[Scene: Inside the River Monsters’ dugout, post-game. The stadium lights flicker ominously, casting long shadows across the empty seats. Rain drips steadily from the dugout roof, pattering like a ticking clock.]
Ehlers (leaning against the dugout railing, voice low and bitter): Eight and eleven, Brandt. Eight. And. Eleven. Don’t feed me that Pythagorean garbage. Luck’s a crutch. Losers lean on it.
Brandt (arms folded, tone grim but measured): We’re 1-6 in one-run games. The Pythagorean says 10-9. Luck’s not a crutch, it’s a fact of baseball.
Ehlers (snarling, eyes cold): I hate you sabermetric types. Eight and eleven is eight and eleven. That’s the only math that matters. Luck is an excuse the weak use to pretend they’re contenders.
Brandt (voice flat, almost weary): We’re a good team, Alan. One bad bounce here, one bad call there…
Ehlers (cutting him off, face inches from Brandt’s): Save it. Tatlock’s off the DL tomorrow. He’s in the lineup. No discussion.
Brandt (gritting his teeth): Malone and Roman have both been solid. Why tear that apart?
Ehlers (slamming a clipboard down, papers scattering like leaves): Because Malone’s catcher ERA is two-thirds of a run higher than Roman’s! It’s a disaster, not a stat line. Roman’s down, Tatlock in. Every day. Until he shatters something else.
Brandt (voice like a blade): And I’m supposed to bench my second-best hitter?
Ehlers: No. Malone goes to first. Gallehos moves to third.
Brandt (voice barely hiding contempt): We agreed Gallehos was a liability at third. Now you want to move him again?
Ehlers (smiling coldly): Nothing’s permanent, Gerald. Ramos is gone, Cano couldn’t hit water if he fell off a bridge. We need defense up the middle and bats that can handle the corners. That’s how you build a winner—always has been.
Brandt: And Duran? You dumped him to AAA like yesterday’s trash.
Ehlers (voice like a whip crack): Duran was gassed. I wrote a team news about it last week but didn’t even bother finishing it—these AI team news things are a joke. “Make me a team news for 2 PP,” that’s all it is they say. If they only knew. But I digress. Bullpen usage kills teams. Everybody wants to run their 1-stamina hero out there every night like he’s made of steel. Then they wonder why the wheels come off.
Brandt (dry, bitter laugh): Bad luck, right?
Ehlers (leaning in close, eyes burning): Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Gerald. Duran’s back up. Four guys at ninety percent or better. I’m carrying thirteen pitchers because the schedule’s a meat grinder for the next two weeks. And for heavens sake Brandt, stop skipping Takuda's starts. Phil Cole is coming back soon and we need him hurt.
Brandt (tone dark, eyes shadowed): And second base? Sanchez and Shed have both been pathetic.
Ehlers (voice dropping to a growl): Sanchez put up 2.5 WAR in 100 games last season. I want to see that guy. Play him every day. If Shed can’t get his act together, he’s gone. No excuses, no pity.
Brandt (exhaling, voice almost a whisper): And center field? Three lefty gloves, no bats.
Ehlers (voice low, deadly calm): My plan was to dump Frazier—he’s got the option—but he’s playing like a six-win guy. That’s not happening. Isa’s on borrowed time. I know we just traded for him, but with Hak-joon O as our team mascot, we don’t need another cheerleader. I’ll give it another week. Minhas and Ramos will be back, and then decisions get made. No call-ups just to watch them rot.
Brandt (voice tired, but defiant): So I’m expected to juggle these corpses until you’re ready to bury them?
Ehlers (smirking, voice cold as steel): Welcome to the show, Gerald. Champions are built in the darkness. Let’s get to work.
