Off Topic
Notes On a Session With Findley
October 6, 2061 | Forever Land | General Manager Ron Collins stepped out of Tiki Hut #1 and strolled down the beach to the local instance of one of his boss's Come Together Doorsthe multidimensional travel portals that the team has exclusive rights to use. Once there, he ran his hands over his hips to dry his palms, than gave a command and stepped through...into the New York offices of one Abercrombie G. Findley, leader of team Owner Moreau P. Westmoreland's Office of Finance. Where he found the gently rotund man kicked back in his tick leather swivel chair, and lighting an old-fashioned cigar from a tightly-wound wad of currency.
Findley, noticing Collins's arrival, took a concentrated drag on the cigar, then blew a ring of green smoke before coming to sit upright.
"Ron," he said, stitching the fingers of both hands together. "What a great surprise. What can I do for you?" The cloud of smoke smelled like money.
"I was hoping we could talk about spending," Collins said, waving his hand before him as he waded through that cloud.
"What about it?"
Well," Collins said. With the extra cash coming along with the SPET, I'm wondering is maybe we might be able to put some more of it into the team next year."
"Extra money?" Findley said.
"Certainly. $6M, if I'm reading the reports right."
"You mean the $6M that came in this week?"
"Is there another $6M?"
Findley chuckled. "Well," he said, "We could be talking about the $6M you're paying Francisco Ortiz."
"Ouch."
"Or the $6.5M you just promised to Brody Picot for next year."
"That's on next year," Collins said. "I'm hoping that maybe we can use some of that playoff money to get the budget raised for 2062. Beyond the $6M we've already got, the Nashville series should bring in more."
Findley used his stubby fingers to pick up his cigar again, tamped it lightly against the crystal ash tray. "I'd say it's a good thing for you that it will." He pulled on the cigar again, and the coal glowed an angry red.
"Why do you put it that way?"
"Well," Findley said, distributing his smoky exhale in between his words, "to be honest, when I first saw you I thought you were going to want to spend some time justifying the $19M you're in the hole so far this yearnot counting the $6M extra you're wanting to spend now."
Collins shuffled, trying not to gag on the smoke. Findley's tastes in cigars was not as refined as his big-cash office.
"I thought you were going to explain why you gave $3.5M to the 16-year-old kid who promptly went into the drink. Or why you spend $10M on Development and other than the slam-dunk guy you drafted a year ago, we don't have a single top-prospect on the roster yet..."
"I think Bogul"
"I thought you wanted to maybe talk about Michael Buckley and his $4M boondoggle of a paycheck he's gotten for sitting in the training room most of the year. And don't even get me started on Graham Auybry. Jeebus, Ron, his fuckin' doctor bills are more than his salary." Findley grumbled. "At least that comes outta the Player's Union fund."
"I see," Collins said, understanding that there would be no money forthcoming, and understanding that, too, his team needed to go as far as possible into the SPET, the Silly Postseason Exhibition Tournament, as possible just to cover his tracks. He'd hoped no one would notice how he'd over-extended, but those hopes and dreams were now crushed.
That's baseball, he thought after Findley dismissed him, and as he stepped back into Tiki Hut #1 back on the atoll. A game of inches that is designed to break your bank as well as your heart.
October 6, 2061 | Forever Land | General Manager Ron Collins stepped out of Tiki Hut #1 and strolled down the beach to the local instance of one of his boss's Come Together Doorsthe multidimensional travel portals that the team has exclusive rights to use. Once there, he ran his hands over his hips to dry his palms, than gave a command and stepped through...into the New York offices of one Abercrombie G. Findley, leader of team Owner Moreau P. Westmoreland's Office of Finance. Where he found the gently rotund man kicked back in his tick leather swivel chair, and lighting an old-fashioned cigar from a tightly-wound wad of currency.
Findley, noticing Collins's arrival, took a concentrated drag on the cigar, then blew a ring of green smoke before coming to sit upright.
"Ron," he said, stitching the fingers of both hands together. "What a great surprise. What can I do for you?" The cloud of smoke smelled like money.
"I was hoping we could talk about spending," Collins said, waving his hand before him as he waded through that cloud.
"What about it?"
Well," Collins said. With the extra cash coming along with the SPET, I'm wondering is maybe we might be able to put some more of it into the team next year."
"Extra money?" Findley said.
"Certainly. $6M, if I'm reading the reports right."
"You mean the $6M that came in this week?"
"Is there another $6M?"
Findley chuckled. "Well," he said, "We could be talking about the $6M you're paying Francisco Ortiz."
"Ouch."
"Or the $6.5M you just promised to Brody Picot for next year."
"That's on next year," Collins said. "I'm hoping that maybe we can use some of that playoff money to get the budget raised for 2062. Beyond the $6M we've already got, the Nashville series should bring in more."
Findley used his stubby fingers to pick up his cigar again, tamped it lightly against the crystal ash tray. "I'd say it's a good thing for you that it will." He pulled on the cigar again, and the coal glowed an angry red.
"Why do you put it that way?"
"Well," Findley said, distributing his smoky exhale in between his words, "to be honest, when I first saw you I thought you were going to want to spend some time justifying the $19M you're in the hole so far this yearnot counting the $6M extra you're wanting to spend now."
Collins shuffled, trying not to gag on the smoke. Findley's tastes in cigars was not as refined as his big-cash office.
"I thought you were going to explain why you gave $3.5M to the 16-year-old kid who promptly went into the drink. Or why you spend $10M on Development and other than the slam-dunk guy you drafted a year ago, we don't have a single top-prospect on the roster yet..."
"I think Bogul"
"I thought you wanted to maybe talk about Michael Buckley and his $4M boondoggle of a paycheck he's gotten for sitting in the training room most of the year. And don't even get me started on Graham Auybry. Jeebus, Ron, his fuckin' doctor bills are more than his salary." Findley grumbled. "At least that comes outta the Player's Union fund."
"I see," Collins said, understanding that there would be no money forthcoming, and understanding that, too, his team needed to go as far as possible into the SPET, the Silly Postseason Exhibition Tournament, as possible just to cover his tracks. He'd hoped no one would notice how he'd over-extended, but those hopes and dreams were now crushed.
That's baseball, he thought after Findley dismissed him, and as he stepped back into Tiki Hut #1 back on the atoll. A game of inches that is designed to break your bank as well as your heart.