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Old 06-02-2019, 10:43 AM   #1
catamount_kid
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Ricky McCoy: A PEBA Story

Hello OOTP friends,

I manage the Duluth Warriors of the PEBA--a highly creative and immersive OOTP universe. The league has an incredibly rich lore and community, with an emphasis on narrative and creativity.

In that spirit, I've been chronicling my time with the Warriors through the eyes of the middle-aged, troubled, retired Army Colonel, Richard McCoy. As an English Major in a largely administrative career, this is a labor of love I started working on in March.

It's a series of short stories following Ricky McCoy, his team, and the wonderfully rich PEBA storyline. PEBA has several published authors, academics, and playwrights among her ranks, which is a great pool of motivation.

I'd like to make my hobby more visible to the OOTP community. I'll add what I've already written for Ricky, and continue the posts here.

Thanks in advance for reading, and be sure to check out the PEBA and get on the waiting list if you're looking for an overwhelmingly welcoming and engaging OOTP experience with an incredible history going back to 2007.
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Old 06-02-2019, 10:47 AM   #2
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Chapter One: Legacy
September 9th, 2028

"War Room," Office of Richard McCoy


With a neutral expression and a firm grip on the vogue-era office chair, Richard McCoy reached for his tumbler without taking his eyes from the mounted television.

The volume was turned down, in favor of KWAR’s Mike Madigan. His crackling voice rang through the old office like an automated subway speaker, as if Mad Madigan might transition from the 2-2 pitch to Dmitri Hill to a very northwestern “stand clear of the loading door, please.” It suited Duluth.

His collar was unbuttoned, his tie loose—a decorative decanter caught the afternoon light on an otherwise unglamorous metal desk. It wasn’t even good scotch—a gift from the Board of Directors—but it would do. It reminded him of the nights under the loading docks of Kuwait, where a young and wide-eyed First Lieutenant McCoy traded an unlabeled brown bottle with the other company officers of 3rd of the 41st Infantry, under the ominous glow of the port lights. A different time. He rolled up his sleeves.

Richard hadn’t removed any of Mark Kierstead’s photographs from the wall of the office, save a couple personal framed shots of Mark at his son Ichiro’s signing into the Minor Leagues. The corners of those photographs were curled in the frame, and both a proud Mark and ambitious Ichiro seemed to stare accusingly at Richard from the walls. So he put them in a box and instructed his secretary, Denise, to ship them to Mark—wherever he was.

“Dmitri Hill up now, the former Longshoreman—an impressive run at Duluth this summer with an OPS upward of seven-ninety…”

From his window, Richard could see the empty expanse of the stadium—rising like a proscenium from home plate, with the newly-added upper rows a tinge darker than their original counterparts. They still looked brand new—covered by the large, green boards for “better media image,” given their perpetual inoccupancy.

“That’s a high fly-ball to shallow center, and Harry Hutchins will put Hill away, one down.”

Shifting his gaze from the new seats to the old scoreboard—a refurbished gift from the Minnesota Twins Historical Foundation, Richard watched the large, green “1” against the afternoon sunlight in the well-groomed field. What he wouldn’t give for a Pat Holman right now. There were several large photographs on the wall of the tall, confident New Englander—one with Joel Dobney, at his signing, and several more—and happier—posed photographs with a beaming Bill McKenzie, above a framed copy of the now-famous “Holman’s a Keeper” memorandum.

Ricky played against Holman in an All-Army exhibition game with some major leaguers in D.C. back in 2006. Holman was 18, and Ricky was on his first stint as the All-Army Left Fielder fresh from Iraq. He remembered how Pat would talk to the pitcher, encourage him, even though he was too far away to be heard. It was like he was pitching and catching at the same time. Ricky went 0-4 that game—and the major leaguers were going easy—but Pat still stopped him after to say he had a clean swing. He would never forget that.

“Yoshida gives some orders from the dugout—Howe to pinch-hit for Morrison—clearing nearly .280 for a respectable season. Here’s the look from Garcia at the mound.”


Kijuro Yoshida was a masterful manager. Well-worth the million Duluth fed him every year (ten times Ricky’s own salary)—he deserved a better team. He took a pay cut from the Shisa to come to Duluth—a team he saw through the LRS scandal and merger—through 17 years of building a team up, playoff year after playoff year, always falling short, never expressing a hint of disappointment. A true stoic. Well-respected in the Great Lakes. Still, More than one member of the board expressed their discontent that Richard refused to slash the staff budget—but he was true to the strategy. No personnel moves at the major league level this year. The club needed some sense of continuity—and Richard wasn’t convinced that the staff was the problem. He took another pull of the cheap Scotch.

On Richard’s relatively organized desk, a thick stack of files labeled “Bullpen targets” sat neatly in an outbox, nearly three inches thick. It was tiresome work—scrubbing the leagues for the potential caulking that might save a sinking ship. Each decimal, each fraction, represented dollars lost or gained—empty seats—jersey sales—tension in a board of directors meeting.

Richard had no illusions about his reputation among the executives of the franchise. It mattered little—with Jason Bong and his family controlling most shares, the board was even more ornamental than he was as an outsider GM. Still, the nitpicking in the meetings was itself a sign of distrust—of second-guessing, and there was an undeniable sense of establishment lament that Jason Bong had not found an experienced manager, or a ballplayer, to captain the Warriors during this rebuild.

“That’s a late swing and a pop-up for Howe, shallow left-center field, mark it two away for Canton in the top of the eighth.”

One hundred and three million dollars. That was the number Jason Bong gave Richard when they first met in a crowded Peyongtaek Bulgogi shop near the Doduri Gate of Camp Humphreys.

“My dad dreamed of a dynasty,” the young, confident Jason explained, throwing his tie back to go to work on the fried dumplings. Jason came from a class of PEBA royalty—comfortable in the Orient—kids with jets and baseball legacies and familiarity with LRS that surpassed most GMs. “That dream’s dead for now, Rick. We’re looking at a 50% loss, and that’s with Mercer. I don’t need a dynasty—I need this team to survive another five years.”

