It's been less than 24 hours since Boise was bounced from the Brewster playoffs at the hands of the eventual Landis champions, the Edmonton Jackrabbits. While a handful of teams were still concerned with their playoff hopes, the Spuds front office was already getting reading for the 2042 season. The laundry list of objectives was long:
•Discuss arbitration offers and, if applicable, assemble cases for those that would go to mediation
•Address the 40-man roster in preparation for the Rule 5 draft
•Review reports from the team's UMEBA scouts about potential Rule 6 claims
•Meetings with scouts and minor league coaches to address the Ybor City roster for the upcoming Florida Prospect League
But for Boise's general manager, Joe Lederer, those things generally worked themselves out in his experience. Hell, we don't even have an assistant general manager in place right now, he thought to himself, and I'm still confident we'll make the right moves. What Lederer was focused on was the impending free agency period. This is what [Boise owner] Grigg pays me for, he said to himself as he logged into The Ultimate Baseball Extranet Repository, the organization's proprietary electronic database.
Referred within the front office simply as TUBER, the system stored internal statistical analysis, video and scouting reports of every player in the Brewster Baseball Association and United Middle East Baseball Association, as well as medical data and player development reports.
Lederer took a sip from his 'WORLD’S #1 UNCLE' coffee mug, cracked his fingers, and started to key into the search query:
DAY EIGHT – Monday, October 28, 2041
There’s a knock at Lederer’s office door. The gentle rap goes unheard, as Lederer’s eyes, set inside dark circles from a lack of sleep, are affixed to the three flat-screen monitors on his desk.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK
This time the sound is loud enough to break the general manager’s spell, if only momentarily. Was that a knock on the door? Lederer reached out for his mug blindly, his hand waving over a small landfill of empty protein bar wrappers. Nah, couldn’t be. It’s Friday night, no one should be in the offices at this hour. Not after I mandated all staff to spend time at home with family until next week.
Lederer, still gazing at screen, felt around until he found his mug. He slowly brought the drinking vessel to his mouth when –
“BOSS! STOP!”
The loud yell startled Lederer as he swung his head towards the sound of voice.
“Don’t drink that!”
At the doorway, backlit in corporate, sterile fluorescent lighting from the hallway, stood a woman carrying a stack of binders in her arms. Bespeckled and all of twenty-four years of age, she was wearing a jeans and a navy warm-up jacket adorned with the new Spuds logo, a new rebranding to be announced to the public next month. What was her name?, Lederer thought to himself.
“It’s Becky, sir. Uh, Rebecca Rose.”
Had he said the question aloud?
“Sir, your cup. Don’t drink that.”
Lederer’s attention went to the clear, plastic cup in his hand. In his fog, he couldn't even distinguish a disposable beverage cup from his everyday porcelain mug. A quarter full of tobacco spit, Lederer realized the girl had saved him from potential disaster.
“Thank you,” he said embarrassed as he hid the cup under his desk. “Becky Rose, analytics department, right?”
She nodded.
“What are you doing here on a Friday night? I gave everyone the rest of the week off.”
“Um, it’s Monday morning, sir,” Becky said nervously, fearing correcting her boss might not be the best career decision. She walked over to Lederer and picked up a small, black plastic trash bin next to his desk. With one motion, she brushed the crumpled-up pieces of notepad paper, empty potato chip bags and a half-eaten apple -- brown from oxidization -- into the container and placed the binders onto the arguably clean edge of the desk.
“Monday morning? Are you sure?," he asked as he checked his watchless bare wrist.
Becky reached behind Lederer, pulling on the drawstring to his window blinds, causing the room to be flooded with natural light for the first time in several days.
Lederer squinted from the brightness, his eyes slowly adjusting to the new environment. “My god, I’ve been here for a week?”
“It smells like it,” Becky said abruptly. Shocked and embarrassed, she covered her mouth as if trying to trap the words from escaping but it was too late.
Lederer laughed. “That bad, huh?” He winked and smiled at her, easing her fears that her once bright career in baseball operations was coming to a sudden end.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Becky, it’s fine. And it’s Joe. Call me Joe.”
