2063.37 - In Rhodes We Text

[Graham]

They stood in the outfield bleachers like two dads who'd snuck away from a wedding reception to watch the game on someone else's tab.

Assistant GM Fernando Rosario was bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying not to spill his soda. Graham was still, elbows on the railing, watching the bottom of the ninth like he was monitoring a live surgery. The crowd around them was buzzing, standing-room only, 36,000 deep and growing louder with every pitch.

On the mound, Cesar Torres slung a 1-0 slider. Buenos Aires' Leonard Jackson connected, sending a high, lazy fly ball to right field. The ball seemed to stay in the air for thirty seconds. Adam MacDonald only needed to take two steps in before raising his glove and squeezing it around the ball to end the game.

Game. Series. Season.

Division.

Rosario whooped and fist-pumped. A stranger hugged him. A beer splashed somewhere behind them. Fireworks popped overhead. Gold confetti cannons shot off like someone had detonated a celebratory car alarm.

Graham just exhaled.

“There it is,” Rosario shouted, clapping him on the back. “We did it! First ever!”

Graham gave a small nod. “Yep.”

“Come on, man, at least smile. This is history. You are allowed to feel things, you know.”

“I’m feeling things,” Graham said, expression unchanged. “They're just…organized.”

Rosario shook his head, grinning anyway. “You need champagne. Or therapy.”

Graham’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and squinted at the screen: a message from Colin Rhodes, owner of the Johannesburg Gold.

CONGRATULATIONS.
I would say this qualifies as “something worth watching.”
P.S. I need to return a parrot.

Graham typed a reply:

We did it, Mr. Rhodes.

Then deleted it.

Then typed:

Thanks. Still work to do.

Then deleted that too. He finally pocketed the phone and said nothing.

Rosario raised an eyebrow. “That from the big guy?”

“Yeah. He’s still rich.”

They watched the team mob the mound. Simao Hayagawa lifted Torres lifted into the air. Callum Montgomerie used his 6’6” frame to bear hug the rest of his fellow infielders.

“God, look at that,” Rosario said, soaking it in. “Look at them.”

Graham allowed himself half a smile. “Yeah. Not bad for a bunch of waiver claims and minor league contracts.”

Rosario elbowed him. “Still think we’re a circus?”

“Absolutely. Just happens to be a winning one.”

* * * * *
The “Do Not Disturb” sign wasn’t decorative. Mal had tried knocking once, then dropped off a banana, a coffee, and a sticky note that said, “I know you’re in playoff prep mode, but please eat fruit or Rosario will start quoting fiber stats again.”

The coffee was gone. The banana remained untouched.

It was the day after the season finale win, the day before the GBC playoffs started. Graham sat hunched over his desk, a playoff roster spreadsheet open across three screens and half a dozen scouting reports scattered around him like an archaeological dig site.

The chair creaked as he leaned back and thought to himself, What to do about Anaya?

That was the question. Because unless back spasms counted as strategy, he wasn’t starting Game 1.

The injury had looked minor, just an awkward dive back to first in yesterday's game. But the report said “day-to-day (moderate)” and Graham didn’t like gambling with maybe. Not in October.

The smart call was to IL him, stash him until the championship series.

If there was a championship series.

He stared at the screen for a long time.

Juan Anaya: .382/.408/.574, 9 SB (71 PA)

“You deserve to play,” Graham whispered, “but I need us to win more than I need a good story.”

He clicked the toggle: Reserve List.

He sighed.

Next up: Rich Moore. Herniated disc. Out. No debate. For a transaction that no one would notice but him, that hurt. Moore a late-inning defensive safety valve. His 9th inning “get us a base knock” guy.

In his place: Fred Mailing. A utility infielder who passable at third, fine at second, and one bad hop away from a diplomatic incident at shortstop.

“If Rozinov or bin Eisa pull a hammy, we’re cooked,” Graham said aloud to no one.

And still, that wasn’t what kept him up.

The real decision was whether to go bold, run with the hot hands when it came to finalizing the bullpen.

Fabiao Marcha? Larry Soukup? Do I dare?, he pondered.

Marcha had been all over the place this year, understandable for a rookie. ERA fluctuations that made barometric pressure look stable. But his cutter was mean. In September, it had worked. A 0.93 ERA, big-game confidence, and a hint of reckless brilliance.

Soukup, on the other hand, was pure oatmeal. Steady and reliable all year in Triple-A, he made his mark on low-velocity, low-excitement. He was the kind of guy who gives you three or four innings without a headline. But he only had six innings in the big leagues to his name this season, all in September. And the Sharks weren’t exactly soft.

Graham opened both files side by side.

On one hand: rookie unpredictability with upside.
On the other: milquetoast stuff but a 1.85 ERA in Triple-A.

He stared at them both.

Then opened a third tab: Torres’ slider heat map. He smiled.

“Still my favorite pitch in baseball.”

He stood, stretched, winced at the stiffness in his back, and looked at the sprinkled golden confetti tracked into his office after the club clinched the division a few days ago.

Graham turned off his notifications, saved the file titled “ROSTER_vFINAL_final_REALLYFINAL,” and walked to the fridge.

Inside: one cake. White frosting. Rainbow sprinkles. Candles, unlit.

He closed the door again.

“Not yet,” he said.

And started prepping for Game 1.