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Hi folks, Rob Powers here with the Phoenix Sun Times Post DispatchTM (One of Phoenix's Finest NewspapersTM). It's been a crazy season for the Talons Reclusive GMTM, what with all three of the teams he cares about being in (or tied for) first place. So we wondered, what makes this guy tick? What's up with working two jobs 2000 miles apart? How many frequent flier miles does he have? And, most of all, why is he so bitchy all the time?
To help answer all these questions, and much more, we decided to shadow the GM for a day. Or, 24 hours to be more precise. But we didn't want to do that in Phoenix. No, we've seen enough of this dude in the Talons Front Office on a regular basis, thank you very much. We were much more interested in the GM's other job, that being in this mid-sized city on the shores of Lake Erie, running what he claims to be a billion-dollar iron ore processing plant.
So, with trepidation, we followed the GM's movements and thoughts for a full day just to see why this guy is, well, the way he is. Here is our report.
Sunday, 12:00am
The GM sits in a decidedly uncomfortable-looking chair in front of at least 7 computer screens, with many more (and larger) such screens just beyond and above his desk along the back wall of the control room. He's already been on shift for nearly six hours, and has just finished eating a warmed over Subway Steak and CheeseTM sandwich for his "lunch".
Earlier, on Friday, he had flown in from Phoenix to Detroit and had driven down to Toledo to begin his block of night shifts over the weekend. "Air travel has gotten a lot better nowadays," he tells me. "All the decent airlines fly these new and modern Boeing 797MachX and Airbus A390SST's, so the flight takes like an hour. That's the only way I could do this. Can you imaging being in a plane for like 4 or even 5 hours? Ugh, I can't believe people did that just a few decades ago."
12:07am
Suddenly, the radio crackles to life. An outside operator has found what appears to be a high temperature in a certain part of the furnace, near the top. It's a 450 foot tall structure, with cold iron ore pellets going in at the top and extremely hot gas entering at the bottom. This gas is how the iron ore, fresh from the mines in Minnesota, gets refined into almost pure metallic iron, for use in steel mills. "It's a pretty simple process, at least compared to my old oil refinery job, back when fossil fuels were a big industry," he says. "The thing is, this gas is hot and extremely flammable. So we gotta keep it inside the furnace. If it gets too hot up where the iron ore enters the structure, that means we have a pluggage somewhere."
He manipulates the control station, sending a stream of hot water up to the top of the furnace, clearing the pluggage and allowing the cold iron ore to begin flowing again and cooling the problematic temperatures. All those screens are controlled by at least three mouse input devices. I'm actually having a hard time keeping track of what screen he is even looking at, at any given time. There must be hundreds of parameters on the screens, and that's just what he has displayed right now. There are many more control screens he can select if need be. It's mind boggling.
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Things have quieted down. It's the dead of night, and the plant's Admin building is nearly deserted. There are no engineers or managers on the night shift, only one or two field supervisors working with the guys outside. Although there are two other control room personnel operating ancillary parts of the process, the Reclusive GM runs the core section of the plant practically on his own.
There is surprisingly little small talk amongst the three control room operators. It not necessarily tense, just quiet, each man doing their own thing. But I do notice one particularity: when the Talons GM gets up to use the restroom or get some food, the other two guys start talking to each other, sometimes boisterously. It's a striking change. Then, as soon as the GM re-enters the room, they quiet down again. Is this what it's like all the time? Or is it just because I am here? Either way, I can't help but think of that old 80's band The Police and a line from their song Demolition Man: I can kill a conversation as I walk into a room. This dude really casts a pall on the others when he is here.
Checking his phone, the GM types a two word message to a fellow BBA General Manager in the Frick League, asking a team that is thinking about selling if a particular hitter is available. He sends the message, knowing full well that it will be hours before anyone reads it. "I'll see what he says tomorrow when I wake up," he told me. It's still early in the season, and there is plenty of time to make deals before "shit gets real," as he says. He seems oddly unimpressed about the performance of the Talons, almost as if he scarcely believes that the club's performance thus far is even real.
