Love from Left Field

by Megan Ryder

  “Miranda? How’s your father doing?” A woman’s voice spoke from within one of the cubicles down Miranda’s left.

  She glanced down and saw the hesitant face of an older woman. It took a moment but she refused to check at the nameplate to remember the woman’s name. Miranda had worked in ticket sales on her way to learning all functions of the team and this woman had been a mentor to her as she learned the job.

  “Grace Ann! How are you?” The name came in a flash and she smiled warmly at the woman, reaching out for a hug.

  The older woman stood and awkwardly embraced Miranda, as if somehow the action was a little too personal for their circumstances. At that moment, a few other people also stood and greeted Miranda.

  “How’s Mr. Callahan, Miranda? We’ve been praying for him.” Grace Ann spoke softly, as if not everyone would pray for the cantankerous man.

  Miranda understood more than anyone how difficult her father could be. Lord knew, he had been tough on her growing up, especially once she’d joined the business. While she didn’t always appreciate it, that same toughness prepared her for this situation. Some would say it was that toughness that made this situation as bad as it was but Miranda was looking forward, not backwards to blame someone. That time had passed. She had to fix the future or there wouldn’t be one to fix.

  “He’s hanging in. He’s been moved to a regular room in the cardiac unit, then he’ll head for rehab.”

  Mutters of “Praise be” greeted her words, along with comforting pats on the arm. Miranda smiled, feeling the love from her staff seeping into her with every touch, every smile. This was why she loved working for the Knights. They were family.

  “How’s your new grandbaby, Grace Ann? Is she just wonderful?”

  Before the question was even out of Miranda’s mouth, Grace Ann had pictures out to show her. After oohing and aahing, Miranda asked after other people and their family. Finally, after about ten minutes or so, the conversation wound down. Suddenly, the group went silent and a shiver up her spine indicated that it wasn’t just due to a lack of conversation. She turned her head and saw Lucas standing behind her, a carefully blank expression on his face. He glanced at his watch, not very subtly indicating they were late for another meeting.

  Wanting him to know the staff like she did, she gestured him over to the group. “Lucas, you remember Grace Ann? She was here when your father was here. She always had those amazing oatmeal raisin cookies.”

  He nodded politely. “Of course. Nice to see you again, Ms. Cox.”

  “Hello, Mr. Wainright. I was sorry to hear about your father.” Grace Ann’s tone was just as cool and standoffish, but there was a hint of confusion in her eyes.

  Miranda shot him a scathing look at his cool tone but he kept a polite expression on his face, not welcoming any further discussion. She gently extricated herself from the small group, promising to keep them posted on her father’s condition. When she finally crossed the small room, Lucas fell in beside her and they walked down the hallway.

  “You shouldn’t get too close to your staff,” Lucas stated. “You never know if you have to lay them off.”

  His words sent a chill into her heart. She froze in her steps and stared at him. After a few steps, he noticed she wasn’t with him and he turned back to her, a puzzled expression on his face. “What?”

  “Do you really feel that way?”

  He continued to frown then shrugged. “Yes. It’s business, not personal. Getting to know the staff makes it much harder to lay them off.”

  The knob of a door prodded her in the back. Blindly she reached for it and opened it, dragging him into the small conference room after her. She closed the door and whirled to face him. “Let’s get one thing straight. I will run my team anyway I want. If I want to look at pictures of grandchildren and share recipes, I will. You can dictate my financial decisions, but not my life.”

  “I’m not trying to dictate your life. I’m just offering a suggestion to make the next several months easier for you and for your staff.” He laid his tablet on the table and leaned a hip against it. “If you get too close, the staff takes a layoff as a personal attack, leading to hurt feelings, unfortunate things being said, and a difficult time for everyone. Keep your distance. It’s better.”

  She stared at him, her brain whirling with this new information. This was not the Lucas she remembered. That Lucas had known every member of the staff like she did. He’d played with some of the kids at the annual post-season picnic. Now he was pretending to not know anyone, even Grace Ann, whose cookies Miranda knew Lucas loved.

  “It’s also lonely.” She stepped closer to him and laid a hand on his arm, trying to ignore the firm muscles under the dress shirt. “Lucas, you grew up with these people. We both did. Your father made a point to walk around the floor and know everyone who worked here. Was he wrong?”

  Lucas stiffened under her touch but didn’t move. “That was a long time ago.”

  “It was ten years. These people came to the funeral.”

  Lucas froze, his ice blue eyes boring hole in her. “How did you know that?”

  Her hand dropped and she looked away. “I was there. I stayed in the back, but I came. Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t go to your father’s funeral?”

  “Your father never came. Supposedly my father’s close friend and he never even checked in.”

  She was shocked by the bitterness in his tone, the buildup of pain over the past several years. Her heart ached for the lonely boy who cut himself off from his family and friends after his father’s death, diving into work to avoid any connection. Suddenly, Lucas became clear in her eyes. She understood the challenge laid before her, not just with the Knights, but with Lucas. He needed to get involved more than just on financial decisions, but in reconnecting with his past.

  “My father kept his distance because he thought that was what you wanted.” She spoke quietly, soothingly, hoping to take away some of his pain but not knowing how to do it.

