He'd been a hold out when all the arguments against his position had suffocated him like the pungent scent of hog manure suffocates Yellow Springs. He had believed. He had wanted to believe.
But simply looking around his wood paneled basement was proof enough he'd been wrong. All the jerseys hanging from the walls were more outdated than the 1970's orange shag carpet, a relic of a past era, on the basement's floor.
An Okyay Nisanci game worn jersey, stained green from a diving catch in a game during the 2053 Championship season.
Batting gloves worn by Unem Ploid won in an auction at Augusto's company's Christmas party in 2058.
A homerun ball hit by Yuu Suzuki that bounced into his lap just last season.
A Dallas Dixon signed poster.
And these were just his four favorite players over the last decade. There were more things from David Simpson, Thomas Turner, Henri Charriere, and many others.
Every single one of these players were sent packing to somewhere else in the BBA. All they had done for Sacramento, all the blood and grit they'd given to bring wins this great city wasn't worth a pile of dirty salt to GM shoeless.
He had no loyalties. Only to himself. Only to his ego.
Augusto Berlingo grabbed a pen from the end table next to him and shook his head as he glimpsed the bobblehead of Don Keagle sitting near it. He laid the paper down and scribble his signature onto it.
He would be the newest member of the #FireShoeless Club.