Lederer’s eyes noticed the binders. “What do we have here?,” he asked as he grabbed from the top.
“These are the preliminary scouting reports from our national cross-checkers for the 2042 draft, sir, err, Joe,” she stuttered. “I know you like to look at the hard copies before they’re entered into TUBER.”
“Good, good. I appreciate that! Well, that can all wait, Becky. Do you know what I’ve been working on for, jesus, seven days straight?”
“Not good nutrition, that’s for sure.”
She’s a funny one, Lederer thought. Confident, too. I like that.
“Hardy har har. No, as a matter of fact, I’ve been working on our plans for free agency.”
Becky’s eyes widened with anticipation.
“Here, grab a chair and let me show you what I’m thinking…”
DAY TWENTY-TWO – Monday, November 11, 2041
“FUCK YEAH,” Lederer shouted as he hung up his iPhone. “Becky, get in here!”
Becky entered the general manager’s office with a sense of urgency, her ponytail swaying side to side as she walked in the door. Noticing the grin on her boss’ face, her tension eased up. “What is it, Joe?”
“I did it, I found a taker in Gillstrom.”
Becky pumped her fist in solidarity. “With who?”
“The Crawdads. Ol’ Jim Bob wanted one more go at it with Gillie down in the bayou. What did he call it? ‘One last puff on the Gillstrom cigar’?”
“What are we getting in return?,” Becky inquired.
“Few minor league kids, but it doesn’t matter. I just freed up twenty million in salary AND we don’t have to worry about that four million dollar buy-out either!” Lederer, his emotions running high and in one of his “we’ve got work to do” moods, pulls a tin of dipping tobacco from his back pocket, extending it to Becky as a courtesy, not realizing Becky’s never tried a cigarette in her life, let alone mint Copenhagen.
“Okay, I want you to file the paperwork with the League office immediately,” he instructed as he packed his lower lip. Becky, in the last few weeks, had taken on the nonofficial role of assistant general manager since the retirement of Barrett Callahan. She knew it wasn’t permanent, that someone more veteran with more experience would ultimately get the job, but she loved the responsibilities she had earned and the valuable insight she had gained since accepting to help out the Boise boss.
“When you’re done with that,” Lederer added as Becky started to walk out of the office, “let [Vice President of Communications] Diego Villanueva know about the deal. I’m sure he’s going to get a lot of questions about it.”
Becky flashed a thumbs up before turning the corner. “You got it!”
“Oh, and Becky?” Her head popped back into the doorway. “Put some coffee on for both of us. It’s going to be a long night. We have work to do.”
DAY THIRTY-FOUR – Saturday, November 23, 2041
The Henry H. Spalding Conference Room with filled with the usual suspects: Becky, manager Millard Davis, newly promoted bench coach Lettel Rotsch, pitching and hitting coaches Jumah Hamid and Ben Moore, as well as several members of the club’s analytics department. This room within Grigg Memorial Stadium was surely to be the epicenter of all major off-season discussions, however at four minutes past 10 o’clock, there was someone missing. Davis, checking his Casio wristwatch, broke the silence.
“He’s never late.”
“Maybe he’s just stuck in traffic,” suggested Moore. “They got that construction going on right now off of the Flying Wye, you know.”
“No, it’s not that,” Becky chirped. “He’s been sleeping in the office for the last month. I think he spent Thanksgiving in the film room.”
Just then, Lederer entered the room, earning the attention of all those present. Before even pulling out an empty seat, the Spuds’ general manager started his monologue.
“Alicea, ladies and gentleman. Júlio Alicea. That’s our main target and I won’t rest until we get him.”
Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. It was no surprise the club needed another front line pitcher and the former Edmonton Jackrabbit hurler checked all the boxes that Lederer tended to look for in a pitcher: left-handed, durable, proven track record, good character.
“No, sorry, let me correct myself. He’s not our main target; he’s our only target. I don’t care if we don’t sign another player this entire winter. If we don’t have Júlio in a Spuds uniform come opening day, we failed as an organization. I’m not going to lose him like we did Amaral last year. Okay, team…free agents file tomorrow, so it’s go time.”
