“Excuse me,” GM Ron Collins said to Ezekiel McMullers, the team’s top bean counter. “Could you explain this to me?”
“Yes, of course I can. What is it?” Mcullers replied, pushing his non-existent glasses up on his nose (Glasses having been unnecessary since 2025 when stem cell research paid off with self-regenerating optical systems that adapt to a person’s physical structure to create optimal eight. Some habits die hard, though).
Collins slides a data pad over to McCullers.
“Right there it says that our season tickets have been going sky-high.”
“That’s right. They have. The team is on a pace to sell 24,300 tickets. Much better than the 20,326 it sold last season.”
“And,” Collins said, “last year the team drew 52,317 fans per game?”
“Yes,” McCullers said, sweat beginning to form on his forehead. “Your stadium holds 60 thousand seats and the team sold just over 87% of them.”
“And, remind me, the last time we met didn’t you suggest that the team lower prices to ensure the team sells out every game? Didn’t I say that it was very important to Mr. Jordan that the team sell out, and didn’t you say that could be arranged? In fact, weren’t those your exact words? That can be arranged?”
McCullers begins to fidget, apparently seeing where this was going, as if he didn’t know to begin with. He says nothing, knowing his time is drawing near—that time he’s been dreaming of with a sense of equal parts thrill and dread. He’d played his part, and played it well. With the PointGate scandal looming over Collins it would take only a tiny shove to put him over the edge, an edge Ezekiel was standing at right now.
“Why are you projecting we’ll bring only 48,000 fans to the park? And why did you release this clearly deranged report to the press without my review? How is it possible to lower prices, have an astronomically rabid fan base, a playoff caliber team, and still project our attendance will fall 8% at a time that season tickets are at a record high? Tell me that, eh? Are you purposefully trying to derail us?”
McCullers could stand it no more. He leaped from his seat, tearing at his white button down shirt with such vigor that buttons popped. He knew he looked heroic then, and some part of him hoped the team’s security video would bed released. Underneath, he wore a red shirt of a different hue than the beautiful and dark elegance of the Yellow Springs squad. This was a garish red, complete with a Louisville logo. McCullers the raced for the door, screaming “Go Sluggers! Long Live Genius! Go Aviators!”
And that is how the YS9 franchise came to be looking for a new accounting firm
