As newly-tapped Boise general manager Joe Lederer parted the navy blue curtain that divided the press conference room in F. Nephi Grigg Memorial Stadium, the bewildered group of reporters exchanged puzzled glances, wondering what urgent news could have interrupted his triumphant return to the Spuds."Thanks for the fake text," Lederer said without making eye-contact to Mason Crane, the team's assistant general manager.
"Well, you told me to, boss," Crane said, struggling to keep up to Lederer's brisk pace despite his natural long strides from his 6'5" frame.
"Listen here, Stretch," Lederer snapped as he pulled a tin of dip from his back pocket and crammed an oversized pinch in his lower lip. "You're lucky to be here. I would have brought in my own staff except Four Skin told me I couldn't spend any money unless it was on the field. So you can thank your lucky stars you still have a job."
"Four Skin" was apparently Lederer's term of endearment of Boise owner Francis Nephi Grigg IV, who took over the team in 2051 after the death of his father. Grigg III was the owner during Lederer's first stint with the Spuds and the two never saw eye-to-eye, believing the rift between the two was the cause of Lederer's sudden departure at the end of the '46 season.
Lederer made his way up the stairs, two at a time, towards the owner's office overseeing the playing field in Boise. All the while, Crane was reading messages for Lederer about arbitration figures, contract extension updates and, per the new general manager's explicit instructions, real estate options for Lederer to review to decide on his home in uptown Boise. Lederer heard none of it, as his tunnel vision was focused down the hall at Grigg's double glass office door.
Lederer flung the two doors open as if they were made of paper and yelled "What the fuck was that?," startling the unexpecting owner.
"Joe, language, please," Griggs said as he took the wire-rimmed glasses off his nose. "What is this all about?"
"Those questions, did you hear those cocksuckers? I thought the reporter pool would have been skimmed of floaters since I left but nope, still the same single-cell amoebas," Lederer huffed.
"Sorry, I missed it. Fill me in," Griggs said calmly with a wry smile.
"First off, don't ever make me say that I miss this city or these fans EVER again," Lederer seethed, grabbing a ceramic mug off the owner's oversized mahogany desk hand-painted with "World's Best Daddy".
"Joe, you know very well there were stipulations about your return and one of them was to be enduring to the community. We need to fill this stadium. We need happy fans in the seats who in turn spend money," Griggs reminded him.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," scoffed Lederer, as he spit a dark pool of dip and saliva into the mug. "Fine, 'stipulations,' whatever...don't ask me to do it again."
"Is that it?," asked Griggs very well knowing it wasn't.
"God damn it, no! I am NOT going to model this club after Sacramento. We don't bunt. We don't run around the bases all willy nilly. I said what I said because you forced me to, but you cannot force me in how I assemble my ball club. I will run this team the way I see fit, got it?," Lederer challenged.
Griggs slowly shifted in his large leather chair, then propped his feet up on his desk and folded his hands on his chest. "Do I need to remind you that this is not 'your' ball club. This is 'my' ball club."
Lederer laughed. "You were a two-bit potato executive who suddenly backed into this job when the old man finally kicked it. You don't fool me. I've forgotten more about baseball than you'll ever know."
"That may be true, but this team and this city is all you have. You'd still be drunk in Mexico trying to rub two nickels together for your next cerveza if I didn't give you a call. We were in a pinch when Woody retired and you were our last resort," Griggs sternly reminded Lederer.
"You know what?," Lederer replied. "I've got better shit to do. I've got to try and get this club back to the playoffs. Woody did a great job in spite of you and this sack of turd." Lederer pointed over his shoulder to Crane without looking. "I'm getting a late start to the off-season so if you didn't mind, I'd like to get started."
Lederer spun around with military precision and breezed past his assistant general manager, leaving the two men in the office alone, less one Father's Day gifted mug.