“It’s go time” ranked right up there with “We have work to do” as signals that Lederer was expecting the highest levels of productivity from his entrusted staff with the upmost sense of urgency.
Taking the cue, Arnold Glass, one of two capologists on staff, spoke up. “Rumor has it that his agent is asking for a six-year deal at over twenty million per. We can certainly afford that, boss.”
“Six years, Arnold? Have you not learned anything in your time here? When have I ever given out a six year contract?!”
Arnold slumped in his chair.
“Don’t get me wrong, guys. I’m willing to pay the price,” Lederer said, still standing with his hands on the table. “I’m going to blow all other offers out of the water. I’m going to make Alicea so rich, he won’t be able to say no.”
Hamid, visibly giddy with the prospects of adding a talent like Alicea to his pitching staff, chimed in. “I’m hearing some of your fellow general managers think he’ll get no more than eighteen million per season, tops.”
“They’re either idiots or liars!,” Lederer said slamming his palm onto the wood laminate. “I saw the same report, Jumah; that’s my god damn job. Madison thought it would take fourteen mil..ha! And Collins in Yellow Springs wasn’t much better. I know a head fake when I see one.”
The room began to shuffle as Lederer’s voice started to rise in volume.
“Look at the tea leaves, folks,” Lederer said calmly. “Robillard just lost Alicea and he’s saying it’ll take over twenty four. He should know!”
Davis whistled with surprise. “Twenty four million, boss? I like the guy but he’s on the wrong side of thirty.”
“Which is exactly why we’re not going to throw around six year deals like they’re coupons from the FoodMart!,” Lederer snapped, looking his club’s manager directly in the eyes.
“When free agency starts, I want to be the first call into Alicea’s agent. We’re going to offer him a four-year, one-hundred-and-ten million-dollar contract front-loaded with a nice tidy sum of thirty-five mil right out the gate.”
“Sorry, did you say 'Thirty-five million bucks'?,” Becky asked.
“You heard me right. Thirty-five million in ’42, then twenty-five million dollars each of the next three seasons. That is all, everyone.”
Lederer walked out of the long conference room, leaving everyone in silence.
DAY THIRTY-FIVE – Sunday, November 24, 2041
“This is James Blackwater.”
“Jimmy, my man, it’s Joe in Boise,” Lederer said into the Bluetooth earpiece synch'd up to the iPhone resting in his treadmill cup holder.
“Joe, it’s noon, why so late?,” Blackwater, one of the sport’s best agents, laughed.
Lederer chuckled at the joke. Free agency didn’t officially start until twelve o’clock Eastern time, but anyone in the game knew backroom discussions were being had before league rules allowed for. “Hope I’m not too late. I want to discuss Júlio.”
“We’re all ears. I had a suspicion I’d be dealing with you this time of year when you sold off Gillstrom for pennies on the dollar. Cash burning a hole in your pocket?”
“You guessed right. I’m hearing he likes pitching in the Frontier and wants a nice four-year deal,” Lederer said as he toweled off the sweat from his shoulders and neck after a morning run in the team workout facility.
“Frontier thing may or may not be true, but he just won a Landis. He’s reached the top, now he wants to get paid for it,” Blackwater said with the intention of a used car salesman.
“Four years, hundred ten, with thirty-five of that in year one,” Lederer said coldly. He was ready to play hardball but he wasn’t entirely in the mood.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Joe. C’mon, be smarter than that. Or at least richer.”
“That’s my offer, Jimmy. You know how you can reach me,” Lederer barked, pressing the ‘end call’ button in disgust.
DAY FORTY-ONE – Saturday, November 30, 2041
Good to be home, Lederer thought to himself. He was back in his off-season Long Beach condo, taking a much-needed couple of days away from Boise. He was busy wrapping Hanukkah presents for his niece and nephew to drop off at his sister’s house nearby when his iPhone chimed, signaling the arrival of a new email.
Lederer turned off the screen to his phone and tossed it aside.
