Gerald Brandt stormed into the Twin Cities River Monsters' Draft War Room, the door slamming shut behind him with a metallic clang that rattled the loose blinds. Papers were scattered across the room like confetti after a blown ninth-inning lead. The smell of stale coffee mixed with the tang of stress.
At the center of the room sat Alan Ehlers, the River Monsters' GM, his face a mask of calm. He looked up from a thick binder, eyes steady, fingers steepled.
Brandt, his voice crackling with frustration, didn't bother with pleasantries. "Alan," he spat, "we need a shortstop. A real shortstop. Randall Gray is a solid bat now, but his range is already slipping I've seen him boot more grounders than I can count. Once he hits 30, he'll be a traffic cone out there. We'll be left with nothing up the middle."
Ehlers didn't even flinch. "Gerald," he began, his tone as smooth as the infield dirt before a game, "I understand. But we made our picks for a reason. There were no SS to be found in the draft."
It was odd, Brandt thought, this role reversal: him, the fiery aggressor, usually the voice of calm in a storm, and Ehlers, the ice-cold GM, exuding a Zen-like serenity even as the draft raged around them.
Brandt's face was red. "Don't feed me that. I've seen your brilliance, Alan. Since joining Twin Cities you've drafted more WAR than anyone. The last two drafts..that's why I'm here. Mathew Malone at the back end of the first round that was genius. The kid's got hands like lightning and a bat that can change a game. And Pedro Aguilar that swing, that speed. You found those guys when everyone else was asleep at the wheel. That's the Alan Ehlers I trust."
Ehlers looked confused, "But the prospect reports keep saying that we consistently have the worst farm system in the game? You mean other teams 26 year old underdeveloped players aren't as good as our straight to the BBA studs that they passed up in the draft? Don't let that out. It will break their prospect hugging hearts."
Brandt ignored that comment and pointed a trembling finger at Ehlers' draft board. "But this year I'm telling you, man, Dale Keller? A left fielder? Never played a game of baseball in his life? And then we waste a second round pick on a RP? That's a risk I'm not comfortable with."
Ehlers leaned back, that unflappable calm never leaving his face. "Dale Keller's a pure athlete, Brandt. He's got gap power, speed, and the tools to develop into a middle-of-the-order bat. And Marcos Bojorquez young lefty, golden arm, raw but determined. The kid's work ethic is off the charts. With the right coaching, he'll be a force on the mound. Plus, that name 'Be gorgeous, Marcos. Be gorgeous.' It's got a ring to it."
Brandt let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Alan, I get it. I really do. I know you're playing the long game, and I respect that. But I need someone who can scoop up a grounder and fire it to first. I can't manage a team that's giving away runs on routine plays. You know that."
Ehlers finally met his gaze, his expression softening just a fraction. "I hear you, Gerald. I do. But trust me we're building something special here. I've seen the reports, I've seen the workouts. Keller's bat will make an impact, and Bojorquez is the kind of pitcher who can change a game when he's ready. Randall is still on pace for 4 WAR. He is our guy until he is not"
Brandt shook his head, a grin of reluctant admiration breaking through. "You better be right, Alan. Because if you are, I'll be the first one to shake your hand. And if you're wrong"
Ehlers smirked. "Then I'll take the heat. That's my job."
Brandt turned to leave, muttering under his breath. "Be gorgeous, Marcos. Be gorgeous."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Ehlers alone with his draft board, his plans, and that unshakable calm that had brought them so many late-round gems before.
