2063.23 - Potting Plants and Plotting Playoffs

[Graham]

Graham Luna never imagined he’d be sweating playoff math in June from the sun-drenched confines of his condo in Killarney. And yet, here he was: barefoot in mesh shorts, pruning a half-dead bonsai on his kitchen counter, a lukewarm ginger beer sweating beside him, and the Johannesburg Gold - his Johannesburg Gold - sitting atop the standings of the AfSAmOc Division.

The standings glowed on his tablet: 42–30. Ahead of Sydney. Ahead of expectations. It was the kind of thing that should’ve made him leap for joy, or at least text someone. Instead, he eyed the tree’s brittle leaves with suspicion and muttered, “You survived worse. So can we.”

The bonsai had been left in the care of his neighbor while he was away on the club’s 12-game road trip. Said neighbor, in an effort to “enhance growth,” had apparently placed it directly under a heat lamp and watered it with soda water. The result was a tree that smelled faintly of citrus and existential dread.

Graham snipped at a curled leaf just as his phone rang. Rosario.

“Tell me you’re surrounded by spreadsheets and not in another noodle bar,” Graham said, answering.

“Neither,” Rosario replied. “I’m at a juice cafe in Sandton that doubles as a dog pilates studio. I’m multitasking.”

“Truly the future,” Graham muttered.

They talked trades. Not the megadeals that turned entire clubhouses upside down, like last year’s São Paulo–Athens 25-player monstrosity that sent half the league into therapy. No, this was about the small stuff: lower minor lottery tickets, fringe bats, a middle reliever with a pulse and a WHIP under 1.60. They weren’t that kind of playoff team. Not yet.

“We’re on pace for 85 wins,” Rosario said, over the sounds of New Age instrumentals and the faint howl of dog. “That might be enough.”

“I never thought I’d be trying to add pieces in Year One,” Graham admitted. “I thought we’d be sellers by June. Dump some vets. Build up the farm. Talk about ‘a five year plan.’ Instead…”

“…you’re texting me gifs of bunting angles and defensive shifts,” Rosario finished.

“Only the funny ones,” Graham said.

He flipped open a stack of accumulated mail from the past few weeks. A food delivery coupon. A calendar from the Golden Palace front office that still featured the old mascot, Chuck the Gold Mongoose, mid backflip. And a letter, no return address, scrawled in blue ink: “Are you still hiding?”

He slipped it under a stack of utility bills without a word.

Back on the bonsai, a new leaf had started to green. He misted it, gently, like it might crack under pressure. Like his pitching staff.

“You think adding a backup infielder and a power arm gets us to 88 wins?” Graham asked.

“It gets us to interesting,” Rosario replied. “The rest is voodoo and luck.”

Outside, the lowering sun smeared across the skyline like an ballpark mustard stain on a t-shirt. Inside, the only sound was a muted “ping” as his tablet refreshed: Game Two vs. Moscow, starting in three hours.

The club was coming off of a 17-hit, 14-6 win against the Thunder Bears last night to kick off a short three-game homestead before packing up and hitting the road again. Yesterday's results didn't mean much though, as Moscow was a team to watch in the second half of the season. The club had just announced a change in the front office with the hiring of an exec with BBA experience.

Graham briefly wondered if they’d ever crossed paths, in another life, another press box, a different name.

“Okay,” he chirped into his phone. “No big swings. We find the margin guys.”

“I’ll narrow it down,” answered Rosario.

“Great. I’m going to microwave leftovers and stare at a plant until I feel confident again.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Graham ended the call, leaned back in his chair, and watched the tiny tree under the faint glow of his kitchen light. First place. In June. Not the plan, but maybe the start of something better than one.

After all, weirder things had happened. And this time, he had gardening shears and a team worth trimming around.

[shoeless.db]

I can smell the tree’s existential dread from here.

[Graham]

I can smell the tree’s existential dread from here.