One hundred and three million dollars. Ricky wondered if an owner had ever demanded that of a GM before. It was why Ricky was hired—logistical savvy, sure, and the fact that no one else would take the job.

Financial projections and reports filled the rest of Ricky’s desk. It reminded him of being a young Executive Officer, diving through powerpoint and excel in a cramped Fort Bliss office to try and squeeze just one more radiator out of Uncle Sam. Things were different in the service, though. There was always more money—you just had to find the pot. Baseball was different—and radiators were hard to come by.

The Duluth media had not been kind to Richard’s campaign against high salaries. Fan interest was at a fifteen-year low, and people still hung “Missing Persons” fliers across the city for Don Mercer, Jeff Prat, and Jesus Lopez. Seven rows of the last home-game had united to form a “LET BANDIT PLAY” banner after Ricky ordered Joe Kenny’s benching in August. He shrugged, finishing off the glass. At least they weren’t burning him in effigy like Saddam. Not yet.

He drew one final, dizzy gaze onto the field. He could see himself down there—seventeen years old, in a nondescript Omaha ballpark with dozens of polo-sporting scouts fanning themselves with overpriced programs. He could feel the ball rocketing off his bat—the anticipated hush of the scouts—the scattering of a hundred pencils and the thumbs flying over the blackberries.

“Five-tool kid. Real ballplayer. Clean swing—first or second round, no question.”

He could see it all—the Omaha ballpark, the smell of the turf, the long convoy rolling toward Baghdad like an inevitable train to infinity—alight with flares and mortars and the looming echoes of artillery. He recalled finding a baseball in the ditch of a ruined village near Tikrit—forgotten in the mud, half-buried in the concrete and steel scrap that once made up a market town. He threw it into the Tigris that afternoon. He felt a tightness in his shoulder—right inside the scar—and he tried to work it out with his arm.

“That’ll wrap it up for Duluth, folks, a nine-two loss to Canton on an unremarkable afternoon—stay tuned for the post-game show brought to you by the Minnesota Labor Union…”

Ricky closed his eyes and poured another round.
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Old 06-02-2019, 10:48 AM   #3
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Chapter Two: Indian Island
October 9th, 2028
Coastal Carolina, Farm Road 33



“Henry, it’s me.”

Her voice on the message was hesitant—cautious. She didn’t sound drunk—you could tell when she was by the glossy, hysterical nature in which words escaped her. She was more tolerable in those moments—an irony not lost on the 23-year old PEBA All-Star. No, she was sober—but there was a bated inflection that confirmed she’d been crying.

Henry Carter looked up from the driver’s seat of his Forerunner and deleted the voicemail before she could continue.

As the Carolina highway began to glow in sweeping arcs of gold and pink, Henry’s mind went to a phrase he often repeated—almost like a chant—like the vespers of le grande chartreuse in a faraway French monastery.

“All great and precious things are lonely.”

Why Steinbeck, of all people, should cross his mind on this Monday morning, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the asphalt conveying under the gloss of his new SUV. He shrugged, crooning his neck toward the steering wheel to light a cigarette and lowering his window. The Grapes of Wrath suited his mood.

His dad would always say, “Brains first, baseball second.” Henry would beg—plead to go into the cold of the Indiana mornings before school to get 50 pitches in before the bus arrived. Always—his father’s answer was the same—“What did you read last night?” So Henry read.

It was a beautiful morning—what Whitman or Hopkins might call the golden hour, and the Eastern Carolina pines were at last beginning to thin—light breaking through them as they soared by—a sure sign that the emerald waters of the Outer Banks were nearby.

He remembered his first trip here, back in 2023. It seemed like a lifetime ago—Henry, tall, lanky, sallow; a pale Indiana boy in the backwater reserve of Confederate country. The best pitcher in Indiana, by about five miles—he could count on two hands the number of batters in Indiana who could hit his cutter. Devastating speed. But from the moment he showed up in his vintage Pacers hoodie and shoulder-slung backpack to Lewis Field, he was an outsider—no big deal—and for the first time in his life, Henry didn’t feel like the best player on the diamond.

“There’s an island out a ways in Pamlico Sound,” Mark Livingston, one of the best left fielders in the college scene, told an 18-year-old Henry as his beat-up Ford Escape rumbled down Farm Road 33—a conveyance of old wooden shacks and rusting Chevrolets that gave the general sense that a band of musket-wielding rebels might emerge from the grass and open fire.

Livingston, a tall and proud Texan, seemed to fit in well in the environment, and he made a point to critique the tractor and feed brands as the teammates rolled along. He’d pack a comically large swab of Grizzly Wintergreen into his lower lip, spit for a minute or so out his window, and shake his head inevitably at each tractor they passed—like a disappointed father. “It ain’t a Deere, Henry. It ain’t a damned Deere.”

Livingston was bumbling, carefree, and stupid—but Henry didn’t mind him. He was friendly enough, especially to the new players, and seemed (unlike most senior classmen) to remember being new. So he had offered Henry a ride to the team gathering on the first weekend of the year. Henry accepted—but he never became close to Mark. Tall, built, tan, and usually drunk, Henry kept the popular player at a distance. He treated charisma the same as any force in nature—developed for a reason, and usually to make up for something ugly hiding under that casual smile and friendly eye. Something dangerous.

“They call it Indian Island,” Mark explained that warm, early autumn day, between his powerful, deep-chested dip-rockets out his window. “Every Pirate team since R.C. Deal himself heads out there to bury a baseball in the sand—and get thrashed, of course.”

Henry shrugged. Baseball had a superstition and obsessions with legacy that rivaled the undisturbed tribes along the Amazon. In High School, Henry endured months of alienation for his refusal to eat a spoonful of icy hot. He was blamed for the following playoff loss for years.

Mark would be drafted by the Scottish Claymores two years later, then begin a rampage of injuries for the next five years. A real shame, too—privately, Henry thought he was one of the best left fielders in baseball. It went to show how wrong you can be about someone.

