The Second Floor | A Jolt (64.03)

[mragland]

1.07.2064 – Richmond upon Thames, Greater London

Traffic.

Not normally a problem for Grant, but he found himself on the A316 that Monday morning after running an errand in Sunbury, and this traffic had less movement than a Mustafa Derbil fastball. Onboard navigation software warned him that he was approaching an accident, but not in time enough for him to get off and snake through some surface roads toward the stadium. He was stuck. He cued up a down-tempo house mix on the stereo and closed his eyes for a bit, confident that he wouldn't miss anything important going on on the other side of his windshield.

The Monarchs were, to the casual observer, moving in the right direction. Grant, however, was not a casual observer. He'd been eyeing the club's base runs xW all season, and was never comfortable with what he saw. London had snapped a three seasons long losing skid, but just barely, and with a substantial amount of luck, their xWΔ of +7 was the highest in the GBC, the highest in the expanded Brewsterverse, even. They were, by rights, not a winning ballclub in '63.

Why not? The offense was at least a tick above average, which is saying something given their lineup of Punch-and-Judy hitters. Rookie corner outfielder Pablo Gamboa led the team with just 26 home runs. Nobody else had even twenty to their name. It was, Grant thought, a collegiate approach. Put the ball in play and hope for the best.

The pitching, though. The pitching situation was dire. A team ERA of 4.86, a team FIP of 5.34. Zero 3 WAR pitchers on the roster. Rick Clarijs was raking in millions while looking like warmed over dog waste. Félix Vallés was completing his journey from third overall draft pick and 75 future value megastar to complete washout (a heavily trodden path in the GBC).

Grant opened his eyes and called up a few choice spreadsheets on the car's infotainment screen. He barely noticed the old Volvo wagon that squeezed into the space between his vehicle and the delivery van he'd been behind for the past fifteen minutes. The driver behind Grant did notice, and communicated their displeasure in the time honored way, leaning on their horn for a good twenty seconds. Grant belatedly flipped on the 'city congestion' autopilot, and looked things over.

He had to somehow make a purse out of this sow's ear of a pitching staff, with a very lean free agency budget. They'd signed Samuel Vankrimpen out of Moscow on a reasonable deal, a serviceable starter held back by a hard luck BABIP last year. Grant had come to value guys with spotless injury histories, and Vankrimpen had one despite the fact that he was entering his age 37 season. That was likely the last acquisition they'd be making. Grant thought about how to make the puzzle pieces fit together to form a picture pleasing to the eye, or at least one not tear-inducing.

He noticed traffic begin to move again.

Grant spotted a sticker on the Volvo's bumper. 'Dance Like Nobody's Watching,' it said.

Not, perhaps, the most profound message, but it occurred to Grant that GBC clubs enjoyed little real scrutiny, even the notorious British press regarded the Monarchs as something only half-serious, to be treated lightly. The latitude for experimentation, therefore, was wide. Why not take advantage? Why not?