Off Topic
In an emergency session convened late last night, the Des Moines Kernels' top brass gathered in the hallowed, if somewhat sticky, halls of the Kum & Go Kourtyard's executive suite. The agenda: the thorny issue of one Mr. Thomas "Tommy" Akers, former Kernels ace, now a Louisville Slugger, and his impending, and frankly dreaded, return to the pitcher's mound at "the local Kum & Go."
Present were team owner Walter "Wally" Wilhelm, a man whose pinstripes were rumored to be actual pinstripes of pure profit; General Manager JRamirez, still clutching a dog-eared copy of "Moneyball" but with several new, desperate annotations; Assistant GM Esteban Acosta, who mostly nodded vigorously; and the Kernels' Head of Legal, Brad Quibly, Esq., a man whose briefcase appeared to contain only antacids and strongly worded letters.
"Gentlemen," Wilhelm began, his voice a low growl that usually preceded either a brilliant business move or a demand for more mustard on his stadium hotdog. "Akers. He's coming. And frankly, the thought of him mowing down our boys in *our* Kourtyard, after gallivanting off to Louisville for a bigger paycheck… it churns my butter, and not in a good way."
JRamirez, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "We've run the projections, Wally. If Akers pitches, our chances of winning drop faster than a foul tip into the third-base coach's… well, you get the picture. We need to stop him from setting foot on that rubber."
Quibly, adjusting his spectacles, cleared his throat. "Legally speaking, banning a player from a BBA-sanctioned game in a facility designated as a major league ballpark presents… challenges."
"Challenges? Quibly, I didn't hire you for challenges! I hired you for loopholes!" Wilhelm thundered, rattling a nearby bobblehead of Kernel Cobb, the team's beloved, if slightly menacing, mascot.
Acosta, seizing his moment, offered, "Perhaps we could argue… emotional distress? For the fans? Seeing him in another uniform?"
Quiby sighed, a sound like air slowly escaping a deflated baseball. "While creative, Mr. Acosta, 'fan emotional distress' as grounds for player exclusion from a public accommodation like a stadium… that's a legal curveball that won't find the strike zone. The ADA and Unruh Act equivalents in our BBA charter are quite clear on public access, even for infuriatingly talented ex-pitchers."
"What if we say he's a security risk?" JRamirez suggested, a hopeful glint in his eye. "His pitches are so devastating, they could… uh… damage the structural integrity of the backstop?"
"An interesting angle," Quibly mused, "but unless Mr. Akers plans to throw actual cannonballs, proving 'imminent structural danger' from a regulation baseball would require expert testimony that, frankly, we can't afford after Akers's free agency signing bonus. Plus, he'd just argue it's 'conduct detrimental to the game' on *our* part."
Wilhelm slammed a fist on the table. "There has to be something! Can't we just… I don't know… say he has overdue library books? A lifetime ban from all Kum & Go properties for unpaid late fees?"
Quibly winced. "While the spirit is admirable, Mr. Wilhelm, tying a playing ban to alleged misdemeanors at a separate corporate entity, without clear evidence of direct harm to *this specific business operation* as a stadium, is tenuous. We'd be laughed out of the Commissioner's office."
The room fell into a frustrated silence, broken only by the distant hum of a rogue nacho cheese dispenser. Just as despair began to set in, the door creaked open. In shuffled Jibwa Smortningaling, the Kernels' eccentric but undeniably brilliant Head Groundskeeper, a man who could coax championship-caliber turf from a parking lot and often spoke in horticultural metaphors.
"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Wilhelm, sirs," Jibwa began, twisting his cap in his hands, "but I couldn't help but overhear. This Akers fella… bit of a weed in your perfectly manicured infield, ain't he?"
Wilhelm grunted. "You could say that, Jibwa. Got any ideas? Maybe a sudden, highly localized sprinkler malfunction when he takes the mound?"
Jibwa chuckled. "Temptin', sir, mighty temptin'. But I was thinkin'… you keep callin' this place 'the local Kum & Go.' And Kum & Go, well, they sell a fine assortment of jerky and caffeinated beverages. Mighty fine. What if… what if this ain't so much a ballpark that *happens* to have a Kum & Go name on it, but a Kum & Go that *happens* to have a bit o' baseball out back?"
The braintrust stared.
Jibwa continued, warming to his theme. "See, if it's just a big ol' convenience store, the biggest Kum & Go in the whole darn chain, then you're not a stadium, are ya? You're a retail establishment. And retail folks, well, they got different rules for who they gotta let in, 'specially if someone's gonna cause a… what did Mr. Quibly call it? A 'preemptive disruption' to the sale of taquitos and lottery tickets?"