  Lucas’s shoulders sagged, as if the anger drained out of him. “Yeah, well, that’s the past.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it to me.”

  He pushed off the table and grabbed his tablet. “We have work to do.”

  “Hang on.” She laid a hand on his chest. “Are you expecting that we’ll be laying off staff?”

  He shrugged. “You never know what you’ll have to do to turn this team around.”

  She was shaking her head before he had even finished. “Not good enough. Tell me what you think. What would you do?”

  “Fine.” He dropped the tablet on the wood and pulled out one of the chairs, gesturing her to do the same. She slowly sat, warily studying him. “Your operating budget is actually pretty lean. I assume that’s the area you were allowed to truly oversee?”

  She nodded. “My father let me have free rein over that. I tried to improve our processes and functions to keep it streamlined and as tight as possible.”

  A faint hint of approval crossed his face. “You’ve succeeded, for the most part. Cutting anything on the operating side won’t get you anywhere near where you need to be for financial security. Any further cuts there might actually hurt more than it helps.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That being said, you’re still in trouble. Your issue is not operating costs but revenue. In other words, you have no revenue.”

  Her head dropped at the truth in his words. “I know. We need more attendance.”

  “Honestly, I can’t see you getting more attendance with the team, you know. Do you listen to the sports talk shows? Your team is projected back in the cellar. Despite being in the playoffs last season, too many players leaving have your fans assuming it’s all over. You have a major problem with fan expectations. They have no faith in you or trust that your team will ever win a game much less lead the league.”

  “And wins matter.”

  “Wins are everything. We’re in this business for the series, not for popcorn and bobble hea
ds. Fans don’t care about anything other than rooting for a winner. And the Knights are not winners.”

  She winced at his words, like knives stabbing her repeatedly. She sighed. He was right. But how could they fix it?

  Chapter Ten

  Miranda studied the list of players and their associated statistics, the result of several days of research and discussion. Several sets of eyes bored holes in her. She glanced up at Cole, Jason, Lucas, and the wonder twins, her statisticians whose names she still didn’t know. Two young men with spectacles and the distracted look of people who spent their time hunched over keyboards and talking numbers, never really seeing other people or emerging from their data cave. Cole and Lucas assured her they were very good at their jobs and she was lucky to have them. Too bad they spoke a foreign language that she really never understood, despite passing statistics in college. They made her feel stupid and she was done with that feeling.

  She laid the papers down. “So, bottom line it for me. Who do you recommend?”

  Four sets of eyes blinked at her for a moment, then three voices started speaking at once. Of course, it was too much to hope for consensus. She held up her hand, already wishing for aspirin.

  “Okay, let’s start on our options. Moreno, current catcher. Knows the team and our way of doing things.”

  “I vote for him. He’s been working with these guys and knows the team.” Sam Monteleone’s voice shot out from the speakerphone, shouting as if he wanted to be heard from Florida spring training.

  “He’s been struggling with passed balls all spring, Sam. Can his knees really handle the whole season?” Cole countered, eyes scanning a document in front of him. “We want more ground balls which mean lower pitches and possibly more movement, leading to more passed balls.”

  “His pitch framing is on the low end, not stealing pitches for our guys. With lower pitches, we’ll need strong framing.” One of the stats guys spoke and the other nodded. “We recommend Prosser.”

  “Prosser?” Sam snapped, scorn evident in his voice. “He’s a backup in Minnesota. We already discarded him weeks ago.”

  “My father discarded him. I didn’t. Make the case.” She pointed to the stats duo.

  “Excellent framing. Used to ground ball pitchers and even knuckle ballers. Guided a couple of young guys in Minnesota.”

  “And cheap. Minnesota can’t keep him past this year and they know it. He’s too good for back up and they have a young guy in front of him and behind him. He doesn’t fit their model and they have needs.” Cole spoke up while Sam snorted.

  “Can we fill their needs?” She asked.

  Cole shrugged. “Depends what we’re willing to give up. They’d like Moreno, believe it or not. He can play first and DH for them. We don’t need a DH in the National League, not often enough at least.”

  “Why isn’t Moreno our first baseman?” Miranda asked, trying to follow the conversation.

  “Because we have Lockhart.” Sam’s voice exploded. “We decided all of this weeks ago, with your father. Why are we rehashing everything?”

  She’d found her first opponent. The one guy she needed on her side to make everything work. If he wasn’t open to new players, would he be open to a new style of play? Doubtful.

  She leaned towards the phone, lowering her voice to a more soothing tone. “Sam, we need a new catcher. I agree that Lockhart will probably be fine at first but Moreno just can’t handle the rigors of the season anymore and he’s not connecting with our pitching staff. We need to change some things around to get wins. We can’t sign big names, not that there are too many out there right now and we don’t have the farm system to trade for them. Minnesota might be willing to talk.”

  “Who are you thinking of giving up? I don’t think they’ll accept Moreno alone.” Cole asked.

  “Moreno and Hardesty,” Miranda replied.

  “Hardesty? He’s our middle relief guy, more innings than anyone last season,” Sam yelled.

