2063.12 – Please Leave a Message After the Tone

[Graham]

The start of the Global Baseball Consortium's spring training was just 24 hours away, and the Gold’s front office had begun vibrating at the frequency of barely-contained panic.

In a typical league, this would be the time for last-minute roster fine-tuning and assessing fringe invitees. In the GBC, it meant proofing a sponsorship pitch for an experimental beverage called “Brain Fizz” and figuring out why half the league was scheduled to play 129 games and the other half 131.

“I’ve filed two tickets with the league office already,” GM Graham Luna said, scrolling through the master schedule on a flickering tablet. “One got marked ‘resolved’ with no changes. The other just said ‘our bad.’”

Complicating matters further: the São Paolo Pilots had just announced the hiring of a new GM named Ryan who apparently preferred to be called Rye. Graham assumed was either a nickname short for something or an elaborate bread pun no one had explained yet. “I don’t know if he’s gluten-free or just mysterious,” Graham muttered.

Mallory Gertz, still technically employed as an unpaid intern, sat cross-legged on the office couch, flipping through a stack of mascot headshots. “Can we pivot to a mascot that’s just a flaming baseball with googly eyes? Big Vibez says it’s very ‘now.’”

“No,” Graham and AGM Rosario said in unison.

Minor league logistics were worse. Graham had tried to round out their Single-A affiliate over the weekend, only to discover the free agent pool was a ghost town with cleats.

“There’s not much out there,” he said. “A 39-year-old pitcher left me a five-minute voicemail about how his 83 MPH fastball is ‘deceptively slow.’” Graham looked down at a computer printout. “Says here there’s an available left fielder who played last season with a sprained ankle and ‘emotional baggage.’ And there’s literally a shortstop who was born with two left feet.”

“The BBA’s hoarding everyone,” Rosario said, pulling up a spreadsheet like it was evidence in a court case. “San Fernando’s Rookie team is at 74 players. Yellow Springs Nine? Three hundred and five under contract. According to census reports, they've doubled the population of Yellow Springs.”

“Athens has 140 players just in Single-A and Double-A alone,” he added. “Either they’re building a second team, or they’re about to announce a coup.”

“I’d play for Athens if it means I don’t have to register for summer classes,” Mal mumbled, still flipping through mascot resumes. “One of these guys lists ‘moderate parkour’ as a skill. That feels relevant.”

Graham barely heard her. His eyes had drifted to the corner of his desk, where a small bonsai tree had recently appeared. He’d brought it from his apartment two days ago, not for symbolism or serenity—just because it was dying on the windowsill and he figured it might do better with office lighting.

It wasn’t thriving, but it was surviving.

He took a breath, then turned to a fresh crisis: a spring training credential request from the mysterious Darryl. No last name. No affiliation. The form was submitted by fax and included an emergency contact labeled only “also Darryl.”

“This man has now applied for three different credentials,” Graham muttered. “One as a freelance journalist, one as an umpire, one just said ‘enthusiast.’”

Rosario tilted his head. “What if it’s not a man? What if it’s, like, a concept? What if Darryl is a movement?”

“I think Darryl’s a scam,” Mal offered. “Or a sleeper agent.”

“And there was another random direct message sent to my X account,” Graham said. “Just ‘CALL ME BACK’ in all caps. No context. No punctuation. Just rage.”

Mal looked up. “If he kills you, do I get to be GM?”

Rosario looked genuinely alarmed. “That’s not how succession works.”

Graham stood, stretching. “I just want to make it to spring with a workable roster. Or without getting murdered by a man with no surname.”

Mal shrugged. “Well, I can’t work full-time until June anyway. But I’d probably say yes.”

And with that, she went back to reviewing mascot headshots, Rosario buried himself in waiver wires, and Graham returned to his bonsai, trimming a single leaf with a quiet focus that made Rosario slowly back out of the room.

The season was near. Darryl was still calling. And for better or worse, the Gold’s front office was ready.

Sort of.

[BTuck2112]

And the hits keep on rolling! Graham = future Caleca winner 100%