Mark Jazzington - a managerial career

[Y0DA55]

Well done... new girl and everything. I really enjoyed the last chapter. Keep it up!

[Jazzmosis]

Thanks. I'm still playing out the games right now (I'm on Sept 26th), and let me tell you, it's a burner watching these guys play. I won't say much other then the tension is high. VERY high.

I'll have the chapter down as soon as I write it, even if that's a 4AM drop. This is too exciting to not write about!

[The Funk]

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

Thanks. I'm still playing out the games right now (I'm on Sept 26th), and let me tell you, it's a burner watching these guys play. I won't say much other then the tension is high. VERY high.

I'll have the chapter down as soon as I write it, even if that's a 4AM drop. This is too exciting to not write about!

God Damn, you're going to keep me up all night!

Regarding the last post, where you said you felt you were missing that characteristic or something. The one thing I'd suggest is not to worry too much about the baseball aspect of it. I know that might sound odd about a baseball dynasty, but with both your dynasty and Tib's I personally find the off-field stuff - the characters, little storylines etc. far more interesting than the actual on-field action. Guys like Vasser and Dewbury (who was brilliantly written, whenever he showed up it automatically brought a smile to my face!) really liven up the story. Maybe what you're missing is a few more different guys to build stories around.

Basically, you seem to have a lot of creativity, don't feel bound to the baseball storyline, let that imagination loose!

[Jazzmosis]

Here we are, 3 hours short of my 4AM drop, Chapter 28: The .500 Girl of Mark Jazzington. I think I've hyped this one up enough already. . . so without any more talking. . .

Enjoy!

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 28: The .500 Girl

The tension going into the month was high, and each game did nothing to release it. The first game of the month put us within one game of .500, at 67-68. Vasser picked up his 10th win in the decision, and I could taste breaking even. My excitement grew.

But like the girls I went to highschool with, .500 was a tease. You could try and try, throwing your best moves at that one girl you wanted to be with, while forgetting about reality in the process. It didn’t matter how she played you, or how she just wanted your money, she was the cusp of your happiness - and without her, you were incomplete. She was shallow, you became hollow - but reality became her, and the rest of the real world became details. That was .500 to me.

We spun into a three-game losing streak, but then turned around and brought two wins back. It was at this point that I made a bold (and highly criticized) decision. This decision was motivated by an injury - typically.

Benjamin Sizer had been called up with the September AAA’ers after an impressive campaign, but promptly injured himself in a bullpen session. The trainers said he would be out of action for two weeks, and when Eastwood caught wind of this, he came to me.

“I’m going to call up another rookie. Actually, we just drafted him this year. Ubarri will join your staff until Ben recovers.”

I shuffled. “Is Ubarri ready?”

“No.” Eastwood responded bluntly. “But we’ve got nobody else.”

“Then if he’s not ready, don’t call him up.” I said. “If Sizer’s only gone two weeks, I can manage without him. There’s enough off-days in the month for me to run a 4 man rotation.”

Eastwood eyed me suspiciously. “4 man? It’s taxing on the arms.”

“Maybe so, but it’s better then having a guy get shelled every 5 days and lose his confidence.”

My boss nodded and shrugged. “Alright, if that’s what you think we should do. . . but I hope it works.”

I smirked. “It’s the best option. It’ll work.”


After trading wins and losses for four days, James Vasser, the man I loathed, was scheduled to make his start - on 3 days rest. The media harped me about my “idiotic, arm-killing end-all solution from hell”, and when I told Vasser to get his arm ready, he gave me a peculiar look. “I’m not going till ‘morrow, Skip.”

“No. You’re going tonight. Against Milwaukee.” I retorted.

“Milwaukee’s the best team, Skip.” He took a step back, but I took a step forward.

“What’s wrong, Vasser? You’re always talking **** about how you’re the best, and now you have a chance to prove you can beat the best on short-rest. . . after all the doubting I’ve done on you. . . all the grief you’ve caused in the clubhouse. . . finally, you get someone to recognize the fact we’ve all wanted to ignore: You’re the best pitcher on the team, James. Hell, you tell people that enough. And now that I’ve finally accepted it, you’re going to back down from the challenge you’ve wanted all year? So you were just ****-talking the entire year?”

Vasser stuttered. For once, I had caught him off guard and he didn’t know what to say. I had spent the entire year taming his ego, and with one blurted clubhouse conversation I’d given him a blank cheque to let it out. “Skip. . .” he started to speak, his voice subdued. “Skip, I won’t let you down.”

