Off Topic
Nov 14, 2051:
General Manager Ron Collins steps through the doorway and into the executive offices of the Yellow Springs Nine leadership suite. He spreads his arms, throws his head back, and gives a big “I’m back, Baby” yell.
Everyone gives him the slant eye.
“Were you gone?” says Jean Paul, an administrative assistant he’d helped hire before the exit.
#
He steps into his office, and calls for the assistant GM.
“He left,” Jean Paul calls from outside the door. “Contract expired and his experience here made him too valuable to another business.”
“Hmm,” Collins says. “Can I get the financial sheets?”
“They’re on your system, sir.”
Collins peers into the holo-screen and sees Jean Paul is right. “Oh, yes. Thanks.”
Missives from agents flash in the display. Theo Bourges wants $84M for six years. Seems reasonable after the year he had. Gabriel wants $12M over four years. Not bad. Illingsworth is a little pricey at $48M over four seasons. Yikes, but meh. And then there’s Carlos Valle, who it looks like voided a deal, and wants $40M or so over four. If anyone’s worth that kind of grub in Yellow Springs, it’s Carlos Freaking Valle. J-Rod, also wants to be paid. Seems his agent is stuck on $11M for five years. J-Rod is possibly the best catcher in baseball, but he’s getting up there. Five years? Hmm…
Regardless, Collins, already fatigued by the intense workload of a BBA GM, sits back. “Jean Paul!” he calls.
The assistant stands, clearly miffed, and comes to the doorway.
“Go ahead and prepare contract offers for all those players.”
“That’s outside my pay grade, sir.”
“Well, I’ll make it inside.”
“Fair enough, sir. What would you like to offer?”
“Just give them what they want.”
Jean Paul fidgets. “Um…”
“Yes, Jean Paul?”
“You’re aware of the salary cap, right?”
Collins looks at the holo display, and his eyes travel to the bottom line that’s now flashing a combination of cherry read and magenta.
“Damnit,” he says. "The salary cap?"
“The salary cap is a bogus anti-capitalistic framework that keeps us from dominating the world due to simply our most outstanding moral fortitude and big cash buckets. It’s not surprising that you missed it,” Jean Paul says.
Collins looks up at Jean Paul, uncertain of whether he’s just been insulted or not.
“Jesus. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that Nashville won the Monty while I was gone.”
The assistant gives another wide-eyed blink. “You were gone?”
“Let’s not do that again, Jean Paul.”
Regardless, he knows he’s got some work to do, and—missed or not—that things have changed in his absence.
