2063.02 - "You’re Shorter Than I Imagined"

[Graham]

When Graham Luna stepped off the plane in Johannesburg, his knees cracked loud enough to turn a few heads in business class. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Between turbulence, marmot snoring, and the silent panic attack he suffered during a four-hour in-flight screening of 'Moneyball III: Still No Rings,' Graham’s body was running on adrenaline, duty-free gummy bears, and dwindling hope that this wouldn’t be a colossal mistake.

A man holding a sign that read “LUNA” in blocky handwriting awaited him outside customs. The sharp-suited man didn't even pretend to smile when Graham extended his arm for a handshake. He ushered Graham toward a matte-black vehicle that looked like it had been airlifted out of a Bond movie. Graham reached for the back door handle, only for it to open automatically like it knew he wasn’t used to this level of nonsense.

Graham sank into the back seat, noting the interior smelled like new leather and old money. As his bonsai rode next to him in a padded carrier marked “fragile,” he stared out the window as the skyline gave way to rolling estates and gated compounds. He briefly wondered if he was being kidnapped, but then remembered: who kidnaps a middle-aged fantasy baseball dropout with a minor in philosophy and a Gmail inbox full of rejection letters?

After forty silent minutes, the car pulled into a property with hedges shaped like wildebeests and a fountain gilded in gold that appeared to be shooting filtered water into a koi pond.

Colin Rhodes’ house (well, one of them) was more art museum than residence. Marble floors polished to the point of existential reflection, giant portraits of the man himself holding championship trophies that the Gold, notably, had never won, and taxidermied exotic animals from what Graham could only assume were souvenirs from a private hunting trip.

Rhodes entered the room like he had invented the act of entering rooms. Sixty years old, with silver hair, tan skin, and an unplaceable accent that sounded like it had passed through a dozen luxury cigar lounges before reaching his tongue.

“Luna!” he boomed. “You’re shorter than I imagined.”

“Thanks,” Graham replied, unsure if that was an insult or some weird South African greeting.

Rhodes waved him over to an outdoor terrace where champagne flutes awaited them, and a servant (possibly a butler, possibly a hologram) brought a tray of what Graham guessed were spiced kudu sliders. Graham took one to be polite.

“So,” Rhodes said, leaning back in a chaise lounge that probably cost more than Graham’s car. “Why you?”

There it was. The question Graham had been asking himself since the moment he pressed send on his application.

He cleared his throat. “Because I care. I’ve studied this game every day for twenty years. Because I understand how to build a roster, read a scouting report, manipulate a Rule 5 draft like a Vegas card shark—”

Rhodes waved a hand. “Yes, yes, all that. But why did you say yes? Johannesburg is not exactly the Brewster.”

Graham paused, the kudu slider suddenly sticking to his molars.

“Because,” he said slowly, “I think this team is a sleeping giant. A reclamation project. And because, maybe, no one else would.”

Rhodes chuckled. Not kindly but not exactly cruelly. He laughed the way rich people laugh when they realize you’re both charming and vaguely expendable.

“Good,” he said. “I like honesty. And delusion. Delusion is fuel for people like us. Now then—contracts are signed, the press release goes out tomorrow, and I expect improvement. Swiftly.”

“Sure,” Graham replied, now sweating in a spot on his body that he hadn’t sweat since his junior high prom night.

Rhodes sipped from his flute. “One more thing.”

Graham leaned in.

“You have one season. One. If you don’t give me something worth watching -- chaos, wins, a marketable scandal -- I will replace you with a parrot I once saw correctly pick three straight Monty Series winners.”

He didn’t blink. Graham did. Twice.

“Understood,” Graham squeaked.

“Good. Now, off you go. You've got to meet your front office.”

As Graham stood to leave, he noticed his bonsai had been gently repositioned to the center of the terrace table. A servant spritzed it with filtered mist. It looked healthier already.

The car door opened automatically again as he was escorted out. This time, he didn’t flinch.

He leaned back in the seat and exhaled slowly as the vehicle pulled away from the estate, past the koi fountain and giraffe farm. Graham wasn’t sure what just happened. Or if it went well. But he was still employed. For now.

And as the car veered left toward the ballpark, one thing was clear: it was time to meet the rest of the circus.

[Jwalk100]

Great read, keep 'em coming.

[woods]

This is great. Looking forward to when you start digging into your team.