A slow grin spread across Quibly's face. "Jibwa… you magnificent, sod-turning son-of-a-gun. That… that just might be the most beautifully absurd, legally… *plausible* thing I've heard all night!"
He turned to Wilhelm and Ramirez. "Gentlemen, if the Kum & Go Kourtyard isn't primarily a baseball stadium, but is, in fact, legally and operationally defined as a convenience store—the flagship, even—then our entire approach to Mr. Akers changes. Baseball becomes an ancillary activity. Akers isn't a player in a public accommodation; he's a potential disruption to our primary business: selling gas, chips, and lukewarm coffee!"
"The naming rights deal Kum & Go signed last season (2062 for those keeping score at home)," Quibly mused, tapping his pen, "we could argue it wasn't just for the name. It was for a fundamental operational shift! We're not just *called* the Kum & Go Kourtyard; we *are* the Kum & Go Kourtyard, convenience emporium first, baseball sideshow second!"
Wilhelm's eyes lit up. "So, we can ban him for… what? Threatening the serenity of the slushie machine? His fastball velocity creating a draft that might affect the optimal temperature of the roller grill hot dogs?"
"Precisely!" Quibly exclaimed. "We focus on the 'preemptive disruption' to the *retail environment*. His very presence, his competitive intensity, it's all antithetical to the calm, browsing-focused atmosphere of a premier convenience destination. It's a legitimate business interest to protect our unique shopping experience!"
JRamirez finally caught on. "So, we're not banning him from the game… we're banning him from the *store*!"
"Exactly!" Quibly declared, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "And to that end, I believe the Des Moines Kernels organization, in partnership with our esteemed sponsors, needs to immediately draft and publicly release a new business model. One that clearly outlines this strategic evolution. In fact," Quibly said, pulling out a surprisingly pristine document from his briefcase, "I believe a certain recently generated report on the 'Strategic Evolution of Kourtyard: Flagship Convenience Experience' would be the perfect starting point. We just need to put the DMO's official letterhead on it!"
Wilhelm leaned back, a broad smile spreading across his face. "Quibly, Smortningaling… I think we just found our wild pitch. Make it happen!"
The meeting adjourned, a newfound, if slightly unhinged, optimism filling the air, along with the faint, lingering scent of day-old corndogs – a smell soon to be the primary aroma of Des Moines' premier (and only) baseball-themed convenience superstore.
Present were team owner Walter "Wally" Wilhelm, a man whose pinstripes were rumored to be actual pinstripes of pure profit; General Manager JRamirez, still clutching a dog-eared copy of "Moneyball" but with several new, desperate annotations; Assistant GM Esteban Acosta, who mostly nodded vigorously; and the Kernels' Head of Legal, Brad Quibly, Esq., a man whose briefcase appeared to contain only antacids and strongly worded letters.
"Gentlemen," Wilhelm began, his voice a low growl that usually preceded either a brilliant business move or a demand for more mustard on his stadium hotdog. "Akers. He's coming. And frankly, the thought of him mowing down our boys in *our* Kourtyard, after gallivanting off to Louisville for a bigger paycheck… it churns my butter, and not in a good way."
JRamirez, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "We've run the projections, Wally. If Akers pitches, our chances of winning drop faster than a foul tip into the third-base coach's… well, you get the picture. We need to stop him from setting foot on that rubber."
Quibly, adjusting his spectacles, cleared his throat. "Legally speaking, banning a player from a BBA-sanctioned game in a facility designated as a major league ballpark presents… challenges."
"Challenges? Quibly, I didn't hire you for challenges! I hired you for loopholes!" Wilhelm thundered, rattling a nearby bobblehead of Kernel Cobb, the team's beloved, if slightly menacing, mascot.
Acosta, seizing his moment, offered, "Perhaps we could argue… emotional distress? For the fans? Seeing him in another uniform?"
Quiby sighed, a sound like air slowly escaping a deflated baseball. "While creative, Mr. Acosta, 'fan emotional distress' as grounds for player exclusion from a public accommodation like a stadium… that's a legal curveball that won't find the strike zone. The ADA and Unruh Act equivalents in our BBA charter are quite clear on public access, even for infuriatingly talented ex-pitchers."
"What if we say he's a security risk?" JRamirez suggested, a hopeful glint in his eye. "His pitches are so devastating, they could… uh… damage the structural integrity of the backstop?"