There’s a mysticism to the coastal Carolina wilderness that must be experienced to understand. It’s a primordial landscape, robed in a mysterious and captivating beauty that pulls at the contemplative soul like a rip tide. From the moment Henry and Mark pulled off into the abandoned field and tossed their plastic boat into the Pamilco sound, he knew he was home.

Indian Island had a poetic piece of Eastern Carolina history. Conservationists fought a losing two-decade battle with the university to keep drunk baseball players from absconding to the (technically) protected island and burying baseballs into the sand. However, Pamilico was Pirate country, and in the battle between conservation and baseball, the people of North Carolina consider obstruction of America’s pastime a personal offense. The Professors who opposed the ritual either retired or stopped complaining. The real irony, however, was in the nature of the island itself. Each storm—since the island formed in some forgotten coastal past—took a piece of the island back into the sea. It was eroding—dying a long, poetic death, pulling those signed Pirate baseballs back into the sea. All great and precious things are lonely.

A text message appeared on Henry’s Bluetooth console screen, disturbing his reverie. In an automated voice, his forerunner declared “Henry—miss you—proud of you” in robotic servant-speak. It made him chuckle—his own car turning the message into the listless and unattached tone he found so fitting. He tapped “ignore” on the touch screen.

Pulling over in the same old abandoned field, Henry could tell the island was smaller even since his last visit. He took some pleasure in thinking he was likely the most successful Pirate since Blackbeard to walk on the sandy shores of Pamilco and look out toward Indian Island. For all his brooding, Henry had an appreciation of legacy.

He remembered when she finally came to one of his games. She was sober, he remembered that well, and she chatted up the fans around her until she was the most popular woman in the stands. She had #4 painted on her cheeks in purple and gold and wore a “Carter” jersey she had bought that day. She held up a “That’s my Boy!” sign painted on poster board, and waved it around like a lunatic each time he struck a batter out. A couple of middle-aged guys with aviators and big rings were chatting her up by the fifth inning--she set the sign down. Charismatic. Pretty. Dangerous. It was his senior year.

Henry was an artist on the Carolina mound. He would study his own footage for hours in his dorm room, pausing and re-watching each game-ending strikeout like an enraptured child. He never threw harder than the one day his mother came to a game. Nearly a perfect game—one of the finest in his tenure. When it was over, he left from the dugout and never said hello. She didn’t call. He didn’t care.

He stood near the edge of the water—calm in the pale swath of morning—a chorus of birds calling from the loblollys in the new sunlight.
Reaching into his bag, Henry pulled out an already-opened box, hastily giftwrapped, with a note that said “To my All-Star—I love you, Henry. Happy Birthday.” Inside was an old and dirty baseball.

He tossed the baseball up and down in his hands—a soft, rubbery ball—the factory paint all but faded—the red glow of the stitching now an old pink. Written in equally faded permanent marker on the ball was “Henry Carter—Perfect Game, 2016.” The the last words his dad would ever write.

Henry rolled his shoulders, shaking his fingers—as if the pain and anger and cheek-streaking tears could release in the same way they accumulated; one determined act of violence--soaring out of his tall, skinny body like discarded debris. Like a fastball on the inside corner.

All great and precious things are lonely. He hurled the ball into the sound with all his strength—so brutal that the congregation of crows above him fluttered away toward the rising sun.
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Old 06-02-2019, 10:51 AM   #4
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Cedat Fortuna Peritis
October 10th, 2028
Glensheen, Duluth waterfront
Estate of Jason Bong





The headlights of Ricky McCoy’s 1973 Toyota Celica settled across the iron-wrought gates of the Jacobean manor, and he drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel as he waited. Eventually, a squat, elderly guard emerged from a small booth to peer into the window with a furrowed expression.

“Mr. McCoy?” the balding, wide-bellied guard asked suspiciously in a perfect Minnesota accent, a styrofoam cup misting the window of the silver roadster in the balmy evening light.
Nodding, Ricky offered a Driver’s License, which the guard declined with a flat hand as a grin spread across his whiskered face.

“Nah, Nah, I know who you are, now that I see you. Just didn’t take you for a Toyota man.”

Spreading his own soft smile, Ricky brushed the dash affectionately. “Family heirloom,” he replied, tucking his license away in a faded brown wallet.

“Aren’t we all,” the guard muttered, wiping his beady brow with a wide palm and waving Ricky through with a salute from his Styrofoam cup. The iron gate gave a mechanical groan and reeled open.

Proceeding through onto neatly-kept red brick, the warm glow of Glensheen came into view behind the large wall running adjacent to London Avenue.

The invitation to the manor was certainly a surprise to Ricky, who had finished a short interview with KWAR just hours before Jason Bong’s secretary, Anna Preston, politely informed him that he was expected at the Bong home for dinner at eight o’ clock. A little late, for a dinner—Ricky didn’t bother mentioning he’d already eaten. As if he had anything else to do tonight, anyway.

The mansion was impressive, looming out of the pines and gray evening like a stately predator, hunched and foreboding. Uncomfortably aware of his own lack of pedigree, Ricky recalled once serving as an aid to General Abrams—back in his FORSCOM days. He smiled nervously to himself, recalling the General hosting some French Gendarmerie dinner from his headquarters suite. With Michelle being a Parisian, Ricky was invited along—a high honor for an aide. As dinner progressed, one particularly drunk French Brigadier berated Ricky for placing his fork and knife on the plate together.

“Qu'une belle femme soit gaspillée dans un barbare!”

The French Officers got quite the laugh out of that—along with General Abrams, who spoke fluent French.

“What did he say?” Ricky asked Michelle, long afterward.

Michelle only smirked whimsically, running her long fingertips through his black hair.

“It means you’re a lucky fellow,” she whispered in her wonderful high parisian accent, pulling him closer by his thin, service-uniform tie.

Later, General Abrams had looked up from a stack of Memorandums at his office desk, telling Ricky off-hand not to worry about those ‘frog asshats.”
“Generals always hate Captains with pretty wives,” the General said, scribbling his signature on one incredibly important government document after the other. “Now take these back down to Corps, Ricky. If they need any more corrections, your next dinner will be with the f---ing Russian ambassador.”