DAY FORTY-TWO – Sunday, December 1, 2041
Lederer woke up in his sparsely decorated bedroom, squinting to read the digital readout of the clock on his nightstand. 2:52 AM. He’d slept like shit. This year’s free agent crop was already giving him sleepless nights. He was scheduled to fly back to Boise tomorrow. He could wait until then. Right now sleep was needed.
Fuck this shit, Lederer muttered to himself as he pulled himself out of his bed and stumbled over to the charged iPhone on his dresser. His fingers danced across the screen despite still being only half awake.
“Jimmy, here’s our offer,” he dictated to himself as he typed. It was an old habit from college he could never break. “125 for 5…35m in ‘42 followed with opt out. 15-15 then TO for 30 with 5m buyout and 30m in ’46. willing to offer $2m bonus for nebraska. talk soon.”
His job was done. Or at least until he woke up again in an hour.
DAY FORTY-FIVE – Wednesday, December 4, 2041
Lederer was going over box scores from the Florida Prospect League when Becky’s voice drew his attention: “Joe, I have Jimmy Blackwater on line two.”
It’d been four days since his proposal to Júlio Alicea’s agent. No news of his client’s signing was considered good news.
“Jimmy, how’re the holidays treating you?”
“Joe, we need to talk.” Lederer sensed urgency on the other line. He couldn’t decipher if that was positive or not.
“What’s going on? Your boy ready to sign?”
“Listen, I’m making a counter offer then I have to go. My phone is blowing up. We have more and more teams interested, just being honest with you,” Blackwater said matter-of-factly.
“My offer still stands and it’s not going to get better. You can quote me on that,” Lederer said with an air of confidence, if not recklessness.
Blackwater cleared his throat. “Júlio’s asking for six-years for one seventy.”
Lederer laughed, waiting for the punchline to come next. Nothing.
“You serious?,” Lederer asked, not quite sure if he wanted a truthful answer.
“I am, Joe. Like I said, we have a lot of action right now.”
“Fuck off. You don’t counter with an even higher number. Where the fuck do you get off? That’s over twenty-eight mil…good luck!”
The funny thing is, Boise could afford it. But it was entirely against what Lederer preached on day one when he arrived at Boise. Fiscal responsibility, risk averse, yada yada yada. As much as he wanted Alicea to be a member of the Spuds, he couldn’t do it on principle. Not six years.
Lederer quickly jotted down figures on the BBA stationary on his desk. Hmmm, is that too much money?, he wondered. The hell with it. They won the division this past year, no time to be timid.
“I’m not going six, Jimmy. You know that. Four for one twenty-two. Thirty-five and he can opt out. If he stays, twenty-nine, twenty-nine, twenty-nine. And that last year is our option. We’re not get left holding our dicks. C’mon, Jimmy. That’s life changing money, man.”
“I don’t think that’s going to cut it, Joe, just being honest with you,” Blackwater quickly replied.
“Does your client know how much you’re costing him, huh?”
Lederer slammed the phone into place, causing his desk to shake enough to tip over his spit bottle, sending gooey tobacco spit onto his lap.
“FUCK!”
DAY SEVENTY-THREE – Wednesday, January 1, 2042
It’d been a month since Lederer blew up over the phone with baseball mega-agent James Blackwater. He’d turned his attention to other free agents. A reliever or two here, an outfielder for Triple-A Salt Lake City, but nothing of significance. He watched teams around him sign free agents and he wondered if he had blown it.
Lederer was sitting in his Meridian townhouse, watching the Boise State Broncos play in college football’s Orange Bowl and wondering why Alicea was still unsigned. Was everything Blackwater told him bullshit? He’d hear reports that a team was interested in the southpaw but no real concrete details. His fellow general managers were perplexed about Alicea’s market, or supposedly lack thereof.
Patience was one of Lederer’s qualities, however this had nothing to do with patience. What irked him was the lack of action. Not on his end, but on behalf of Alicea and his agent. We’re ready to get something done, so this isn’t on me, right?, he thought as Boise State punched in another touchdown to go up by three scores.