"If you had told me that Adrian Tallent would be my second best outfielder after a third of a season, I wouldn't have believed you," he tells me. "But Toro has been doing fine. Probably won't last, though."
4:39am
The latest process sample results come in from the lab. "96 percent! That's pretty damn good!" The GM seems more excited about this than any aspect of the BBA so far tonight. After telling his fellow control room operator to direct the finished material to another part of the yard for special storage, he explains it to me. "It's sort of like what they used to call 'high-octane' gasoline. It's premium stuff that the steel mills will pay more money for. That means a higher bonus for us. We've been waiting all shift for those results to come back good."
Soon after, his attention drifts back to a small laptop on the corner of his desk. On the laptop, he can access web pages that list stats and data for the BBA. He clicks through the pages one by one, checking on the Talons, the Liberty, and the Tokyo Pearls, which he has helped run for over ten seasons. "When I'm not in Phoenix, I can't access all the deep scouting reports and roster information like I can in the front office. So these web reports are all I have. It's difficult to stay on top of things when all you have is the goddamn 'Baseball News Network' to get your information," he says with disdain.
"Ugh, I was pissed when Javier Duarte got hurt. I didn't make a big deal of it in the press, but if we don't make the playoffs, that will be one of the reasons why. That and the fact that we can't seem to find a good DH for the first time in forever. And don't get me started about Rich Fucking Dares!"
5:37am
After about an hour of looking through the stat screens, monitoring the process at the same time, and amiably chatting to me about various players and teams, the sound of jingling keys is heard just outside the control room door. Quickly closing the page on his laptop, the Reclusive GM sighs heavily. He then leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and turns his face to stone. "The supervisor," he says to me in a terse whisper.
Then the door opens. The GM doesn't even turn his chair around to greet the man, he just stares intently at his process screens, as if he has been deeply studying them the whole time. The supervisor asks about the quality numbers from earlier, and is answered with a report of the nights results in a surprisingly gruff and unfriendly tone. The supervisor, acting like this is completely normal, turns and walks out. The GM's demeanor lightens once the door closes.
"Not too fond of those guys," he tells me with a smirk. "They act like they're your friend, then they write people up for the smallest thing. They are always blaming us to cover their own asses. But they usually don't mess with me because they know I'm a Union Officer."
6:15am
The day shift control room operators have arrived. After giving relief and clocking out, the Reclusive GM motions for me to follow him to his car. It's a striking red Cadillac, and I'm surprised the man would drive such a vehicle to a iron ore plant that is quite a dirty and dusty place. "I'll give ya a ride to your hotel on my way home," he says, in a matter-of-fact way that I am not entirely sure is friendly.
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"Not like it used to be back in the day," he says. "Can't just stop at the gas station anymore and fill up. It charges quick, but it still takes a while. I love the car, but time is precious when I am between shifts. Every minute I spend charging here is a minute less sleep I get at home."
As we wait for the kilowatts to add up, he watches a couple of short videos on his phone about last night's IndyCar race qualifying results. It seems to relax him and helps the time pass by a little more quickly.
It's kind of awkward for me, sitting here in the passenger seat, saying nothing. But it seems to be normal to him. It's easy to tell he is far more comfortable in silence.
After 20 or so minutes, we unplug and he drops me off at my hotel. "See ya later today," he says, the mid-June sun already blazing in the sky despite it not being even 7am yet. I stand there for a few moments after he drives away... I can't even imagine how he'll sleep, knowing it's a beautiful summer day outside. To say nothing about getting sleep for myself!
* * *
3:00pm
I get a text from the Talons GM. "Up now. Took me a while to get to sleep. It might be a rough night, only got a few hours worth... {sad emoji}" Uh oh, I think to myself. What am I in for tonight? I've already seen the Reclusive GM in action. Now, I'll get to see a tired Reclusive GM in action!