Working his jaw, Ricky threw the old Celica in park and stepped out, straightening the only decent blazer he still had in his apartment closet and spent three antagonizing minutes debating if a green tie was ridiculous or not. He went with black in the end; his lucky tie—one of the only articles left from his old uniform.

Glensheen was an impressive estate, but it felt forgotten—despite the immaculate landscaping and recently renovated red walls. The Corinthian columns that lined the doors on the upper porch had a very striking sense of dignity, with a newly-added Eastern flair in the form of an inner koi pond that spoke to Jason Bong’s personal tastes. Michelle would have hated it.

Half expecting a Victorian valet to emerge from the oak double-doors, Ricky was greeted instead by a beaming Mrs. Bong, pearl earrings shaking as she pecked him on the cheek and ushered him in to the foyer.

So happy to see you,” she chirped, the warm aroma of a well-cooked meal sneaking in from the inner rooms.

Mrs. Bong was tall, thin, and dignified in her golden age, known around Warrior Hall as the “Grande Lady of Duluth.” She had a knack for aristocratic socializing, no one could deny—the old money of her East Coast family saw to that—but underneath the keen sense of dignified sociality, Ricky suspected there was a genuinely kind and enthusiastic person.
Offering his niceties, Ricky wondered if it was odd that he had never stepped foot in the mansion before. His junior officer senses kicked in, and he suspected trouble—but really, there was none to be had. If was to be fired, he’d walk away $350,000 richer. And maybe Mandy Scott from the Duluth Times would stop hiding under trashcan lids and hydrangeas to get another soundbite. Getting fired, at this point, would mean little more than a vacation for one to somewhere dry and quiet. Somewhere far away from muggy, green Duluth. Somewhere far from France. Besides, despite his lavish tastes in real estate, Jason Bong was a straight shooter. He wouldn’t waste a steak dinner to tell you you’d been canned.

“Jay-jay’s out back, Ricky,” Mrs. Bong continued, leading him through the surprisingly modern interior. A magnificent, full-bodied portrait of the late Arne Bong in a three-piece suit hung above an open marble fireplace in the den, looking down on the two with an upright expression. Beneath, encased in ornate glass, was an old Medal of Honor, still polished, and a citation for the heroic World War II pilot, with forty golden stars surrounding the medal. Ricky paused to admire it.

“Richard Bong,” Mrs. Bong said fondly from behind Ricky. “Richard, like you.” She smiled warmly. “I think you two would’ve gotten along. Old Arne never stopped talking about him.”

Outside, a large hardwood patio had been raised above a more old-fashioned stone courtyard, with a large gas grill that Ricky suspected cost ten or eleven thousand dollars glowing beneath a rack of T-Bones, manned carefully by a balding man with an aquiline nose and a tinge of Mediterranean olive in his prominent features. He wore a striped polo with khakis, a towel thrown over his shoulder. A few bottles of Lake Superior Red Ale swam in a sweating metal ice pale.

“Hey, Ricky,” Jason Bong said casually, flipping a sizzling steak over with a nod. “Nice tie.” He tapped a long cigar over an ashtray and winked at Mrs. Bong, who gave a playful, admonishing look at her husband and turned on a heel back to the kitchen.

“Nice place,” Ricky replied, folding his arms behind his back and looking out over the expansive courtyard, flush with flowering bushes and manicured walkways. Jason Bong shrugged.

“Not my style. Dad loved it, though. I could buy the Amsterdam Lions with the property taxes we’ve sunk into this haunted old castle.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He offered Ricky a beer from the ice pale, which Ricky refused with a polite nod.

“Not much of a drinking man,” Mr. Bong noted, keeping his eyes on the steak and prodding a few with his spatula. “I can respect that.” He re-adjusted the cigar, spitting into the deck below the grill. “Thanks for coming out.”

Ricky nodded, watching the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard, producing a steady flow of water across three rims lined with dancing angels carved in blue soapstone.

“Talk to me about Medina,” Jason said casually, reaching for a handful of homemade seasoning in a cut-out half-gallon carton. Straight to business. Ricky shrugged.

“Not much to it. Won’t even talk extensions. Probably thinks a bigger market will pick him up.”

“What does Kijuro say?”

Ricky smiled to himself. Bong already knew damn will what the legendary Duluth manager thought—he was a weekly guest at Glensheen. Much closer to the owner than the GM.

“Vincente’s FIP was 4.10 this year, Jason. What’s Japanese for ‘good riddance?’” Bong chuckled at that, reaching into a box of Cohiba #2s and producing one for Ricky. This time he didn’t refuse.

“A man of taste,” Bong said approvingly, tossing a cutter and a box of long matches over. He puffed on his own, shaking his head. “I liked Medina. Smart guy, good chops. The fans liked him, too.”

Ricky nodded. He worked the edges of the cigar with the cutter with an expert hand, tilting his head to light the dark cigar. He exhaled. “Lots of fish in the sea.”

“Tamura, too?” Bong looked up from his cigar.

“Can’t make ‘em stay, Jason.”

“I suppose you’re right.” The aging millionaire sighed, folding his arms across a barrel-chest and looking up in to the dusk.

Ricky felt uncomfortable, keenly aware of his black tie and Carolina drawl. He bounced on the balls of his feet, puffing on the cigar in silence.

“You know, besides the press releases, we haven’t talked much about your time in the service.”

“Ancient history,” Ricky replied with a wry grin, reaching over to ash the cigar in the tray.

“I was in the Army myself, you know.”

“That so?”

“Yeah,” Bong smiled. “Artillery. Four years in the 82nd. Saw action in Kosovo.”

Cedat Fortuna Peritis,” Ricky cited with a nod. Bong gave a keen and nostalgic grin.

“That’s right. Dad wanted me to be a pilot, like his dad. I sure showed him.”

“Artillery’s an honest line of work.”

“Couldn’t stand officers,” Bong said with a laugh, pointing his cigar at Ricky. “Idiots in Charge, all of them. No offense, of course. Thought they knew everything. A lot like baseball club owners, actually.” He laughed again. “Cedat Fortuna Peritis.