Lederer picked up his phone and started to dial the number of Miguel Ibañez, a Boise scout who’d been covering the Caribbean for over twenty years. Alicea was from Puerto Rico and Lederer had heard he also spent a lot of time there during the off-season. Lederer figured to give it a try.
“Miguel, it’s Joe. Feliz año nuevo, my friend. How are you?”
“Gracias, Mr. Joe! What can I do for you?,” the respected baseball-lifer asked, getting right to the point.
“Have you heard anything about Júlio Alicea? Any idea why he’s unsigned? You know we’re trying to bring him aboard,” Lederer prodded.
“I haven’t heard much. I think he’s not in a hurry. Is he still asking for one-fifty-four?”
One-fifty-four? That’s a new figure, thought Lederer. That’s lower than before. “Where’d you heard that, Miguel?”
“I saw it on Noche de Noticias de Béisbol the other night.”
Hmmm, that’s a pretty reputable Spanish-language baseball news source. “Interesting. Well, I appreciate it, Miguel. Let me know if you hear anything else!”
“Si, señor. Talk to you soon.”
DAY NINETY-EIGHT – Sunday, January 26, 2042
It’d been nearly one hundred days since Lederer came up with the harebrained idea to sign Alicea. Nearly all the big free agents were gone and certainly all the top arms, aside from the former Jackrabbit. Lederer had a meeting two days ago on Friday to address his staff that they were moving on from Alicea and would keep the salary cap room for a potential mid-season deal. The off-season had been a deemed a wash, as the improvement of the bullpen and a few key international signings were off-set by the fallout by fans and media for the Gillstrom trade. At least the announcement of the new logo and uniforms was a hit, if nothing else.
Just then, his phone hummed with vibrations on his coffee table.
Lederer perked up as he read each line on the screen. What the hell? He’s crawling back on his hands and knees. This is amazing!, he thought.
He didn’t need to run any numbers, he knew the last offer was a good one. But why not let Blackwater eat some crow, that son of a bitch. Lederer recalled the details of the deal back in early December. Hmm, let me take it a little off here, a little off here. He pulled up a new draft on the iPhone to respond to Blackwater. Yup, that’ll work. Hell, I’ll throw in a fifth year mutual option we’ll only pick up if Alicea’s really earned it. Lederer’s thumbs worked at a feverish pace.
He pressed the send button and got up from the couch with a wry smile. This is going to be a good year, he said to himself.
DAY NINETY-NINE – Monday, January 27, 2042
The Boise front office staff were walking around the halls on egg shells, waiting for either great or terrible news to come any second now. It’d been almost twenty-four hours since Lederer sent his final offer to Blackwater. Lederer was busy going over the amateur scouting reports that Becky dropped off what felt like an eternity ago. In his office was Ricardo Franco, the newly hired Assistant General Manager. Becky had filled in admirable, so much so that Lederer promoted her to Director of Quantitative Analysis, making her the top-ranking female in the Spuds front office at the age of just twenty-five.
Franco was discussing a high school senior pitcher who would be highly regarded come the draft.
“They love his command of the strike zone. Not overpowering but he’s got a great repitoire of pitches.” Franco paused, ready to give the final piece of the puzzle. “And he’s a lefty.”
Lederer smiled and without missing a beat replied “Sounds like Alicea.”
Both men chuckled without knowing what was about to happen. Their phones electronically chirped, signaling that Boise was just mentioned on Twitter by a trust source. Franco looked down at his phone, his eyes widening.
“Joe, it’s done. IT’S DONE.”
“What? What’s done?”
Franco cleared his throat and started reading from his screen. “Lizza Taffy just tweeted ‘League sources say free agent Júlio Alicea will sign with the Boise Spuds. Financial details unknown.’”
“YEAAAAAAASSSS!!,” Lederer hollered, momentarily forgetting he was at the office. The two men exchanged high fives and suddenly, the office’s phones starting ringing all at once.
Three days later, on January 30th, the Brewster Baseball Association announced the signing that simply read “Boise Spuds: Signed free agent SP Júlio Alicea to a 5-year contract worth a total of $120,000,000.”
If they only knew.