5:30pm
The red Cadillac arrives in the hotel parking lot. I get in, and after a perfunctory, one word greeting ("Hey."), the ride back to the Iron Smelter proceeds in silence. It is still a gorgeous day outside, but i doubt he has experienced any of it. As we get close and I see the tall, blue Iron Plant structure getting closer, he says the only sentence of the commute. "I woke up, had a coffee, ate a sandwich for 'lunch', and then got ready for work all over again." He speaks with a flat, wearisome tone, as if this is a regular occurrence. I honestly cannot tell if he is wearing the same clothes as last shift, or just a similar looking set. Either way, his eyelids are heavy as we pull into the plant and slowly back into a parking spot. It's gonna be a long night.
Or, maybe every night is a long night. I'm not sure if what I am seeing is typical, or just different merely because I am here witnessing it. Maybe I am getting in his way, or I am annoying the GM simply with my presence. But I'm not certain; maybe it really is like this with him all the time. Kind of like the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. You cannot observe something without changing the thing you are observing. Ok, you're right, that's not exactly what the Principle means, and it only applies to electrons... but you get the point.
6:45pm
The GM has taken shift relief, gotten an update on the status of the process, and settled in. Fortunately, from what I can tell, the Iron plant seems to be running normally. There isn't too much activity in the control room and everyone seems calm. Hopefully it's a quiet night. I mention this to him.
"Don't ever say that!" he turns and barks, glaring at me with a steely expression. "We NEVER say shit like that. It's bad, whatever you call it, bad luck, karma, juju, whatever. But here in the plant, just like back at the refinery, you never, ever talk about how 'quiet' it is. You're just asking for trouble."
"If anything fucks up, I'm gonna blame you"
I am reasonably certain that he is not joking.
7:05pm
Presently, the Talons GM gets up and walks toward the shelf where he keeps his lunchbox. Without a hint that anything is out of the ordinary, he takes out a small white plastic bottle and procures what appear to be three ibuprofen pills and another small tablet that I can't identify. Quickly I realize that the other substance is caffeine. Noticing my gaze, he says with a flat tone: "Just like a bottle of Mountain Dew, but without the calories." He's only been on shift for 35 minutes!
8:07pm
With the first quality samples of the shift in the books, he finally appears to relax slightly. The conversation turns once again to the BBA. Despite the change in posture, he still seems annoyed.
"I was hoping to get the upload of the latest stats and results from the Talons Front Office, but those yahoos back in Phoenix haven't posted them yet. How am I supposed to run this damn team if I don't have the latest results? When I get back there tomorrow night, there's gonna be hell to pay." He folds his arms again and stares at his process screens in taciturn concentration.
8:59pm
The GM's phone makes a noise that sounds like the old Captain Kirk communicator from Star Trek. I smile to myself at the thought of that old show. This Reclusive GM character is a lot like Spock from that TV program, but without the warmth or politeness.
Suddenly, his mood lightens. "Finally!" he says. After looking at his phone for a few minutes, it's back to the laptop and those web pages he was studying so intently last night. His face is expressionless, but I can tell he's frustrated. "Why does it take them so long to upload this crap to the web?" he says, to no one in particular, and through gritted teeth. I wonder if he grits his teeth when he sleeps, too.
"Ok, there," he leans back in his chair and his shoulders relax. "Ok, its all up there. Good," he says, staring at the ceiling. Is he talking to me? I'm not sure, but I am damn sure he's not talking to the other two control room operators.
"Five and two," he says, turning toward me for what seems like the first time this shift. "But why aren't we hitting any damn home runs? And how the hell does Tony Lopez have a higher WAR than Choppa?"
"I just don't get this league. Ever since the BBA went to a new scouting service and reset the ratings scale, I just don't know what to make of it. It's still hard for me to see a bunch of sixes and see that as anything but below average. Guys that used to be monsters now look like they suck. There are 45-rated players that are better than 65-rated players, and not by a little bit, either. How am I supposed to make heads or tails of this shit?"
Says the guy with the third best run differential in the BBA.