He looked back to the steaks, checking a couple with a small frown and looking at his watch.

“I read an article yesterday,” he continued, moving some of the vegetable kebabs over, “that you were a war hero back in the Iraq days.”

“Not a hero,” Ricky answered, shaking his head. “Just lucky.”

“Silver Star for valor, that’s what I read.”

“War has a funny way of exploring the limits of truth.”

“They say my granddad was humble about his Medal of Honor, too,” Jason said with a chuckle. “Not that he lived long enough to deal with it. Died when dad was still a baby. Must be hard on your kids..I know it was hard for my dad, living up to that little piece of metal hanging over the fireplace.”

Ricky suppressed a small wince.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Would’ve made a fantastic press release. ‘War Hero Ricky McCoy takes command of the Warriors.’ Oh, well. Too late now, I suppose.”

“I was a Supply Officer,” Ricky reminded Bong.

“I’d love to know why a top-twenty MLB prospect decided to hang up the cleats and go to West Point, just to become a Supply Officer.”

“Life’s complicated.”

“Amen to that, brother.” Jason saluted Ricky with his bottle. He set it down gently and produced a thermometer from his front pocket. “The citation says you got blown up pretty good.”

“Shot in the shoulder, too.”

“No kidding?”

“Wish I was.”

Jason stopped, looking Ricky over with an appraising expression. “Right shoulder, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Must’ve screwed up your swing something awful.”

Ricky nodded. “Can’t throw, either.”

“I’m sorry, Ricky.”

He shrugged, waving the cigar smoke out of his face. “Could’ve been worse, Mr, Bong.”

“Could’ve been better.”

Nodding in agreement, Ricky tilted his head, working his tongue against his cheek.

“No disrespect, sir, but did you invite me out here on a Tuesday night at the last minute to talk about Iraq?”

Stopping his cooking, Jason looked over to Ricky with a grin as he wiped his hands on his flowered apron.

“I like you, Ricky,” Jason said, tilting his head. “Dad would’ve liked you, too. He loved the Warriors. Loved them irrationally, unconditionally, like a high school sweetheart. He’d take an old radio out to the docks and pace back and forth during the away games, hobbling around on his cane, cursing and hurling rocks into Lake Superior every time the opposing team scored.”

Ricky smiled at that, leaning on a Corinthian column as he listened.

“I loved my dad. He was a good father and a good man. But I don’t love anything irrationally. Not even the Duluth Warriors.” Jason looked back to his steaks. “And if you keep robbing Duluth of her heroes, not all the Silver Stars in D.C.’s gonna save us from the Duluth Times.”

The millionaire sighed, shaking his head.

“Baseball’s a dream, man. A memory we all wish we could go back to—a mirror you can’t ever wipe clean. People look out from those cheap seats in section 120 and see themselves, clad in the emerald stripes, doing battle like we’ve been doing for a million years. We pour our money into the chance to be that free. Dad dumped half his fortune into the Warriors, and all it ever got him was rocks at the bottom of Lake Superior.”

“He made some money, now and then.” Ricky noted. Jason laughed.

“If dad cared about money, I wouldn’t be sitting here grilling steaks in an old, haunted mansion.” He sighed, looking up again at the night sky, which was finally revealing traces of starlight through the dissipating clouds. "But me, Ricky, I care about money."

“You go out there and find another Medina and another Tamura,” Bong said, dumping his cigar into the ashtray and spinning it in circles, “another Kenny, and another Thomas. We need fans in the seats, Ricky, and you need players to have fans.”

“I understand, Mr. Bong.”

“I hope you do, Ricky,” Jason said with a nod, returning his attention to the grill. “I hope you do.”

After dinner, on his way out, Mrs. Bong fetched his old blazer with a warm smile at the door.

“Handsome guy like you needs a wife to keep you company, Ricky,” she said with a stern, matronly tone. Ricky did his best to smile back.

“Married to my work, ma’am.”

“Yes,” she said, giving another wink to Mr. Bong. “Lucky you.”

On his way out, he paused for the security guard to open the gate. The old guard’s hut was lit up in the glow of a small television; he was watching the post-game show of the Imperial League Wildcard. A champagne-soaked Don Mercer beaming with his sky-blue teammates. The guard finally turned and noticed at Ricky’s Celia.

“Oh! Sorry, there!” He stood and waddled over to the car. “Hell of a series. Hell of a team, those Claymores. Uff-da! What a turnaround.”

“Yeah,” Ricky offered, rubbing his eyes.

“Would be nice to see our Warriors win a Wildcard,” the guard said with a nod. He leaned on the window. “You gonna get us a decent reliever next year, or what?”

Shaking his head, Ricky looked to the ceiling of his Celica. “I don’t know. If I don’t, maybe they’ll give you my job.”

“Wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” the guard said with a chuckle. “You have yourself a pleasant evening, Mr. McCoy. Nice tie, by the way.”


When Ricky finally climbed the staircase to his apartment, he collapsed, exhausted, on his couch, slinging his tie across the room and uncorking a bottle of Macallan 25. He turned the television on to BNN, with a proud and ecstatic Vic Caleca interviewing from Indiana earlier in the day. Fireworks appeared behind him—a celebration at his home.

“Here’s to you, Vic,” Ricky said to the screen, not bothering with the tumbler as he saluted his television and took a long, undignified pull.


When he finally collapsed into the couch, blazer still on, he dreamed of emerald outfields, the fireworks morphing to rocket-propelled explosions, and her. Always, her. “Lucky,” he muttered to himself below the spinning ceiling, an arm over his eyes. Mercifully, Sleep came like the rain.
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Old 06-02-2019, 10:53 AM   #5
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Skirmishes
November 14th, 2028
War Room--Duluth Warriors Front Office



He entered the conference room, green binder under his arm.

A long-neglected corner fan, jaundiced under thirty years or more of professional service, groaned anxiously as Ricky McCoy set his mug on the veneer table and the staff came to order.

