2063.24 – “Sir, You’re Clutching That Notebook Like It Owes You Money”

[Graham]

The hum of the airplane softened as the lights dimmed over the Atlantic, and Graham Luna sat stiff in seat 7F, tray table upright, bourbon untouched. His battered notebook rested in his lap like a sleeping animal he was afraid to disturb.

The Cape Fear meeting had gone longer than expected. Two hours on offense, one on the merits of home run-based team identity, and thirty minutes on how to handle a flounder mating season protest. The latter included a whiteboard session and the phrase “aquatic diplomacy.”

That part had actually been the least stressful.

No, what rattled Graham had come earlier, when Woody "@woods" Donahue, the Swamp Foxes’ GM, had paused mid-rant about “launch angle cowards” and stared at him, brow furrowed.

“You sure we haven’t met?” Donahue had asked, casual, like someone trying to place a familiar barista.

Graham had smiled. A tight, polite smile, like the kind you give when a stranger claims to know your birthday.

“Don’t think so, sir.”

Donahue had shrugged and moved on. Started calling him “Honeycomb” again. But the moment stuck. Just a flicker. A wrinkle of recognition that passed as quickly as it came. But it had been there.

Back in his seat, Graham exhaled slowly through his nose. He glanced around the cabin: businessmen, half-asleep. One man noisily watching a vintage movie called Mission: Inexplicable 9 on the back of the seat in front of him. The flight attendant passed by with a smile.

“Sir, you’re clutching that notebook like it owes you money.”

He loosened his grip.

Inside the notebook was a page labeled CAPE FEAR MEETING: NOTES / DANGER SIGNS, with a hasty diagram of a potential three-team trade involving a a Cobble Hill reliever, a no-glove/all-bat 3B Vancouver Mounties prospect, and a pair of speedster teens in the Cape Fear lower minors. Below that, a hastily scribbled line: “Darryl. Donahue. Coincidence???”

He hadn’t returned Darryl’s call. He hadn’t deleted it either. It sat in his voicemail like a cursed scroll.

He rubbed his eyes.

Cape Fear’s brass had been complimentary, if chaotic. Their assistant GM had pulled him aside after the meeting to say, “You know, if things go south in Johannesburg, there’s always work in the States.”

The phrase “go south” had landed wrong. Graham nodded, then drifted away under the pretense of needing the restroom, where he instead washed his hands for six straight minutes and stared into the mirror like he expected it to accuse him.

Still, the numbers had been strong. His analysis had held up. They’d liked his spray chart theory, even if Donahue ultimately took it as confirmation that they should just hit more home runs instead of adjusting approach. There was a strange satisfaction in being listened to. And a deeper discomfort in having to pretend it was all new to him.

He turned to the window. Below was pitch black ocean. Somewhere beyond, Johannesburg glowed like a memory pretending to be a plan. The Gold were winning. Still in first place. 45–32.

Just then, a soft ping from his inbox lit up the screen. Rosario had sent over a long-winded email titled “Extension Targets: 2064 and Beyond.” The body of the message opened with “Don’t yell, but I think Antonio Roman's agent is sniffing around again,” followed by a bulleted breakdown of arbitration timelines, escalating salaries, and a few ambitious proposals for multi-year deals. Graham flagged it to read later. Maybe on the ground. Maybe with a stronger drink.

Another electronic buzz, this time on his iPhone. A text. Unknown number. 818 area code. “Heard you are available for consulting. Let me know if you are free to talk.”

He stared at it a second too long, thumb hovering over “Delete” but not pressing it. He marked it unread and turned his phone face down.

His bourbon still sat untouched. He thought of Donahue again. That moment of recognition. Had he really seen it? Or had he wanted to see it—some part of him aching for the past, for validation, for danger?

Or was it just paranoia? What would Darryl, whoever he was, say?

The captain’s voice crackled over the PA: “We’ll be beginning our descent into Johannesburg shortly. Local time is 4:13 a.m., and the temperature is a brisk 8 degrees Celsius. Thank you for flying Southern Cross.”

As the wheels lowered with a thump, Graham closed the notebook, tucked it into his carry-on, and straightened his collar.

What Woody Donahue may or may not have known, and what apparently this mysterious Darryl character knew, hadn't caught up to him yet.

But the runway was getting shorter.