"An interesting angle," Quibly mused, "but unless Mr. Akers plans to throw actual cannonballs, proving 'imminent structural danger' from a regulation baseball would require expert testimony that, frankly, we can't afford after Akers's free agency signing bonus. Plus, he'd just argue it's 'conduct detrimental to the game' on *our* part."
Wilhelm slammed a fist on the table. "There has to be something! Can't we just… I don't know… say he has overdue library books? A lifetime ban from all Kum & Go properties for unpaid late fees?"
Quibly winced. "While the spirit is admirable, Mr. Wilhelm, tying a playing ban to alleged misdemeanors at a separate corporate entity, without clear evidence of direct harm to *this specific business operation* as a stadium, is tenuous. We'd be laughed out of the Commissioner's office."
The room fell into a frustrated silence, broken only by the distant hum of a rogue nacho cheese dispenser. Just as despair began to set in, the door creaked open. In shuffled Jibwa Smortningaling, the Kernels' eccentric but undeniably brilliant Head Groundskeeper, a man who could coax championship-caliber turf from a parking lot and often spoke in horticultural metaphors.
"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Wilhelm, sirs," Jibwa began, twisting his cap in his hands, "but I couldn't help but overhear. This Akers fella… bit of a weed in your perfectly manicured infield, ain't he?"
Wilhelm grunted. "You could say that, Jibwa. Got any ideas? Maybe a sudden, highly localized sprinkler malfunction when he takes the mound?"
Jibwa chuckled. "Temptin', sir, mighty temptin'. But I was thinkin'… you keep callin' this place 'the local Kum & Go.' And Kum & Go, well, they sell a fine assortment of jerky and caffeinated beverages. Mighty fine. What if… what if this ain't so much a ballpark that *happens* to have a Kum & Go name on it, but a Kum & Go that *happens* to have a bit o' baseball out back?"
The braintrust stared.
Jibwa continued, warming to his theme. "See, if it's just a big ol' convenience store, the biggest Kum & Go in the whole darn chain, then you're not a stadium, are ya? You're a retail establishment. And retail folks, well, they got different rules for who they gotta let in, 'specially if someone's gonna cause a… what did Mr. Quibly call it? A 'preemptive disruption' to the sale of taquitos and lottery tickets?"
A slow grin spread across Quibly's face. "Jibwa… you magnificent, sod-turning son-of-a-gun. That… that just might be the most beautifully absurd, legally… *plausible* thing I've heard all night!"
He turned to Wilhelm and Ramirez. "Gentlemen, if the Kum & Go Kourtyard isn't primarily a baseball stadium, but is, in fact, legally and operationally defined as a convenience store—the flagship, even—then our entire approach to Mr. Akers changes. Baseball becomes an ancillary activity. Akers isn't a player in a public accommodation; he's a potential disruption to our primary business: selling gas, chips, and lukewarm coffee!"
"The naming rights deal Kum & Go signed last season (2062 for those keeping score at home)," Quibly mused, tapping his pen, "we could argue it wasn't just for the name. It was for a fundamental operational shift! We're not just *called* the Kum & Go Kourtyard; we *are* the Kum & Go Kourtyard, convenience emporium first, baseball sideshow second!"
Wilhelm's eyes lit up. "So, we can ban him for… what? Threatening the serenity of the slushie machine? His fastball velocity creating a draft that might affect the optimal temperature of the roller grill hot dogs?"
"Precisely!" Quibly exclaimed. "We focus on the 'preemptive disruption' to the *retail environment*. His very presence, his competitive intensity, it's all antithetical to the calm, browsing-focused atmosphere of a premier convenience destination. It's a legitimate business interest to protect our unique shopping experience!"
JRamirez finally caught on. "So, we're not banning him from the game… we're banning him from the *store*!"
"Exactly!" Quibly declared, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "And to that end, I believe the Des Moines Kernels organization, in partnership with our esteemed sponsors, needs to immediately draft and publicly release a new business model. One that clearly outlines this strategic evolution. In fact," Quibly said, pulling out a surprisingly pristine document from his briefcase, "I believe a certain recently generated report on the 'Strategic Evolution of Kourtyard: Flagship Convenience Experience' would be the perfect starting point. We just need to put the DMO's official letterhead on it!"
Wilhelm leaned back, a broad smile spreading across his face. "Quibly, Smortningaling… I think we just found our wild pitch. Make it happen!"
The meeting adjourned, a newfound, if slightly unhinged, optimism filling the air, along with the faint, lingering scent of day-old corndogs – a smell soon to be the primary aroma of Des Moines' premier (and only) baseball-themed convenience superstore.