“How was Charlotte, Ricky?” Jason York asked, wiping the remnant of a scone from his face with a blazer sleeve.

“Nag’s Head,” Ricky corrected the Assistant GM absently, reviewing a document as he stood at the head of the table. York shrugged and went back to his scone. “You shaved your mustache, Jason,” Ricky noted without looking up.

“Every season,” York said with a smile, and the staff laughed a bit. York managed the team before his promotion—and it was an open secret that he was denied his ascension to GM by the death of former owner Arne Bong. The season had not been amicable between the two.

“Ogawa signed with Aurora,” Nathan Tate, Chief Administrator, said from his chair, reading from his tablet. “Fukuda’s with Yuma, saw the bulletin this morning.”
“Yep,” Ricky said, still standing and reviewing the memorandum behind his chair. The staff looked on quietly.

Davis Earwood, one of the organizational scouts, gave a small chuckle, his arms folded. “Gonna need a used car salesman to get someone to take the shortseason job.” The group chuckled—all but McCoy. Eventually, the group returned to silence.

“So,” Jason said, drumming his hand on the old table and looking to Ricky. “How was the league conference?”

Ricky drew his eyes from the paper to York, looking him over before sitting down.

“Long.”

“Always a great time,” York said, creening his neck to the rest of the staff. “Lobster, sports cars, best girls east of the Mississippi on every arm. Hell of a time—yessir. Used to take the whole staff down, back in the good days.” The staff laughed again, quietly.

“How’s the search for the Jacobs replacement going?” McCoy said, a little loud, opening his binder and pulling a brass-lined pen from his front pocket. A few of the staff members exchanged glances.

“We think there’s a good chance he’ll re-sign,” York replied, nodding to the team. “It’s normal in these option years for guys with some WAR in their pockets to test the waters, Ricky. But just wait a bit, he’ll come around.”

Looking from his binder to York, McCoy took a pull from his mug and unfolded his reading glasses.

“Cedeno’s got two years left in Hartford. What’s the story on Gordon Fuller?”

Jose Franco, the Scouting director, cleared his throat from across the table and nodded.

“Still no extension. Great defender, good at placing the ball. Strikes out too much. Consistent, but he’s reached his limit. Won’t outshine Jacobs.”

McCoy nodded. “Cheaper, though,” He said, “and his eyes aren’t as green.”

“We’ll see what Jacobs wants, when the time comes,” York said. “Hot corner’s a tough duty. Chose, Crocker, Fuller, these guys aren’t Jacobs. Cheap, sure, but the infield’s sparse enough as it is, Ricky. Some stock’s worth investing in.”

Jesus, Jason!” Ricky shouted, causing nearly everyone in the room to jump.

Furiously, McCoy launched his pen at the table so hard that it ricocheted, launching toward a ducking scout across the table. His coffee splashed over the veneer. “That’s the sort of medieval god damn nonsense that put us in this mess!”

York tilted his head, wide-eyed, turning a bit in his chair. McCoy pushed himself from the table and stood up, flinging his binder down. Jose Franco, the most experienced man in the room, looked on thoughtfully.

“We’ve got thirteen million dollars to replace half a god damn baseball club. No bullpen, no third baseman, two outfielders, and a AAA club that looks like a Cal Ripken summer league. And you want to spend half of that on Eric f---ing Jacobs?”

Shocked, the staff stared at their General Manager, who until this point had not lost his composure once in a board meeting—in his office—not ever.
Ricky leaned forward, slamming his fist down on the papers.

“This team lost ninety million dollars in one year,” he continued, seething, rapping his knuckles on the PEBA financial report RJ Emola had compiled. “with the best-paid staff in the damn league. We have to pay ringers to fill the platinum section, for the love of god!”

“People don’t come when you trade away their heroes, Ricky,” York answered quietly, his back rigid. “Half the fans who do show up still wear their Mercer jerseys.”

“I don’t want to hear another damn word about Don Mercer,” McCoy shouted, pointed a finger at York. “Thirty million dollars for a team that couldn’t turn his home runs into wins if he hit sixty of them. Prat, Mercer, Latham, Thomas, Esquivel, Sutherland, not another damn word. Nineteen million for a clown who didn’t throw a pitch the whole year he wore green. Twenty-Five Million for a has-been starter with more injuries than Tonya Harding. The list goes on, and on, and on.”

“Ricky, if you want to lecture us on how to sign a professional baseball player to a team, why don’t you wait until you’ve actually done it?” York shot up at McCoy, his jaw set. The staff exchanged dubious glances as white-hot intensity gripped the room. “Thomas scorched the earth the whole time he was at Duluth, until you benched him in a slump. No one knew Latham was going to tear his damn ACL. And Mercer did exactly what we wanted him to—lure the Win-Now teams at the deadline. We just didn’t know he’d be traded for a reliever loan and utility man instead of prospects.”

The oblivious droning of the old fan was the only noise left in the room. The staff stared on. Ricky looked at York, his hands white-knuckled on the leather chair.
“Jason, I have a daughter at Princeton,” Ricky said, after staring at York for some time, “and even though most of my salary goes towards her dance degree, I feel less screwed over by the Board of Regents than a Duluth fan should by the Front Office.”

Ricky sat back down in his chair.

“Duluth’s days of spending money we don’t have are over,” he said, quieter, shuffling his scattered papers. “I want a full scrub of the depth chart with top-ten choices from each man, woman, and child on my payroll. Vacation’s over, gentlemen. And the next time I leave instructions with this room, I better see the results on my desk when I walk back in—or the next instruction will be how to cash a severance check.”

He scanned the room, looking down the staff with raised eyebrows. “This meeting is over.”

The groan of chairs eagerly pushing back from the table rose from the faded hardwood floor, and one-by-one the staff shuffled awkwardly out of the room in silence. Franco gave a sad, almost fatherly expression as he passed, and all were gone—all except Jason York—who sat looking at McCoy. McCoy looked back at him, silent.

“This ain’t the Army, Ricky,” York said calmly, tapping his pen again on the table. “And you’re not a General. That Hollywood, Moneyball crap won’t work for long.”