“See that you don’t. You’ll make yourself look like a dumbass.”

He threw a complete game shutout.


The next night, Steven Mack, the mid-season Bill Mathews replacement, gave us our second win in a row, and a chance to sweep. We were at 72-73, one victory from the winning the .500 girl over. I was emotional on the 14th, during Mack’s win. Teammates gave me strange looks - I was pacing, I was yelling, I was fist-pumping for each play, each run, each out. Until then, I had rarely showed emotion during games.

But what could be sweeter than reaching .500 by beating the NL’s best team? I marched Giichi out to usher in the brooms. . . and he lasted 5 innings, giving up 4 runs. We were down 5-4 in the 7th when ice-cold Antonio Moreno blasted a home run to tie the game up. I leapt out of the dugout, congratulating the quiet Dominican player with too much enthusiasm. But I didn’t care. I wanted this win, and in the top of the 9th, my wish was granted.

Yong flew out to start it off, but Gongora then singled. Aaron Delph worked a four-pitch walk, which prompted me to pinch run Gongora for Ronnie Smith. “Be dangerous.” I whispered to him.

Smith took off for 3rd on the first pitch, beating the throw to the hot corner by a smidgen. Delph was nearly thrown out at second, because he got such an awful jump, they had a chance to gun him down from third. Then, John McConnell lifted a ball to deep centre. . . it was caught, but Smith was plated. We took a 6-5 lead. I went ballistic, screaming in joy and slapping Schlater’s back so hard he fell over. “Smithy! Smithy! Smithy for MVP!” I called into the stands, which was met with a chorus of boos. I waved my hand at the fans dismissively, and leapt back into the dugout.

I sent Look out to finish the game. 1 out. I cheered. 2 outs. I cheered louder, and got on the top step of the dugout. 1 strike. 2 strikes. I was shaking with anticipation, my teammates smiling and pointing, but clearly catching on - they all stood by the fence. 1 ball. 2 balls. “Looky for MVP!” I screamed, and he turned his head in my direction, with his token smile. Fans booed me, but I ignored it. A chant was started in the stands: ‘Toss the Jazz.’

Look reared back, and sent a curve on the outside corner of the plate. The ball was slapped to D-Rod at short, who scooped it up with grace, and made the toss to Moreno for the out. I burst from the dugout, my hands raised in triumph, my mouth screaming. I’d got the .500 girl.

The next day, she threw me away, as Andrzejewski continued his September meltdown with a loss to Colorado. But I swooned her back into my arms on the 17th, as Vasser gave me 5.1 innings of 0 runs in a 9-2 victory, which was topped by Gongora’s grand slam. Incidently, that put his RBI total to 119, 16 more than Renick. That competition was all but over.

And then it happened. Lost in the bliss of my goal, I got sloppy. Four-game sloppy. We lost the next three games, then on the 22nd, blew a 4 run lead in the 9th inning to up the total to four straight losses. Mired at 74-78, I was livid. When Renick argued a call the next night, I came out and body checked the umpire - resulting in a 5,000 dollar fine and a three game suspension.

I watched from my apartment couch as the team totalled three wins over my absence. I could not let my .500 girl go. However, it was on that night (25th) that I called the real girl, Kate.

“Hello Kate!” I blurted into the phone energetically.

“Hey, Mark.” She responded quietly. “I didn’t see you at the gates the last few games. Is everything okay? Did I do something to upset you?”

I chuckled. “Nope, I just got suspended for tackling an umpire in Los Angeles. Anyways, I didn’t call about that.”

“Oh. . .” she mumbled.

“I know we don’t know each other all that well, but I’d like to get to know you better. Want to go out with me, sometime, someplace, for some reason?”

Looking back on it, it was the most idiotic way to ask out a girl - I was never much for smooth moves. But she said yes.


When I returned to the diamond on the 27th, after an off day, my sweet .500 girl only a win away, I was greeted with a mild neglect. I pointed at Vasser, who was becoming my go-to guy. He’d won 3 games in the month, and since I’d put my confidence in him, he wouldn’t shut up about how he was the next Seth Wester (the career wins leader since 1959). Teammates weren’t happy about having to deal with that. But we lost that night, and Vasser took his 9th defeat poorly. He smashed a table in the clubhouse and literally ripped the door off his locker. We had six games to play, and four of them had to be wins. I realized something during his rampage, though: I’d have done the same thing.

Andrzejewski won the next night, putting us at 78-79. Look picked up his 34th save, which took the lead in the NL.

