do, but that does nothing to abate his frustrations. As we speak, the radar warns of snow heading in the direction of Newport.

“What are we supposed to do?” He asks, the question pointed at no one in the room. “They didn’t even put a dome on the stadium!’

This wasn’t my first interaction with Munoz and Kinney, but it was the first time either of them had seemed comfortable enough with my presence to open up about their opinion on anything beyond the players they had in camp. Both had reacted almost exactly the way I thought they would when the team’s owner, a millionaire by the name of Richard Weller, had invited me to spend the season with the Gulls: less than thrilled to have a journalist permanently stuck around their every operation.

“Well, maybe it won’t be that bad,” I offer.

Munoz looks at me. “You’re from Coventry, right? You should know how this works. They say it’ll be 1-3 inches, and next thing you know you’re waist deep in snow.”

I’m spared from any further colorful comments by the sudden appearance of team manager Allen Richards at the office door. Richards is relatively young for a manager by baseball standards, and at 38 is barely older than several of the players he’s responsible for. He greets me with a casual nod and shrug of his shoulders, and looks straight to Munoz. “I’ve talked with the umps. We’ll play until it looks like a real mess out there. If things get bad, we’re calling the game.”

Munoz sighs, something he seems to do quite often. “Alright, fine. Better than trying to find a white ball in the middle of Narnia.” Then, to my surprise, the general manager points at me. “Take him with you. Teach him a thing or two about the game.”

Allen eyes me up and down. “Fine. Come on.”

03-26-2016, 04:42 PM	#2
Alerak Bat Boy Join Date: Jun 2015 Posts: 5	Chapter One: Spring “When you think of baseball, what comes to mind?” Really, it’s an easy question to answer. I blink for a moment, looking at Jose Munoz, the general manager of the Newport Gulls, searching for any indication that there’s more coming. He nods back at me, his eyes betraying that he already knows what I’m going to say. “Well?” Fine. Easy enough. “Home runs. Balls and strikes. Rounding the bases.” This last suggestion elicits a small smirk from Hunter Kinney, the assistant general manager who practically looks as though he’s fresh out of high school. Not for the first time, I wonder where Jose found Kinney and what on Earth could have made this young kid qualified for the job. “The World Series,” I add, stretching the limit of my admittedly small amount of knowledge about the sport. Munoz sighs, looking at me with a neutral face. The Massachusetts native has been in the game a long time, bouncing around various front office positions with both failed and successful independent league teams. Most recently, he oversaw the financials of the Cascade League, a small independent league in Washington and Oregon. Or, rather, he would have had the Cascade League not folded before a single game could be played. “Right. That’s what most people tend to think of.” He lists off a few more, including several names of Major League players that I’ve heard of only in passing. “Really, it’s this sort of stuff that dominates the game as far as the general public is concerned. Home runs are sexy. Going to the ballpark on a hot summer day, having a couple of beers, watching Trout or Stanton or Ortiz blasting home runs left and right, that’s what people think of when they think of baseball.” I can tell he’s reaching the point of his rant as he flows through the crescendo. “You know what nobody thinks of when they think of baseball? Playing in the damned spring in New England.” Kinney laughs at the sudden abrasiveness in his boss’s voice, and I find myself slightly taken aback. Munoz, however, looks nothing but serious. “Did nobody think of this? I swear this place never gets warmer than 40 degrees in the spring.” I can’t say that I blame Munoz for his annoyance. Major League Baseball, as it turns out, plays all of their spring training games in either Florida or Arizona, retreating south to the warmer climates so teams like Boston and Minnesota won’t have to play their practice games in the snow. The New England Baseball Association, however, doesn’t have this luxury. At this point, Munoz knows much more about the finances of the league than I do, but that does nothing to abate his frustrations. As we speak, the radar warns of snow heading in the direction of Newport. “What are we supposed to do?” He asks, the question pointed at no one in the room. “They didn’t even put a dome on the stadium!’ This wasn’t my first interaction with Munoz and Kinney, but it was the first time either of them had seemed comfortable enough with my presence to open up about their opinion on anything beyond the players they had in camp. Both had reacted almost exactly the way I thought they would when the team’s owner, a millionaire by the name of Richard Weller, had invited me to spend the season with the Gulls: less than thrilled to have a journalist permanently stuck around their every operation. “Well, maybe it won’t be that bad,” I offer. Munoz looks at me. “You’re from Coventry, right? You should know how this works. They say it’ll be 1-3 inches, and next thing you know you’re waist deep in snow.” I’m spared from any further colorful comments by the sudden appearance of team manager Allen Richards at the office door. Richards is relatively young for a manager by baseball standards, and at 38 is barely older than several of the players he’s responsible for. He greets me with a casual nod and shrug of his shoulders, and looks straight to Munoz. “I’ve talked with the umps. We’ll play until it looks like a real mess out there. If things get bad, we’re calling the game.” Munoz sighs, something he seems to do quite often. “Alright, fine. Better than trying to find a white ball in the middle of Narnia.” Then, to my surprise, the general manager points at me. “Take him with you. Teach him a thing or two about the game.” Allen eyes me up and down. “Fine. Come on.”