“Jason,” Ricky answered, collected once more, slapping his green binder closed, “the next time you interrupt me in a meeting, you’ll asking Mandy Scott for a discount in the classifieds.”

York laughed, shaking his head and folding his hands together. “You did your job, Ricky,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ll give you that. You brought home the bottom line, like a loyal little officer. Forget about the fans, forget about the players, forget about the legacy of this place. At least the books are balanced, right? That’s what Bong hired you to do. I wonder, though—now that the job’s done—what he’ll be looking for in a GM.”

“I’m not having this horsecrap debate with you, York.” McCoy answered.

“It must have been embarrassing as hell,” York continued with a smile, shaking his head, “sitting there in that fancy meeting, with all those successful GMs, seeing your name at the bottom of every damn list—bullet after bullet. Must’ve felt like hell, man. Laughing stock of the whole PEBA. I imagine there weren’t a lot of after-party invitations.”

McCoy worked his tongue against his mouth. “Is that what this is about? Dinner parties? I’m not the one who passed you over, Jason. If you’re looking for justification for your ceremonial position, find a damn mirror.”

York chuckled again. “Any idiot with a black tie can slash a roster, man. I told you, this ain’t the Army—and around here, it’s a lot easier to fire someone than sign them.” York stood up, his demeanor darkening. “I earn over twice your salary. What do you think that says about where we stand with the big man? You think Bong’s going to let you dole out a million bucks to fire his most experienced manager when he already gave you 24?” He laughed again, shaking his head and straightening his tie. “Save that General Patton crap for the reunions, man.”

He walked past Ricky and left the room.

Ricky watched him leave, keeping his eyes on the door for some time. He could hear phones ringing down the hall—the wind coming off Lake Superior on the windowsill—and the old fan, whirring with all its might, in the overheated room. With a sigh, he walked over and turned it off.
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Old 06-02-2019, 10:54 AM   #6
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Silence, or Something Better, Part 1
Winter Meetings, 2028





Ricky McCoy pulled at the edges of his blazer with a reflexive urgency, checking his leatherbound watch as the B Terminal at Asheville ushered in the wet cold of Carolina in wintertime.

Eagerly, Ricky looked to the faded screen of his phone—long overdue for a replacement—and raised a brow at the singular notification:



Ricky studied the phone, scrutinizing the message like an archaeologist might gaze at the ancient rivulets of clay cuneiform. With little decorum, an unshaved passenger behind Ricky cleared his jiggling throat—so close that he felt the pajama-clad man’s breath on his neck. Uttering some inaudible apology, Ricky half-turned—revealing the middle-aged source of the impatient inflection—a balding Floridian clad in bulging Featherheads pajama bottoms. Always the Featherheads. Ricky squeezed the handle of his small, fading carry-on suitcase and trudged on over the narrow carpet before so much as a “Steve Hott will rise again” could escape from the man’s large lips. Ricky had other things on his mind.

Yes, I just landed.

Yes, just arrived.

Yep!

Yes, I am


“Mr. McCoy?”

Tania Polinski, Richard’s exhausting personal assistant, broke his concentration on the glow of his cell phone screen. Ricky looked up, annoyed, at the twenty-two-year-old Columbia grad.

“Talking points!” Tania announced in an annoyingly enthusiastic manner, producing a banded stack of notecards from her microsuede satchel bag. Ricky took them, an uneven glance to his assistant, and casually released them into the trash bin at his side, returning to his phone. Tania titled her head, mouth slightly open—but knew better than to question Ricky twice in moments like these. With a soft sigh, she flanked her boss, opening the guarded lid of the can amidst unusual glances and fishing the cards out.

“I heard Bob Mayberry’s wheeling around somewhere in the airport,” Tania mentioned airily, waving an array of spaghetti noodles out of a notecard reading “SELL THE FUTURE” in permanent marker. “May be worth discussing the Munoz idea we rehearsed last week—”

“Mayfield doesn’t give a **** about Munoz,” Ricky answered absently, eyes still on his phone.

Tania shrugged. “Still, better to be prepared! “The Readiness is All, as a Shakespeare would say!”

“What does Shakespeare say about shutting the hell up?”

Be silent,” Tania replied dramatically, one hand to her heart and the other outstretched, “or say something better than silence.” she smiled and offered the marinara-soaked note cards back to the General Manager.

“Never was a Shakespeare man.” Ricky lied, snatching the cards from his assistant and flipping through them.

“I always pictured you as more of a Hemingway type. Depressed, drunk, fighting bears.”

Unable to resist a small chuckle, McCoy shook his head and looked through the cards, rubbing his temple and looking back to his phone. Tania raised a brow and crossed her arms.

“If I didn’t know any better, sir, I’d say you were waiting on a hot date.”

“Something like that.”

Tania whistled, placing her hands behind her back with a wry grin. “Romance at the Winter Meetings! Mixing work and play, I see. Hemingway indeed.”

“Tania?”

“Yes, Mr. McCoy?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, Mr. McCoy.”



Later, in the personal car that hailed Ricky from Arrivals, Tania rattled off the WAR of various “unofficial” trade blocks from the PEBA underground. It was a fascinating nexus—teeming with inside information, rumors, and luck.

“Again,” Tania said firmly, the glow of her iPad glaring from her black-rimmed glasses, “Sell the future. Protect the rebuild. Aim for some midmarket relievers—reach for third base. But above all, no risks.”

“That’s the plan,” Ricky said with a nod.

“The 2035 Warriors will be the fiercest team in PEBA history!” Tania declared with a clenched fist, helping herself to the uncorked bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte. She offered a glass to Ricky, who declined with a wave. Tania shrugged and downed it herself.

Geological time. Entropy has a will of its own. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Ricky shrunk in the seat opposite Tania, checking his phone and then tossing to the seat with rising aggravation.
“If you ever need relationship advice,” Tania offered from her glass, “I am, in fact, a woman.” Ricky squinted and waved his hand in a “so-so” manner, which she ignored.