But that game was followed with two losses, and on October first, with three games to go, I realized that I had to win them all to keep my job. We were one game into a four game set with San Francisco that would close out the season. I put Sizer on the mound - Sizer, of all pitchers, would have to step up and keep my job hopes alive.


I should have known better, and pitched Vasser. Sizer went 4 innings and gave up 5 runs, and when the 9th inning ended, the score was 8-3. For San Francisco. After flirting with my .500 girl for a whole month, my obsession, her curves so sleek, her price so high, I suddenly realized the fact I was so sure I wouldn’t have to: She was gone. We were 78-82.

Not only had I failed myself, I’d cost Eastwood his job. I saw him in the clubhouse after the game, his head low - he didn’t look at me as we passed, he didn’t say a word. Maybe it was for the better - I don’t know what I wanted to say to him. The man had put his job on the line for me, and I’d let him down. That reality hurt more than knowing my job was gone, and my life in Arizona was going to move on. My baseball career would change cities - or end. Until that day, I’d lived only for myself, satisfying my needs, looking out for my own security - but when I was saddled with somebody else’s job, I couldn’t handle it. Just as my .500 girl had teased me, it had harassed him. He was done. I was done.

I slipped into a deep depression, despite winning the next day. That turned out to be the last game of the season, as the final game was rained out and never rescheduled. The season ended at 79-82, and as far as I was concerned my Diamondbacks managing record finished at 162-161.

I dragged myself away from the stadium that dreary October night, wanting to escape the guilt of my second failure as a manager in three years. I went to the bar, alone. Kate wasn’t old enough and Hensley wasn’t up to it that night. In a quiet bar, where I hoped nobody would recognize baseball’s youngest failure, I drank. I drank until I couldn’t remember anything. Kicked out at closing time and too drunk to find my apartment, I decided to lay down on the sidewalk, to let my mind drift and permit my consciousness to leave me.

The next thing I remember was being dragged into a car, and hearing a voice that sounded similar to Christopher Look’s.

[Jestor]

This is your best chapter yet!

“See that you don’t. You’ll make yourself look like a dumbass.”

He threw a complete game shutout.

Best.Game.Summary.Ever.

[cknox0723]

Originally Posted by Jazz

“I know we don’t know each other all that well, but I’d like to get to know you better. Want to go out with me, sometime, someplace, for some reason?”

This really might have been your best work yet. Great job!

[Jazzmosis]

Woohoo! Chapter 29! This one ushers in the offseason, and personally, I think it's one of my better written chapters. Things You Ignore of Mark Jazzington will be up shortly.

Enjoy!

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 29: Things You Ignore

Look had me in the backseat of his car, and riding shotgun was a man that I didn’t recognize at first. . . until I heard him speak.

“Damn Jazzy, you sure got ****-faced last night!”

It was none other than Jerrold Dewberry, his charismatic smile and upbeat tone jeering my throbbing eardrums. As much as I wanted to tell him to shove it, I couldn’t. I didn’t even think about how where he’d come from - last I heard, he was playing for Tampa Bay’s AAA affiliate. I mumbled incoherently for a response.

“Mark, where’s your apartment from here?” Look asked softly.

I stared up at the roof of his car, lying in the back, eyes glazed over, body worn and dirty from spending the night on the sidewalk. “What. . . street?” Was all I could struggle out. I had an urge to vomit, but I clenched my stomach and held it back.

“Cleston Blvd.”

Slowly and painfully, I directed them back to my apartment. Once the back door opened, I immediately jumped out and threw up. My hair was a mess, my clothes were covered in things better left unsaid, and I fell once again - this time into my own vomit. “Just leave me here. . .” I said. But my request was ignored, as Look and Dewberry each grabbed an arm and hauled me into my apartment.

Once inside, I was greeted by Hensley and his girlfriend, both in the kitchen.

“Found him, did you?” Hensley stated.

“Yeah. Was down on the east side for some reason.” Look quipped.

“In a bar?”

“Sidewalk. Looked like he spent the night there, too. Jerrold here and I just pulled him off the street and sent him back. Lucky he didn’t get mugged.”

“Should we take him to his room?”

“Nah, just let him lie in the entrance for now. At least he’s safe.”

I blacked out again. When I woke up, face down in an old shoe, I heard voices again - this time in the living room.

“Yeah, so this punk Converse bitches out the coach cause I was started in right for the game, and before you know it, he just rips out some punches!” Dewberry’s voice.

“He took a swing at the coach?” Hensley asked.

