Paul Funk
Paul sat alone on his couch, tossing a tennis ball off the wall of his apartment endlessly. There had been a beautiful sunset through the picture window behind Paul, but he was oblivious, and now the room was growing darker as the December sun disappeared behind the Kansas City skyline. The ball thudded against the drywall monotonously as Paul mulled over his day. Woke up at noon. Watched replay of the 2016 playoff series vs Buffalo. Should've won that series, but got blown out three games to none. Eight seasons in pro ball, seven playoff games. No wonder he still wanted more. Anyway, for the rest of the day, he'd just sat here on the couch thinking. Well, to be honest, hard to even call it thinking. More like eyes glassed over while the same video played over and over again. He sighed deeply. What the hell was he doing? He'd been retired for three years, and still hadn't figured out what to do with his life. No baseball, no Patty, no kids, no legacy at all. Sure, he had done pretty well financially, but he just felt . . . dead. He hadn't wanted to retire. Didn't feel like he had lost that much. Hell, a .356 OBP wasn't bad at age 37. But Jersey hadn't resigned him, and that damn strained ACL made it so no one wanted to give him a chance.
The doorbell rang (tones of Nickelback's "Photograph"; still cracked him up). He wasn't expecting anyone. Who visited anymore? He creaked his way to his feet, and shuffled towards the front door with the dullness of a former professional athlete gone to seed. Or at least, on his way there. He opened the door, saw a tall gentleman in a stylish suit and bolo tie. His weathered face broke into a smile. Paul recognized him immediately, but had to wait a minute for his brain to remind him how he knew him.
"Hey Paul, mind if I come in?" asked the visitor, with a slow Texas drawl. Cary. That's who it was. Cary Henderson. Owner of the Kansas City Comets. Paul had been drafted by Cary in the inaugural draft back in 2015. He'd had his best years with KC, but it had been years since he had seen or even spoken to anyone from the organization.
Cary Henderson
"Cary? What are you doing here?" Paul stammered, confused. "I mean, yeah, sure, come on in." Paul stepped to the side and waved Cary in. The banking tycoon was a commanding presence; he stepped into the room and took in Paul's apartment in a glance.
"Like what you've done with the place, Paul," he deadpanned, and Paul flinched, embarrassed. Between the dirty sweat socks, the empty beer cans, and the pizza boxes, he was suddenly sharply aware that he had regressed to a college student's level of cleanliness.
"Yeah, uh, my maid quit," Paul muttered, "sorry about the state of the place." He hastily cleared off the kitchen table by transferring a heap of plates and takeout cartons to the counter. He gestured sheepishly at a chair. Cary took the seat and fixed his gaze on Paul, waiting for him to sit as well. Paul complied.
"No she didn't, Paul."
"What?"
"Your maid. She didn't quit, Paul. You fired her two weeks ago." Cary had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Stilts told me. He was worried about you." Stilts was Brian Bradley. He had also been drafted by Kansas City; Paul and he had been teammates for four years and close friends for longer than that. Stilts had retired last year, and had taken a scouting position in the Kansas City organization. "So what's going on Paul? What are you doing here? Stilts told me Patty's not around either?" Paul's head dropped involuntarily.
Stilts Bradley
"Yeah, she left a few months ago. I don't know Cary, she stuck by me through all of the crappy parts of being a baseball wife. All the travel, all the rumors, me never being around. And then once I was done, it was like we couldn't figure out how to act around one another." He shook his head slowly. "I gotta admit, I haven't exactly been a joy to be around these past few years. But by the time I figured that out, she was out the door." Paul paused for a moment, examining his feet, then shrugged and looked up in defeat. "I dunno, I guess it just feels like I've been . . . stuck in neutral since I left the game."
Cary flashed him that businessman's smile. "Well, that's why I'm here son. Time to get you to shift things into gear." Paul stared at him blankly. "I'm talking about baseball, Paul, baseball. I need good baseball people, and you're one of them. I don't know if you knew Ace Ashe. Great guy. Salt of the earth type. Managed for me in the minors since the laegue started. Well, he had himself a heart attack a little while back. I swear to God he'd manage the game from his hospital bed if I let him. But I don't care if the sonofabitch begs me, I'm not putting him on the bench again for a good while. And I don't have anyone else in my organization right now I trust with his job." Realization started to dawn within Paul, and he felt his pulse quicken for the first time, in, oh, a thousand years or so.
"Cary, what exactly are we talking about here?" he asked slowly.
"Why Paul," Cary said with smile, "I'd thought that was pretty clear already. I'm talking about you managing my rookie team." Paul shook his head.
"But Cary, why me? I've been out of baseball for three years now. Never coached a lick in my life. As you can see," he gestured to the room, "I don't exactly have my **** together." Cary sat back in his chair, his board room presence filling the cluttered kitchen.
"Well, you see, Cary, I believe in taking calculated risks, and I believe that good people will deliver good work, even if they have their ups and downs." He leaned forward. "Cary, I saw you in the clubhouse. I saw you helping the younger players. I saw you in the batting cage with Stilts all through that 2015 offseason and into 2016. Kid hit .216 in his first year. After working with you, he brought that up 50 points. And you were in the middle of your best season as a pro. Gold Glove. All-star. Platinum Stick. You could have had a head as big as the moon, but you just kept working and helping the guys around you. You know the game. You know how to help kids. And at the end of the day, I believe that you're a good person, and that you'll do good work. That's what I need."
Embarrassed and a little flattered, Paul stayed silent. Cary pushed away from the table and headed for the door. He knew when a deal was closing. Meanwhile, Paul's mind was whirling. He was filled with doubts, but a voice deep inside of him was shouting "YES!" Cary reached the door and turned to face Paul again.
"So, we have a deal, son?" Cary swallowed hard and nodded. Cary nodded back. "Good, good. I'll have my people get in touch with the details. Oh, and one more thing, Cary?"
"Yes, sir?" Paul asked.
Cary rested a hand on the doorknob, stepping into the hall. "How's your Spanish? I'll meet you in Hermosillo on New Year's Day. Adios!" With a last grin, he pulled the door shut behind him.
"Wait, what?" Paul shouted at the closed door.