2063.08 – Welcome to Room C-5

[Graham]

Graham Luna was starting to believe this whole "Winter Meetings" thing was a massive con.

Oh sure, technically it was a gathering of baseball’s brightest minds, front office movers and shakers, the stewards of franchises both storied and doomed. But in practice? It mostly seemed to be men in ill-fitting polos pretending to text important people while staring longingly at the pastry trays.

From the fifth floor of the city’s finest hotel, he was tucked in a corner of Room C-5 or as the printed sign called it, "Media Overflow and Emergency Toilet Paper Storage.” A lone camera had been dragged in, along with two folding chairs, a drooping GBC backdrop, and one man currently adjusting his tie in the reflection of a turned-off laptop.

“Nes Lessman,” the man said, thrusting out a hand. “ Your award-winning Farm Reporter from the Yellow Springs Journal.”

Graham blinked. “Congrats?”

“Three-time recipient of the Cornbelt Baseball Writer’s Citation of Merit,” Nes continued, beaming. “Also, I once wrote the definitive takedown of the University of Dayton’s outfield grass conditions. Caused real change.”

He said this like he expected applause. Graham gave him a polite nod and took his seat, careful not to jostle the camera tripod, which looked about as structurally sound as a Jenga tower on a trampoline.

“You know, I’m here in case McMonigal makes a move involving any top prospects,” Nes said, as if Graham had asked. “Plus I had to use my airline rewards before they expired. Figured I’d pick up a few bucks freelancing for BNN. You’re my third interview today.”

“Sounds... perfect,” Graham said, already regretting not feigning a scheduling conflict.

Nes launched into the interview like a man who knew he had ten minutes before the hotel’s breakfast menu changed over. “So, Graham,” he began, holding a notecard two inches from his face. “How are you finding life so far in the GBC?”

“Less glamorous than advertised,” Graham said. “I’ve spent more time this week haggling over visa paperwork than talking about baseball.”

Nes chuckled and flipped to the next card. “And your overall philosophy as a GM?”

“Hitters and pitchers who can control the zone,” Graham said. “And avoid throwing chairs during arbitration hearings. In that order.”

“Hmm, very modern,” Nes nodded, scribbling something onto the creased notecard. “Any chance the Gold make a splash here at the Meetings?”

Graham tilted his head. “My AGM did mention he packed swim trunks and I noticed the hotel pool has a three-meter diving board, so I guess anything is possible." Nes laughed harder than the joke deserved, which Graham decided to take as kindness. Or desperation.

“You know,” Nes said squinting, “this is going to sound odd, but...have we met before?”

Graham blinked. “I don’t think so.”

“I could’ve sworn,” Nes continued, undeterred, “You play minor league ball in the Brewster?”

“Nope,” Graham said, perhaps too quickly.

“An offseason prospect showcase in Florida a dozen or so years ago?,” Nes added. “Or that one weird Scouting Summit they held in an abandoned Blockbuster Video?”

“No, not me,” Graham replied.

“Huh,” he muttered as he tilted his head. “Funny. You’ve got one of those faces.”

Nes moved on but Graham could feel his gaze still probing, like a man trying to remember a dream he wasn’t sure was his. The rest of the interview covered Rule 5 hopes and whether the Gold had ever considered moving their spring training out of the part of South Africa most frequently inhabited by black button spiders.

Eventually, mercifully, it ended.

“Appreciate your time,” Nes said. “I’ve got to transcribe this before my next piece on switch-pitcher glove logistics."

“Happy to help,” Graham said. He stood to shake Nes’s hand, then watched the man shuffle off with joy knowing he’d already met his Winter Meetings story quota before lunch.

He stared out the window, where somewhere on the property, in another ballroom, actual trades maybe were being consummated. He thought about Nes’s face, the flicker of recognition, the way his eyes had narrowed.

It was nothing. Coincidence.

His phone buzzed. It was Assistant General Manager Fernando Rosario texting a blurry photo of what looked like a scout asleep on the floor with a piece of paper that read “Advanced Metrics, Please Touch" taped to his back.

There were still bullpen arms to haggle over, free hotel cable, and at least two receptions to crash before the night was done.

Ahh, Winter Meetings magic. Or something close enough.