2063.11 – Docket Days

[Graham]

There was no offseason for bureaucracy.

On the morning of January 26th, Graham Luna sat in his office inside the Gold Palace, the slightly-too-tall chair causing his knees to angle in a way that made him look either extremely casual or medically concerning. A tower of papers sat on the desk in front of him. International scouting logs, housing waivers, media credential updates, concession vendors analysis. Plus the Post-it stuck to his monitor that said “CALL DARRYL BACK”, underlined five times.

He didn’t know any Darryl.

The office door swung open and Mallory Gertz strode in carrying a stack of glossy marketing proposals. Mal was nineteen, attending a university somewhere in Johannesburg (Graham had already forgotten the name), and had been brought on after a desperate LinkedIn post by AGM Francisco Rosario titled “Want to see behind the curtain? We have no curtain!”

She wasn’t exactly qualified — unless you counted a TikTok account where she reviewed school vending machine snacks — but her schedule was flexible (except between 10 AM and 3 PM every Tuesday and Thursday, when she had courses like Applied Meme Theory, Molecular Gastronomy, and Historical Fencing: From Musketeers to Lightsabers), and her only demand was a strict No Dairy Policy.

“So like, do people actually read the scouting reports?” Mal asked, sliding into one of the office chairs with a dramatic sigh. One AirPod was in, the other rested in the charging case clipped to her belt. “Because this one says ‘inconsistent slider but makes batters uncomfortable,’ which is literally just my ex.”

Graham blinked.

“You should do a TikTok series,” she added. “‘Graham Reacts to Scouting Reports.’ You’d go viral. But like, you need a hook. Maybe you dance every time a catcher has a sub-2.0 pop time?”

Rosario poked his head in, holding two folders and a granola bar. “She’s not serious, right? Please tell me she’s not serious.”

“I’m not not serious,” Mal said. “Is that granola bar dipped in yogurt? If I even smell that, I swear to God I will pass out in front of the copier again.”

“Again?” Rosario looked genuinely afraid.

Graham cleared his throat, already losing control of his own office.

“I just want to get through the docket,” he said, pointing to the pile. “We’ve got 14 unsigned scouting contracts, a dozen sponsor pitch decks for new uniform patches—”

“Don’t forget the coffee brand that wants to sponsor our bullpen,” Mal chimed in. “Their tagline is “When Hope Runs Out, We’re Still Brewing.””

“—we’ve got a new mascot talent search being run by someone named ‘Big Vibez’ and I am not sure that’s a legal name, and someone named Darryl keeps leaving voicemails that just say, ‘Call me ASAP.’ No affiliation. No company. Just—Darryl.”

Rosario shrugged. “Could be a scout.”

“Or a hitman,” Mal added.

“Also, no one gets hired unless I sign off first,” Graham stressed. “I don't want another issue like that scout from Mumbai who turned out to be three children in a trench coat.”

“Honestly,” Rosario said, “those kids had a pretty good eye for talent.”

A beat passed.

Then, Mal held up a note from the front desk. “Also, someone dropped this off. It just says: ‘Darryl has information. Very urgent.’”

Graham stared at it, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I just want a normal day,” he muttered. “No new players. No contracts. No half-mascot, half-DJ auditions. Just peace. Tranquility.”

Mal was already texting. “Do you want me to schedule interviews for the mascot thing? Big Vibez says he can show up with ‘two unicycles and a fog machine.’”

“Only if he signs the liability waiver first,” Graham said without looking up.

Outside, Johannesburg buzzed quietly. Preseason was weeks away, but the staff was clicking. The front office, while slightly unorthodox and occasionally dairy-adverse, was rounding into form. And, for now at least, there were no fires to put out.

No trades. No signings. Just minor league logistics, brand pitches, and one increasingly persistent voice mail.

Graham closed his eyes for a moment. “No such thing as a quiet January.”

From the couch, Mal stared blankly and said, “I’m just here for the free bobbleheads and class credit.”