Off Topic
A GM Walks Into a Ballpark
April 25, 2063 – On the whole, things were pretty good, thought Bikini Krill GM Ron Collins as he entered the Forever Park tunnel that led to the field. If there’s anything more amazing than the anticipation that comes with walking through an entrance tunnel that leads to a ballpark, he couldn’t think of any. Fresh air in your face, and the knowledge that a green expanse of hope was just a few steps away. The club was 12-9, too, beginning to look maybe a little bit racy in the Pacific division. As he made the turn, strains of “It’s Time to Thrill With The Krill” started to play. It was a #1 hit across the globe now. Kill Klone, the team’s house band, was making real waves for the Klub.
Yes, things were looking up.
And, yet, as Collins stepped through the tunnel that led to that most holy of ground known as a baseball field, something felt amiss. Awry. Maybe even haywire.
He couldn’t put his hand on the problem, but something was wrong.
Then he stepped into the stadium to see…
Empty seats. All around. Except in the area where season ticket holders had arrived in force. The team had sold 13 thousand season tickets and it seemed they were all here. The rest, though? Nothing but Bikini blue seats folded up into nothing. No people. No walk-up gate. No popcorn no jersey sales. No nothing.
“What the hell’s up?” Collins said, toggling on his direct connect to assistant GM Monica Green. It came as part of the button he wore on his collar. Another fancy gadget from Westmoreland’s arsenal that he was shamed into wearing because Green would be doing it. And with his assistant and his owner still being a thing, it was unwise to go against her too far.
“I don’t know, boss,” Green said with an unhealthy dose of irony. “Maybe you should call Mort.”
“Mort? Why would I talk to Mort” Mort was Collins’s buddy from back in college. He’d contacted Ron looking for a job. Collins had used his position to get him into the organization, and had him work with the team’s operation team, specifically focused on enacting the team’s approach to dynamic ticket pricing. He wasn’t sure what Mort Johnson would have to do with the problem at hand, but he knew one thing and one thing only—Monica Green did no like Mort Johnson. She had not liked the fact that Collins had used his influence to bring him into the fold.
“Don’t sound surprised. You’re the one who assigned him to tickets,” she said.
“Hmm…” Collins responded. “I don’t see—”
“I assume you saw the announcement?” She cut him off.
“Announcement?”
“Surely you approved our new ticket prices.”
“I … uh …”
“I can’t imagine you’d let Morty free to change them to $85 a pop all by himself.”
“$85?” Collins said as the intensity of the blue seat raised. He pulled a quick system scan and saw that, yes, priced for today’s game with Valencia were $85.
“A pop,” Green said with something akin to cold glee coloring her tone. “And worse, I think the deal is locked in for the whole series.”
“I see,” Collins replied, understanding now that the team was almost certainly going to be playing in front of a skinny house in all three Valencia games, and also knowing he was now going to have to have a talk with his buddy that would suggest that maybe sports management wasn’t in the cards for his future. Green was right. He's assigned Mort to handle the ticket price change from $18.50 to $18.25. Something must have happened. A finger slipped. Or a keyboard moved. Whatever.
$85, he thought. A pop. Zero gate. Three games.
With a sigh, he made his way to the executive boxes, suddenly feeling less enthused about the holy nature of being in a baseball park. He wondered how fast the news would get to Westy, knowing that whatever the answer he wasn’t going to like it. In the meantime, it was time to see what could be done about changing the prices for when Sacramento came to town next week.
April 25, 2063 – On the whole, things were pretty good, thought Bikini Krill GM Ron Collins as he entered the Forever Park tunnel that led to the field. If there’s anything more amazing than the anticipation that comes with walking through an entrance tunnel that leads to a ballpark, he couldn’t think of any. Fresh air in your face, and the knowledge that a green expanse of hope was just a few steps away. The club was 12-9, too, beginning to look maybe a little bit racy in the Pacific division. As he made the turn, strains of “It’s Time to Thrill With The Krill” started to play. It was a #1 hit across the globe now. Kill Klone, the team’s house band, was making real waves for the Klub.
Yes, things were looking up.
And, yet, as Collins stepped through the tunnel that led to that most holy of ground known as a baseball field, something felt amiss. Awry. Maybe even haywire.
He couldn’t put his hand on the problem, but something was wrong.
Then he stepped into the stadium to see…
Empty seats. All around. Except in the area where season ticket holders had arrived in force. The team had sold 13 thousand season tickets and it seemed they were all here. The rest, though? Nothing but Bikini blue seats folded up into nothing. No people. No walk-up gate. No popcorn no jersey sales. No nothing.
“What the hell’s up?” Collins said, toggling on his direct connect to assistant GM Monica Green. It came as part of the button he wore on his collar. Another fancy gadget from Westmoreland’s arsenal that he was shamed into wearing because Green would be doing it. And with his assistant and his owner still being a thing, it was unwise to go against her too far.
“I don’t know, boss,” Green said with an unhealthy dose of irony. “Maybe you should call Mort.”
“Mort? Why would I talk to Mort” Mort was Collins’s buddy from back in college. He’d contacted Ron looking for a job. Collins had used his position to get him into the organization, and had him work with the team’s operation team, specifically focused on enacting the team’s approach to dynamic ticket pricing. He wasn’t sure what Mort Johnson would have to do with the problem at hand, but he knew one thing and one thing only—Monica Green did no like Mort Johnson. She had not liked the fact that Collins had used his influence to bring him into the fold.
“Don’t sound surprised. You’re the one who assigned him to tickets,” she said.
“Hmm…” Collins responded. “I don’t see—”
“I assume you saw the announcement?” She cut him off.
“Announcement?”
“Surely you approved our new ticket prices.”
“I … uh …”
“I can’t imagine you’d let Morty free to change them to $85 a pop all by himself.”
“$85?” Collins said as the intensity of the blue seat raised. He pulled a quick system scan and saw that, yes, priced for today’s game with Valencia were $85.
“A pop,” Green said with something akin to cold glee coloring her tone. “And worse, I think the deal is locked in for the whole series.”
“I see,” Collins replied, understanding now that the team was almost certainly going to be playing in front of a skinny house in all three Valencia games, and also knowing he was now going to have to have a talk with his buddy that would suggest that maybe sports management wasn’t in the cards for his future. Green was right. He's assigned Mort to handle the ticket price change from $18.50 to $18.25. Something must have happened. A finger slipped. Or a keyboard moved. Whatever.
$85, he thought. A pop. Zero gate. Three games.
With a sigh, he made his way to the executive boxes, suddenly feeling less enthused about the holy nature of being in a baseball park. He wondered how fast the news would get to Westy, knowing that whatever the answer he wasn’t going to like it. In the meantime, it was time to see what could be done about changing the prices for when Sacramento came to town next week.