“I’m happy for you,” she said with a small toast. “To the stone-chiseled Colonel McCoy, showing the doubting populace that he is, indeed, human.”

“Pushing it, Tania.”

“Must be the champagne.”



When the car finally arrived at the oasis-themed turnabout of the luxury hotel, a large marquee flashing “WELCOME PEBA GMs!” darted beneath reporters and similar personal cars—and one luxury limousine with a felt-tophat-clad Drew Streets waving from the sun roof.

“I need to get one of those hologram machines Caleca uses,” McCoy said wearily, watching from his window.

“It would never do in Duluth,” Tania chided. “We lake-folk are a tactile people.”

“You’re from Hoboken,” Ricky replied sardonically.

“I’ve inhaled enough Lake Superior exhaust to be a Pontiac.”

An hour and a half, no response. Ricky drummed his fingers on his knee and worked his tongue against his teeth.

“What’s the latest on Fuller?”

“Wants more cash, again. Like I told you this morning, sir.”

“Medina?”

“Same.”

“Douglas?”

“Ditto.”

“Jesus,” Ricky nearly shouted, annoyed, slamming his fist into the window. “Who do these guys think they are, Angel Hernandez?”

“Forget about Gordon Fuller,” Tania replied with a grin. “Who’s the girl?”

“None of your business.”

“In strictly professional terms, I’d say you’re incorrect.” Tania leaned forward. “New fling? High school sweetheart? Old Army crush?”

“Looking to reconnect,” Ricky answered, quietly, tapping at his cellphone screen.

“People love a good comeback story.”

“Sure.”



Three messages, no answer. Why did Ricky feel like a Sophomore? He shook his head. didn’t have texting when you were a Sophomore, Ricky. Thank God. Probably would have never found a girlfriend. Still, as outdated as he felt, he knew 3 to 1 was a deadly ratio in the text messaging world. His ears felt hot, and he loosened his tie. The car stopped, and his door to the car opened.

“Hey Ricky,” Jason York, the Assistant GM of Duluth nodded with a brimming smile, his oversized cigar-fingers offering a patronizing clap on the shoulder. He had a brunette girl on one arm—probably 18 or 19—and she gave a flashy smile to Ricky. He ignored her and nodded at York. Ricky frowned instinctively at his Assistant GM.

“Tania, how are ya, darlin?”

“Progressive,” Tania answered coldly with her arms crossed around her ipad. York furrowed his large eyebrows.

“All set?” Ricky cleared his throat.

“Live a little, Ricky.” York said with a large grin—his mustache fully regrown. He waved at the luxurious hotel tower before them. “Lots of time for the meetings—and we’ll be lucky to lick the grease off Shin Seiki’s plate this year. Hell, if I wasn’t already drunk I might feel damn afraid to walk in those doors!” He laughed, shaking his head and departing with the beaming girl. Tania screwed up her face and Ricky shrugged.

“Did you know a vending machine kills two or three people a year?” His assistant noted informally.

Ricky turned, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I’ve had the interns slowly move all of them in Warrior Hall closer to York’s office.” Tania observed her fingernails. "A girl can dream.”

Ricky smiled, faintly. Tania was alright.

A reporter descended on the pair, followed by a hefty cameraman and a few producers. Without even introducing herself, the young, pantsuited woman shoved a foamed microphone up to Ricky’s face.

“Mr. McCoy, is it true the Warriors are expecting another collapse in revenue this season?”

Ricky cleared his throat, painting a faint smile on his face. “Well, that’s a bit—”

“You’re famously tight-lipped with your responses to the press, Ricky. Let’s here a real, genuine answer from you.” The reporter glowered up at Ricky, who stared down, dumbfounded, at the bold little journalist. He paused, and Tania waved a stained notecard from behind the camera: SELL THE FUTURE!

“We…” Ricky looked to the notecard and tilted his head, before snapping out of it and looking back to the woman with a soft smile “We expect favorable trades and sensible advances to the team this year. No more questions, thanks.”

The reporter sighed, rolling her eyes and dropping the mike to her side. She glowered at the cameraman and ordered the cut—clearly nothing worth editing.

“Proud of you, Mr. McCoy,” Tania said quietly, speed-walking to catch up with him as the two passed through the casino doors.

“Be silent,” Ricky replied, “or say something better than silence.”

“There’s something better than silence,” Tania said flatly, dropping her spectacles down a bit. There, across the roulette table, stood Don “Jasper” Mercer, dice in-hand, a large and adoring crowd following his every move.

“I cannot believe you let him go,” Tania said dreamily, shaking her head.

His face growing hotter, Ricky took a water glass from a passing waitress and downed it, looking around. Jason York was chatting up a couple PEBA executives in a far corner, who had just burst into a raucous round of laughter. The chandeliers above the casino seems garishly bright—like a toaster oven. All sound and fury. Ricky rubbed at his neck—reaching desperately as he felt—at long last—his phone vibrate. Greedily, he threw it from his pocket and unlocked the screen:



Not ready? Ricky checked his watch. They weren’t supposed to meet up for at least another two hours. He scratched his head, searching for a reply, when his phone buzzed again:



The loud music and ringing keno machines seemed to dim around a point in space somewhere above Ricky’s head for a moment.* His cheeks flashed, and he slowly let the phone fall into his pocket.* Suddenly—the entire room whirled back into motion—like a lagging film reel catching up with the present. Not ready.* Never ready.* Adverb. Adjective.* Silence.**It became clear, like the stilling of water after the scattering of stones--his daughter did not want him in her life.


“Tania,” Ricky said, watching Ken Hannahs and Reg LeBlanc chatting it up over cocktails in the corner. He took off his jacket, “Tell Jason York he has the night off.”

“Wait,” Tania said warily, “Ricky, you always do something stupid when you take your blazer off in public. Remember Yuma? Let’s talk about it.”

“Get lost, Tania.” Ricky said, a little too loud. “Go ask Don Mercer for an autograph.” he looked one more time at his phone, then shut it off, throwing his jacket at his assistant. Tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

With that, Ricky McCoy was off to sell the future.
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