“Yeah, but funny thing is, the coach just leans back, the kid misses and smashes his fist into the bat-rack! Breaks three fingers, and misses the last month!”

Laughter erupted. I struggled to my feet, and walked to into the room. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice deep and broken. Acid filled my throat, and I ached for water.

“Ah, you’re back, Jazzy!” Dewberry greeted me with a wide grin.

“Hey man. How’s Tampa treating you?” The thought of him being in my apartment didn’t seem odd at all. . . yet.

“Nice. Wife and kids are happy, though not that I left so suddenly.” He winked at me.

We talked for awhile, Hensley, Look, Dewberry, and I. Nobody brought up why I was on the East side nor what happened to me that night. After a long while, I finally brought up the question that was plaguing me. “Dewberry, what are you doing here?”

“Heard you were in trouble, Jazzy. Got a call from Looky here, so I flew down from Tampa to help him search.”

“You flew 3000 miles to find me?” I gave him a quizzical stare.

He just smiled and swallowed his drink.

I never carried on my questions. I realized that despite all the negative media I’d received in the three years of being in the major leagues that there was people that cared. Friendship can sometimes be a funny thing. I had never been one to keep in touch with people after leaving places - I always viewed moving as a new start, and the place I’d left as just a place for nostalgia. I left people, friends, lovers, and family behind, thinking about them from time to time but focussing on the only person I ever knew I could trust: Myself. I knew that one day either Hensley or I would leave Phoenix - we made the same salary over the two years, but I had always assumed when he made more money he would move away. Phoenix was nice, but baseball stars don’t spend their lives in apartment buildings. I just always saw myself living alone, in an apartment - I didn’t want a family or a fancy house, I just wanted to be involved in the sport I love. I was already living that dream. But at this point in my life, I had three good friends, and they all sat in the room with me at the time. Dewberry had flown out from the other side of the country because he received a call that I was in trouble - Look had delayed his return to his family in Seattle to spend the night trying to find me - and Hensley had alerted Chris I was out drinking myself to death. How many people can say they had friends like I did?


A few days passed, and I toggled between watching the playoffs start to spending the time with Kate. Of course, I never told her about my drinking stupidity, figuring she may get concerned or change her mind about dating me. She never told me about her job, saying once that she worked in a diner downtown - but something told me she was lying. It didn’t matter, I pushed aside our small differences and tried to enjoy her company. She admitted to me that she was hoping to meet me one day - she’d been to the clubhouse exit doors for nearly two weeks before finally mustering up the courage to talk to me. Touching, I suppose.


About one week after the regular season had ended, and I’d watched Oakland and the Yankees advance to the ALCS while Milwaukee lined up against St Louis for the NLCS, I got a call from Daniel Eastwood.

“Hello Mark. It’s Eastwood.”

“Hello, Mr. Eastwood.” I said, stepping away from my lunch.

“Is it possible you can meet me at my office later today? I have something to discuss with you.”

I looked to the ceiling, to the tiled floor, and to the couch. I knew I was being handed a discharge, a closure of duties with the team, and was going to receive my final paycheck before having to deal with the truth of the matter: Time to find a new job. “Sure,” I finally responded, disdain on the tip of my tongue. “When do you want me in?”

“5PM sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Please try to be on time. It’s fairly important.” Eastwood hung up.

I held the phone away from my ear for a moment. Eastwood always had a flare for suspense, but why would he tell me to be on time and that receiving my release would be important? I’d been through it already, and it was anything but exciting or important. Losing your job was depressing, as anyone could tell you.


I came on time, knocking on Eastwood’s office door. He invited me in, and gave me a seat. “Hello Mark.” He pushed his glasses back towards his eyes - his office was a mess, and he was wearing only jeans and a t-shirt - very uncharacteristic of him. I had always known him to be organized, and had always seen him wearing a suit and tie. He looked stressed, and had a glass of water, or some clear liquid within arm’s reach. His walls were stripped of any pictures or framed degrees in business. The walls were bare, his window to the outside world was closed and the blinds were pulled down. He took a quick sip from his glass and then looked at me. “Watching the playoffs?”

“Somewhat. Passes the time. I’d rather be playing in them though.” I managed a weak smile, which he returned.

“I know the feeling. Did you know that only twice in my 13 year career as a GM, that I went to the playoffs? Both times they were with the White Sox.. ‘96 and ‘97. Then I moved to Arizona when they expanded. Got a contract extension in 2001. It ends this year.”