9:43pm
The Talons GM looks at his phone again. "Heh, that's what I thought. Didn't think he'd give him up yet. Oh well. Gonna have to wait until their record gets worse."
It takes me a minute to realize that he was talking about the Frick League GM whom he had messaged last night, asking about a particular player. Just then, everything changed.
Alarms go off in the control room. All three operators sit bolt upright and look at their screens in a frenzy. "We lost the conveyor!" one of them says, with a tone that is instantly worrisome. The Reclusive GM suddenly looks like an air traffic controller, his head pivoting in short movements, rather like a sparrow, as he looks at all the different data screens. "Get somebody out there!" he barks at one of the other control room guys. "If we don't get back our product discharge, we'll lose the plant!"
The mood is instantly tense in the control room. Radio traffic increases exponentially. I can see temperatures start to turn red on one of the screens. More alarms sound, and every time they are silenced, more follow. As the Talon GM's eyes dart from screen to screen, I slowly roll my chair away so as to not disturb him. Catching this movement, he snaps his head toward me and he locks eyes, staring at me for about three seconds, a time that feels like an eternity. He has a look that I can honestly say I've never quite seen before from another person. It's only then that I came to the realization that I had, hours before, uttered the curse of it being a 'quiet' night.
A chill runs up my spine, my eyes get wide; I can feel my face getting flushed as I realize that he is now blaming me for the catastrophe unfolding before him. Shit, I'm getting stressed out and I don't even work here!
The radio crackles once again. It's so garbled that I cant understand it. "Ok, start it up!," the guy at the other end of the control room yells in response to the man at the other end of the radio. One by one, the alarms go silent. The remaining sounds consist of frantic mouse-clicking as the team begins to restore order to the plant. And, just as quickly as it had begun, the danger appears to pass, and there are less and less red numbers on the screen.
My only clue as to when the hectic chaos had passed was when the three guys turned their attention back to their phones. I was afraid to say anything, and I felt like I needed to take a rather long bathroom break. The GM did not look up when I left the room.
11:07pm
It was just now that he talked to me again, his demeanor back to its previous stoic state. He mentioned the Liberty casually, as if nothing important had just happened. "I knew that we'd never win 124 games again, like ever," he said calmly. "But I didn't think it'd be this bad. I mean, we're only leading our division by 8 games and it's already mid June. I had to send Israel Perez back down to Toledo because he couldn't hack it as a DH in the bigs, and he's only got 0.3 WAR at Single A. How am I ever gonna call him back up with shit stats like that??" he asked rhetorically.
Another number on one of the screens changed, but it wasn't too big of a deal, apparently. "94.7 percent," the GM told me. "Not too horrible. We must have gotten the plant back in time to save our quality numbers."
11:25pm
It's been quiet for some time now. Just then, the GM gets up and walks toward his lunchbox, procuring an identical set of pills from the bottle: 3 ibuprofens and one caffeine. He sees me looking at them. "The thing about getting tired at my age," he says, "is that it's not just exhausting. It physically hurts. And I mean it really hurts. Everywhere."
What was before a field general, whipping his troops to re-form the battle line and save the plant, was now, once again, a weary old soldier who slumped in his chair. He once again returns his thoughts to his beloved Talons, speaking calmly. "I'd like to release that asshole Rich Dares, but that will just trigger his option for 2065 and take away the possibility of an opt-out, too. Guess its a good thing that Subaru isn't a total disaster at shortstop. Damn, I wish Yellow Springs would trade Hartman," he says. The GM stares off into the middle distance, his eyes heavy.
Monday, 12:01 am
I get up and pack my things. I tell the GM its been a pleasure, but I am mostly just being polite. His was a world I really didn't want to visit again. My 24 hour assignment was up, and none too soon. I gave a quick goodbye and headed for the door.
"Hey, Rob?"
I stopped and turned around slightly.
"Text me when you get back to Phoenix. I'll get ya a luxury box and we can watch my guys kick Vegas' ass!" He half smiled. I'm pretty sure that one was genuine.
I think.
----
GO TALONS!
