[scuffleball]

February 6, 2004
The Country Kitchen Restaurant
D Street
South Charleston, WV

The meeting had been going on for more than two hours and showed no signs of ending any time soon. Eight men, each wearing an expensive suit, and been huddled around a wobbly table in the far corner of the diner and conversing in hushed whispers since arriving. They had ordered very little, and it was clear they were not in the restaurant to eat.

“What are they going on about?” a waitress asked the cashier as she passed by, indicating the group with a tip of her head.

“Don’t know,” the cashier replied with a shrug. “Something about baseball, I think.”

The waitress’s face lifted with that. “The Mountaineer League?” she whispered, moving closer to the cashier’s counter. “I was really excited when they made the announcement a couple days ago. Watched it on TV.”

The cashier shrugged again; she wasn’t a sports fan, let alone a baseball fan.

The waitress sighed and decided to walk up to the group, her curiosity getting the best of her. The men quieted as she approached.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I was just wondering if you all work for the new baseball league that’s starting up next year,” she inquired, clearing off some empty glasses from their table. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you were talking about baseball.”

In unison, their expressions soured.

“No, not quite,” one of the men replied less than enthusiastically.

The waitress smiled in apology and hastily returned to her duties.

Charles Martin watched the waitress walk off with a sigh. Damned Mountaineer League was already taking hold.

“If I were a superstitious man, I would take that question as a bad omen,” one of the men, Tom Goodwin, remarked with a smirk. He glanced around the table. “Fortunately for me, I don’t believe in superstitions.”

The group shared a thin chuckle, followed by a moment of uneasy silence. The meeting had been tense up to this point, the eight men having become clearly divided into two camps, “pro-league” and “pro-integration”. The first camp, lead by Charles Martin, was hellbent on the formation of a new baseball league to collect those markets in the state that were recently denied membership into the ten-team Mountaineer League. This group consisted of the aforementioned Martin, Doug Neale of Moundsville, Sam McConnell of Teays Valley, and Jimmy Brustle of St. Albans. The second camp, consisting of Paul Cottrell of Weirton, Greg Stynes of Dunbar, Frank Giammi of Vienna, and Tom Goodwin of Cross Lanes, were not as convinced. They clearly wanted to make some kind of deal with the Mountaineer League, either as part of a farm club system or eventual expansion.

“I agree,” Martin remarked, almost unexpectedly, and his words drew some surprised expression and raised eyebrows from his supporters. “But we can’t let the fact that a waitress in South Charleston thinks we’re the Mountaineer League dissuade us.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“I’m just worried about the economies of this whole thing, Charles,” Paul Cottrell spoke up. A few other of the men silently nodded their agreement.

The pro-league group shared a knowing look. Of the eight owners gathered for the meeting, Cottrell was easily the weakest link in terms of founding a rival league. His intentions to join the Mountaineer League were well known, even now, three days after the announcement of the ten franchises that had made the cut for the fledgling circuit.

“I mean, these are unchartered waters, if you ask me,” Cottrell pressed after a moment. “What makes us think that the Mountaineer League is going to work, let alone flooding the cup with a whole other league?”

“Paul’s got a point,” Tom Goodwin chimed in. “This is a damned risky move on our part. If we come out and announce another new league, so soon after their announcement, we’ll just look like a group of bitter old men who didn’t get into the club.”

“Agreed,” Greg Stynes noted. “I’ve wanted a professional baseball league in this state for a long time, but as I sit here and think this over, the more I am left with one question: What makes us think that this state will support another, rival league? More importantly, what makes you, Charles, think that the eight of us can make this thing work?”

All eyes fell on Charles Martin, and with an easy smile, he met them all.

“Gentlemen, I believe we are putting the horse before the cart here,” he began, calmly, thoughtfully, as if he had considered those questions before. “You are approaching this from the perspective that we have established the league. We have done no such thing. This meeting, the first of many, I hope, is to merely discuss, among friends, our options. Clearly, one option is to form our own league.”

“We aren’t here to cement the league tonight,” Doug Neale noted. “Like Charles said, we’re here to talk, discuss, to get to know one another and see if this is possibly something that we may want to take on.”

Jimmy Brustle leaned across the table, and everyone unconsciously huddled in around him. Brustle was a thick, heavy-set man with bushy black curls for hair and eyes that bristled with an unbridled love of life. If he wasn’t smiling, you knew something was wrong.

“Gentlemen,” he began with a mischievous smirk. “Let me be as honest as I can here. Like some of you, I have my doubts about this new league idea. I hate the idea of being one of those guys, you know? One of those party-pooper types who just storms forward regardless of the time and effort put into someone else’s project.”

He seemed to revel in the pregnant pause for a moment.

“But this ain’t one of those times, you know? We all love baseball . . . hell, it’s America’s game! And a couple days ago, it became West Virginia’s game, too. We just happened to be on the outside looking in, and that stings for sure, but it’s reality. Now, do we sit back and just let those other guys have all the fun? I, for one, say hell no! No where in the rules of baseball does it say that only one league is allowed.”

He paused again.

“I looked, it ain’t there.”

“I find it hard to believe that you read the rulebook!” Sam McConnell joked and the group laughed, the tension now easing.

Brustle smiled, lighting a cigar, and easing back in his less-than-comfortable chair. “Never said I read it . . . I said I looked. Big difference.”

The group laughed again, and the tension finally relented. Orders for food picked up, and soon three waitresses were buzzing around the table. As they dined, discussions revolved around more practical matters – where to get players, the length of any potential schedule, possible venues, all matters Charles Martin was more than happy to allow to blossom.

As they finished their respective meals, Paul Cottrell eyed Charles Martin curiously. “I’m not 100 percent convinced about this whole thing, Charles, but I can say that you at least have my attention for now,” he said with a smile.