The Las Vegas Hustlers "secret" conference room is underground, several stories beneath the green grass of Palace Stadium Ballpark and Casino. It's exact whereabouts have been kept well under wraps for most of the existence of the second ballpark in Las Vegas history. Since I have been covering the Hustlers, I have often heard tales of the storied "lair" but have never been able to confirm that it actually exists. Well, until recently.
In preparing for my coverage on the Hustlers' Opening Day Roster this year, I reached out to Assistant General Manager Aaron Burnette in advance of the cutdown day.
"Rather than tell you what we're going to do, wouldn't you rather see it go down?"
Audibly gasping, Burnette started to chuckle before I could reply. "Let's keep it together Maple," he said, kiddingly. "It is where you think it is, though. Would you like to join us for our cutdown meeting?"
I wouldn't be so obtuse the second time. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll be there."
"Good," said Burnette. "We'll send a car for you. There's a warehouse about three blocks from your office. I'll send you the address. Come alone." Burnette hung up.
Not even waiting for Burnette's text to come through, I left the office with a hop in my step. Why was I the lucky one? I know I've had a pretty good relationship with Burnette since he's been on board. Henry Rectenberg, the Las Vegas manager, has always been good to me. Maybe it's because the Hustlers' new pitching coach, Andy Sisco, Jr., is a close friend of mine and he put in a word with me. That seems a long shot, though. Matt Rectenwald has always been cordial, but I never thought he held me in any different regard than any other scribe.
Who cares how I'm getting there, I finally thought to myself. I'm going! By now Burnette had already sent me the text and I briskly walked there. Upon arrival I saw a black limousine in front of a loading dock. A man stood in front of the limo. He was adorned with a black leather coat, black dress pants, shiny black shoes, a black hat, and black sunglasses. He approached me carefully.
"Are you him?" He seemed a little squirrely.
"Him?" I wasn't quite sure how to answer this query.
"The reporter. You're supposed to be the guy that's going.....you know, down there?"
I nodded and he quickly whisked me into the back and sped off quickly. In just a few minutes, the limo screeched to a halt, and the limo driver opened my door.
"Let's go," he said. "Quickly. Head down. No talking."
This had turned into a full on spy movie at this point. I knew it was secret, but I had no idea it was to this level. I wondered how they got away with building this secret lair without it being on the public plans. How many people needed to be paid off for this to happen? I shook my thoughts and snapped back to reality, as the limo driver walked me into the park, down a hall and then up to an out of order crypto-currency auto teller machine. There was no one around, and this hall seemed to serve absolutely no purpose but this crypto ATM. What was I doing here?
"Stand here. Someone will be along in a couple of minutes. Don't move from this spot."
I nodded to the man in black. He left and I was now alone with my crazy thoughts again. What am I going to find down there? And again, why me?
After a few anxious minutes, I saw Burnette walking towards me with a sly grin.
"Are you freaking out yet?" He looked like he was going to burst with excitement.
I tried hard to gain my composure. "No, no, not at all," I said, unconvincingly.
Burnette laughed out loud. "Whatever you say, chief. Anyways, let's go."
I was confused. Go where? There's nothing back here. But then.....
Burnette approached the crypto ATM and touched the upper right hand corner, then the bottom left hand corner. The screen came to life.
"What the hell?" I couldn't come to grips with what I knew was about to happen.
A thumbprint scanner ejected from the crypto ATM and Burnette pressed his thumb on it. A voice awoke from the screen. "Aaron....Burnette. Initiate voice recognition."
Burnette slowly said his first and last name and what I could only imagine was an audio pass-phrase (I won't post it here).
"Don't write that, Max," said Burnette. "I'm changing it after this anyways."
I nodded, still stunned by the whole ordeal. The screen spoke again. "Retinal confirmation." Burnette looked at the screen which now scanned his retinas to verify identity. "Final verification complete. Access granted."