I looked strangely at him, wondering why he would bother to give me his history - unless it was trying to soften the blow he would deal me in a few minutes. If anything, I wanted to just get my release over with. “I see. . . do you think you’ll get an extension again?” I asked, trying to force the issue.

He brushed his ruffled, receding hair back with one hand. “No. In fact, I called you here for a similar reason.”

I knew it, I remember thinking to myself. I’m toasted. “Oh, really?”

“Look, you probably don’t know this.” He paused to take a drink. “Mr. Concordian and I had a chat awhile back. He wanted to let you go.”

I acted slightly surprised, although I remembered overhearing that conversation when I was with Kizer. “Oh.”

“However, I persuaded him to let you finish out the year. He wanted a .500 season. We fell just a bit short, didn’t we?”

I nodded.

“Listen closely, Mark. I told him if you didn’t get to .500, I would pursue my GM job somewhere else. 79-82 isn’t .500, as you know. You’re also probably aware that you’re in your final year.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got only five more days before I’m finished here. I’ve already got interviews lined up in Kansas City and Detroit, so I’m not too worried. But you. You’re young and there isn’t many available managerial jobs. I know Cleveland is looking for a new guy, but that team is destitute. And I’m going to be honest with you - I like you, Mark. I think you’ve got something for pitching staffs. You’re still learning on the fly, but I believe you’ve proved your worth as a manager so far. Nobody has ever managed a team below age 30. You’re special. You connect well with the players, you find a good balance. You have the, excuse my language, the balls for baseball.” He smirked and took another drink.

I squirmed in my seat. “Thank you. But I don’t think it’ll help me get a job, at least not in the majors. You’re about the only person who believes in me.”

“Nonsense!” He smiled. “I may be done in five days, but I still have control over signings until then. That’s why. . .” he downed the last of his drink and proceeded to pour another. . . “that’s why I’m giving you an extension. Now usually these contracts take a few days to get ratified and go through the legal stuff, which is why if you’re going to take this offer, there will be very little room for negotiation. Are we clear?”

I was overcome with shock. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded. Here was a man that staked his job on me during the season, and I’d let him down. And after all that, he was still willing to go around Corcordian and give me a contract extension just before he left. “Is. . . are. . . you can do that? Won’t you get into trouble?”

“Loopholes, Mark. Mr. Corcordian told me while he finds a replacement, that I’m still in command and should contact some of the team regarding extensions. Well, here I am, doing exactly what he asked me to. In my opinion, the best leadership for this team next year is you. So I’m offering you a two year extension worth 780,000 dollars a year. What do you think?”

Inside, I wanted to jump around the room in triumph. What he was doing seemed fine, even though it was really exploiting a loophole Corcordian had failed to close. Verbal agreements can be taken in many ways. Obviously this would be a huge media frenzy, but as I thought about it, I knew I wouldn’t get a better deal - hell, I doubted I’d get ANY deal. Without thinking twice, I signed the contract extension agreement.


Sometimes, people are just ignorant of others. They get wrapped up in themselves, obsessed with their person failures, and become mired in depression. You can feel like you’re alone, but there’s always someone looking out for you - and I’m not talking about God, I’m talking about friends. I had friendships I had neglected, people believing in me when I thought I’d let them down. I never told either Jerrold Dewberry or Daniel Eastwood how much they meant to me in those early years - all I had ever wanted was a chance to prove to the business I was deserving - and Eastwood had given me that opportunity, probably ruining his reputation in the process. What more could anyone ask of a friend?

[hayesb26]

Another excellent chapter.


Glad to see the angry jazz staying in the desert.

[Tib]

Originally Posted by jazzington

I blacked out again. When I woke up, face down in an old shoe, I heard voices again - this time in the living room.

"face down in an old shoe" My favorite phrase from this chapter. Who hasn't been face down in an old shoe? Man, I felt his pain.

[cibl commish]

Great stuff as always

[The Funk]

Great chapter Jazz, probably the best-written one yet. And three cheers for Eastwood! Are we allowed to make any little editing comments? I thought the chapter flowed really well, but there was one line that didn't quite work for me:

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

“He took a swing at the coach?” Hensley asked, his tone of voice indicating how interested he was.

It kind of slows down the conversation a bit and loses some of the zip. Maybe something like:

“He took a swing at the coach?” Hensley asked incredulously./Hensley asked, his interest piqued.

Or something like that. Anyway, pedantic, annoying nitpicking aside, great stuff!