  “And he gave up more fly balls and homeruns than any other middle relief. We want to focus on more ground balls this season, keeping the ball in the park and lowering the big innings.” Cole added his support with a quick glance at Miranda.

  Lucas, meanwhile, observed the whole process, not saying anything, not revealing his thoughts. He leaned to one side, idly tapping a finger on the table. His intense stare penetrated Miranda’s calm and she shifted in her seat. Now he was quiet, after poking his nose into every other discussion? What was holding him back now?

  “This is bullshit. You’re taking away everyone on my team. How do you expect me to win with this team?” Sam bellowed.

  Jason finally leaned forward. “I have reservations too, Sam. But, we can’t keep playing the old way. Almost every other team has moved into this new model, and those that haven’t adapted haven’t made it to the playoffs. Clearly, there’s something to this. Maybe we should give it a chance?”

  “Et tu, Jason?” Sam replied bitterly. “How will we win games without middle relief? None of the other guys are strong enough to pitch every day.”

  “Then we rotate them,” one of the stats guys replied. “This spreads out the work, evens out the risk, and lowers our chances of injury.”

  “So now we’re taking direction from a group of bean counters?” Sam sighed. “Fire me now because I can’t win this way.”

  Miranda opened her mouth to respond but the dial tone stopped her. She narrowed her gaze at the phone, suppressing the flash of anger at Sam’s blatant disrespect for her, something he would have never done if it had been her father sitting here. Mentally she counted to ten, then ten again before raising her eyes. The two stats guys leaned together and spoke in rapid whispers, apprehension clear on their faces.

  Miranda sighed heavily and looked at Cole. “I’ll deal with Sam later. Cole, Jason. What are your thoughts?”

  “This was my proposal a few years ago. I’m on board, although I have doubts that it can really affect our bottom line as quickly as we need to.”

  “I’m concerned that we’ll cause more problems by not implementing this right because we don’t have time.” Jason said, resignation in his voice and slumped shoulders.

  “Lucas?” Miranda caught the flash of irritation that crossed Cole’s face. “What are your thoughts?”

  Lucas stared at the table, seeming to ignore everyone in the room. Finally, he straightened and turned abruptly into the sharp businessman she had expected. “I think you need to make changes. You can’t remain stagnant. You need new blood on the team and make it look like you’re trying. Not making any moves when everyone knows your team is weak only discourages your fans and makes it harder to win them back. So make a goddamn decision and stick with it.”

  The last words were gritted out between clenched teeth, although Lucas’s face remained otherwise calm, only his eyes betrayed the frustration. The rest of the group sat in the silence, stunned.

  Miranda finally cleared her throat. “Will everyone leave the room, please?”

  Slowly, everyone filed out, even Cole who looked questioningly at her. She avoided his gaze and remained fixed on Lucas.

  When the door finally closed, he shrugged. “I won’t apologize for saying what was necessary.”

  “How was that remotely helpful?”

  “You’re sitting here asking everyone for their opinions, but you need action. You’ve been circling the drain, trying to make everyone happy, even your father, and it won’t work. Either take command of this team or watch it fail.”

  “Here I thought you wouldn’t want me to do anything, conserve money, be safe.”

  He leaned forward, eyes boring into hers. “You have an MBA. You’re smart. What do you think you should do? What are you so goddamn afraid of?”

  She nibbled her lower lip, answers to that one question eluding her. Her brain was stuffed with her father’s thoughts, her advisors’ recommendations, and even the shock jocks on sports radio. But what she did want to do? For so long, she had been t
rying to please her father, get his attention, make him happy. Now, he was out of commission and it was up to her to save his team, only what she had to do might actually be the direct opposite of what he wanted. It was so much easier when dealing with the day-to-day operations. None of that played out on the front page of the newspapers or radio programs for all of the fans who considered themselves bench coaches after the fact. And, to be honest, her father never really cared about that side of the business as much as on the field.

  Lucas snorted and stood, walking around the table to brace his hands on the arms of the chair where she sat, pinning her in place. “You’re afraid, Miranda. You’re scared you’ll be wrong and the fans will rip you to shreds. Well, guess what, sweetheart, you’ll never make everyone happy. Someone is going to be pissed off at your decision. They’ll be pissed if you don’t make a decision. So, you can’t win. Accept it and move on. Or give up the damn team and save us all the trouble of trying to salvage it.”

  He pushed off her chair and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Miranda flinched at the loud noise, stunned at his harsh words. She lowered her head into her hands. Was he right? Was she afraid? Most of the old-time baseball guys working for her father barely tolerated her, sounding like Sam and his accusations. Her father had his own plans and her ideas were a direct counterpoint to what he wanted. Her loyalties were torn – the team who needed something to revitalize them and her father, a man who was too stubborn to change his point of view.

  As team president, she had a responsibility to the team, the employees, and the fans. As a daughter, she owed her father her loyalty, not to mention the fact that he was her boss. But what to do when her boss’s ideas no longer benefit the team? Where does that leave her?

  She restlessly tapped her pen against the wood of the conference table, the tapping keeping time with the thoughts whirling in her brain. Lucas was right about one thing. It was time to shit or get off the pot.