The screen went dark again, and for a few seconds nothing happened. What the heck was this? Suddenly, the wall containing the crypto ATM came forward and then slid to the right, exposing an elevator. Burnette glanced at me to see my mouth agape, eyes wide.
"You ready?" Burnette's eyes sparkled with excitement. I nodded affirmatively and we entered the elevator. It began its descent. Down and down we went for what seemed to be minutes.
"How far down are we going anyways?" I couldn't help but ask.
Burnette smirked. "That's irrelevant. Don't try to figure it all out. Just enjoy the experience."
Finally the elevator stopped and the door opened. My head panned from left to right, taking it all in. It was a curved room on one side, flat on the other. The curved wall was composed entirely of customizable screens. On the far left there was a bar area, fully stocked with all of the food and drinks you'd need for a meeting and more. On the far right there was a small workout area, private locker room and a full wardrobe. I looked to the center where there were a bank of leather reclining chairs, an l-shaped couch, several standing desks and tables. I could fill a full feature with all of the additional details in this perfect sports oasis, but ultimately I decided that to share too much would be ruining it. Remember when you were a kid, and you found out that there was actually no Santa Claus? Finding out too much about this fabled place would ruin it for you.
I saw people I expected to see. Henry Rectenberg, the Hustlers manager. Hank Brewer, the legendary Hall of Fame catcher, now serving as the team's bench coach. There was my guy Sisco Jr., the pitching coach. Tony Banuelos, the Hustlers' hitting coach was intently watching video on a portion of the screen area. The base coaches were even here, which surprised me. There was Charles Hutchesson, the young first base coach; and sure enough, there was the legendary Juan Sweetworld, the third base coach.
Where was Rectenwald? And I can't help but keep asking myself, why am I here?
Rectenberg was the first to greet me. "Maxwell, you're here. Great to have you, come on over here you old so-and-so!" We shook hands, and he motioned towards one of the recliners. "Get comfortable." Food and drink was offered, accepted and served while the others glad-handed me for several minutes.
Still, no Rectenwald. I tried to maintain an illusion of being relaxed and calm. I'm sure it wasn't working at all, judging from the smiles and smirks towards my general direction by everyone in the room. Suddenly, I heard a bell tone. The middle screens all turned off, then divided at the center and each retracted to the left and right, exposing a huge executive suite. There, at his desk, was Rectenwald.
He emerged from the secret suite inside a secret conference room and walked towards me. "Mr. Maple," he said. "I'm told that you are a heck of a writer, and someone that we want telling our stories."
I must have looked ridiculous with my mouth hanging open as I conjured up the ability to reply. FInally, I was able to speak. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Rectenwald. I appreciate that, whoever told you that..." I was rambling and needed to regroup. I took a deep breath and reset my thoughts. "Writing is my passion, sir. Writing about the Las Vegas Hustlers is a dream come true. I can NOT believe I am here."
Everyone in the room laughed, the tension gone with that last sentence.
"You're here for a reason, Maxwell," Rectenwald explained. "You're here to use your talents to make what we do come to life. I don't know if you've read many, if any, of the scribes who came before you. If you have, you know. If you haven't, I'll save you the time. They stated facts. They were extremely cut and dry. I don't think that style is good enough for our fans anymore, Maxwell. We want stories. Any old Jim Kaflutenschnuten can say what happened in an article. I still want you to do that, Maxwell, but I want it to come to life."
My heart was beating quickly, with a spring in its step. I felt like everything in my life was leading me to this moment. "Mr. Rectenwald, it will be a true honor to do that."
Rectenwald shook my hand and sat down. I sat next to him. "And enough of the Mr. Rectenwald stuff. Mr. Rectenwald was my father. You call me Recte."
I smiled. "Recte it is."
"Well, let's get down to it then," said Burnette, ready to start making the tough decisions that would result in the 2061 Las Vegas Hustlers opening day 27-man roster.
To Be Continued...
