2064.07 - The Nut King Calls

[Graham]

Cemal Jirecek conducted the phone call like a conductor, except the orchestra was one GM in an empty condo and the music was a concerto of leverage. Word had traveled across leagues and oceans faster than a juicy rumor in a small clubhouse: Dave Burcicki had resigned in Charm City. Abruptly. No farewell tour, no leaked succession plan. Just a hole at the heart of a BBA franchise and a shrinking calendar before spring.

“Mr. Luna,” Jirecek said, his Turkish lilt warm and precise, “I am a man of patience. I have waited out droughts, frosts, and the stupidity of rivals. But there are seasons when patience is for farmers and action is for kings. This is such a season.”

Graham leaned back in his chair and then immediately forward again. “Understood.”

Jirecek was not a man who needed much introduction, but he gave it anyway, like a monarch reminding the court why the crown fit so easily. Born on Turkey’s Black Sea coast, he had inherited a patch of hazelnut orchards from his grandfather, a quiet, provincial inheritance, the kind that might have fed a family for generations but never built an empire. Jirecek turned it into the latter. By the 1970s, he had cornered local markets, then quietly bought out rivals until he controlled nearly a third of the world’s hazelnut supply. European chocolatiers bent the knee if they wanted pralines, spreads, or candy bars on shelves. Reporters called him the Nut King of the Bosphorus, though in truth his rise was less about nuts than about leverage.

He was shrewd, relentless, and when the mood struck, reckless. This was the same man who once lost fifty million dollars betting on the Puppy Bowl and laughed it off as “tuition in the school of fun.” By his mid-60s he had diversified into logistics and food tech, and, flush with billions, bought his beloved Charm City Jimmies. At 78, he remained the kind of man who demanded the world bend slightly to his orbit.

“Excellent,” Jirecek continued, drawing Graham back to the moment. “Then indulge an old man in a few questions. You took a club of misfits and castoffs to a division crown in a league that wasn’t supposed to care. You did it without scandal. Tell me how.”

Graham cleared his throat, buying time. “Trim work. Small edges stacked into big ones. Duct-tape moves can be as decisive as banners. We built a defense that covered sins, squeezed an extra percent from waiver-wire arms, and resisted the temptation to buy flash when we could rent competence.”

“Pruning and grafting,” Jirecek murmured. “You prune what is dead. You graft what can live. I approve.”

Graham leaned into the comfort of baseball-speak, laying out his depth charts, slider shapes, defensive shifts, and platoon advantages. He talked about his belief in messy wins, because standings don’t grade on aesthetic.

“Hmm,” Jirecek said. “Can you tolerate an owner who does not stay politely in his suite?”

“Can you tolerate a GM who will say no?” Graham asked.

Silence. Then a laugh, delighted and dangerous. “Sometimes. If the no is accompanied by a better yes.”

Jirecek was everything the stories promised: legendary patience, sudden wild bets, meddling involvement. A man who phoned his managers at 3 a.m. with strategy ideas, who once demanded sunflower seeds be swapped out for hazelnuts in the clubhouse. This was a man who wanted to win, loudly, and yesterday.

“Last question,” he said finally, his voice low but sharp. “We are a proud city, and the Jimmies are a proud club. Are you ready to do whatever it takes to win? Because I won’t handle anything less. Nashville is a thorn in my side. I will not tolerate seeing them lift another title while we’re packing up gear in the opposite dugout.”

Graham inhaled slowly. He let his voice flatten into smooth steel. “You’ll never have to question my commitment. If it takes late nights, hard calls, I’ll do it. Winning here isn’t optional, and I get that. I know what it means to sit in this chair. I’ll give you every ounce I have, because anything less isn’t worthy of this franchise.”

Jirecek exhaled, a pleased chord. “Mr. Luna. The chair is yours. I’d like you to be the next General Manager of the Charm City Jimmies. I expect victory. Second place is spoiled baklava.”

Graham stared at the far wall as if it had just opened to show him Baltimore’s harbor. His mouth moved before he remembered to breathe. “Thank you, sir.”

“Do not thank me,” Jirecek said. “Just deliver me a title.”

They ended the call with logistics. Lawyers to call, HR forms, briefing materials, and then the line went quiet. Graham’s living room suddenly felt like a stage after the curtain falls: same furniture, different world.

The phone rang again before he could stand. Graham answered it without checking, assuming it was the Palm Beach police calling him back.

“Graham,” said the voice. Matt Rectenwald, founder and commissioner of the BBA, spoke with the crisp authority of a man whose calendar runs leagues. “Board approved. Welcome to Charm City.”

“Thank you, Commissioner.”

“You know,” Rectenwald said, almost offhand, “your voice sounds familiar. Like I’ve heard it years ago, in some other meeting. But maybe I’m imagining it.” His tone didn’t linger, just an observation tossed into the room like a loose ball. “Get yourself to Baltimore. Press conference ASAP. Spring training is breathing down our necks and this league doesn’t like open chairs.”

The call ended, efficient and absolute.

Graham sat in the quiet. The glow from his phone screen painted the condo in cold light. He thought of Charm City, of Jirecek’s impossible demands, of the Jimmies’ roster and the shadow of Nashville. He thought of the police, of Darryl, of the bonsai tree recovered in someone else’s home. His mind tugged in opposite directions...who to call first? Fernando Rosario, his loyal front office lieutenant who deserved an explanation, or the Gold owner Colin Rhodes, who warranted a prompt heads up?

He didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at the blank wall, listening to the silence roar.

[Dington]

The man leaves Gold to settle for silver. Smh.

[Graham]

The man leaves Gold to settle for silver. Smh.

I fear that may be etched on my gravestone.

[recte44]

Off Topic

“You know,” Rectenwald said, almost offhand, “your voice sounds familiar. Like I’ve heard it years ago, in some other meeting. But maybe I’m imagining it.” His tone didn’t linger, just an observation tossed into the room like a loose ball.

Hmmmm.....

[Dington]

Off Topic

“You know,” Rectenwald said, almost offhand, “your voice sounds familiar. Like I’ve heard it years ago, in some other meeting. But maybe I’m imagining it.” His tone didn’t linger, just an observation tossed into the room like a loose ball.

Hmmmm.....

[shoeless.db]

Off Topic

“You know,” Rectenwald said, almost offhand, “your voice sounds familiar. Like I’ve heard it years ago, in some other meeting. But maybe I’m imagining it.” His tone didn’t linger, just an observation tossed into the room like a loose ball.

Hmmmm.....

That comment was some dirty shyster. Nothing like frightening the entire league. haha.