[Jazzmosis]

Fixed. Thanks. I was wondering about that line myself. And yes, I encourage little edits - they make the story better

The old shoe line is something that's from personal experience, Tib. . . except I wasn't drunk, just so exhausted from no sleep I conked out as soon as I got in the door. Good times!

[Tib]

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

The old shoe line is something that's from personal experience, Tib. . . except I wasn't drunk, just so exhausted from no sleep I conked out as soon as I got in the door. Good times!

Real stuff always makes for the best stories. You'd be surprised how close Dave's proposal day adventure was to my own.

[Jazzmosis]

Ah, Chapter 30.. Can you believe we've nearly hit 200 pages? Of course, I'm talking about if this was a book, so it's really only 100 on a word processor, but hey.. still, that's a lot. I looked into some things in the story, and it's totalled 54371 words, 4374 sentences, 1411 paragraphs, and a whopping 238,407 characters. That's as of the end of Chapter 30: Legality and Media. It's a really short chapter, but I wanted to break it into two to raise suspense.

Stay tuned, it'll be up in a few.

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 30: Legality and Media


As soon as the news got out about the signing, Concordian tried to appeal the decision. He called both Eastwood and myself in to his office at first, but couldn’t buy either of us off. Concordian said he would look into another job, and even offered me a minor league managerial position, but when I refused, he tried to give me a 100,000 dollar buyout to void the contract. I refused.

Unsatisfied, he took the issue to the commissioner’s office. This is when the media caught wind of the entire situation. . . and for the next two months, my life would turn into a massive headache that would overshadow the entire world series. The media was everywhere I went. I holed up in my apartment for three days, the phone constantly ringing, Hensley being interviewed endlessly, the media literally waiting outside the apartment to catch any new information. Occasionally, they would attempt to come up, but we stooped answering the door. Kate got involved - Hensley’s girlfriend got involved - Look got involved. The media knew no bounds, asking absolutely anyone for information. Of course, it was only a matter of time before they got to Vasser. That’s when things got really out of control. I was watching the television, unable to avoid myself being the top story, when James appeared on camera, with his-current-and-my-ex girlfriend Carolyn.

“So, you know Mark Jazzington, what can you tell us about this contract situation?” The reporter started.

“I don’t know that much about it, but that crazy **** was having troubles with the team near the end of the season.” Lie number one.

“Really?”

“Yeah. He was saying **** about how all he cared about what saving his job, that he would do anything to save it.” Lie number two.

“Interesting. Did you personally have any conflicts with him?”

“Oh yeah. He didn’t have a good feel for team balance, a lot of the players didn’t agree with what he did. I’m not surprised we did so poorly with some of the decisions he made game-time.” Lie number three.

“Is he a difficult person to work with, then? What’s he like as a person?”

“I dunno, I don’t chill with him much. He and Hensley are pretty close, but I hear he’s pretty full of himself sometimes. What do you expect? He’s probably too young to manage a team to it’s full extent.” Lie number four.

At this point I turned off the television, and threw a cup across the room. I watched with an angry lust as it smashed into tiny pieces, the remaining liquid splattering across the kitchen floor. Hensley walked out, a surprised look on his face.

“What was that?”

“****ing Vasser! ****ed the whole ****ing thing up!” I screamed.

“Oh. . . ****.” Hensley knew all too well what this meant.


Two weeks passed. St. Louis swept the Yankees to win the world series, which turned all the attention to the situation that was unfolding. Eastwood was under heavy scrutiny from the media for “backstabbing” his boss, but he denied it all, saying he didn’t do anything unethical. As a result, any chance for him to get a job was put on hold. The media was everywhere. I decided not to leave the apartment unless I had to. Which, on November 21st, that day finally came. After a month of scandal, go-nowhere interviews and Vasser pissing on my name, Eastwood, Concordian, and myself were called to a judgement board, where the contract situation would be reviewed, we would plea our case, and then a decision would be made about my future.

Concordian’s main argument throughout the trial was that Eastwood knew when he was done, and that he had expressed earlier in the season that he was unhappy with my performance and was not looking to extend my contract. When Eastwood did that, it was a breach of terms and thus the contract should not be valid.

Eastwood’s argument was that Corcordian told him to continue his duties until a suitable replacement was found - and part of those duties included resigning appropriate players and personnel that would help the team compete next year - and he looked into it, and decided that I was the best option for the success of Arizona. Since Concordian had never explicitly told him who to resign and who to cut loose, it was up to him to make those decisions. There was nothing unethical or invalid about the contract, regardless of Eastwood’s removal from power being close and the conflict of interest over me.

I was lost for what to say. I basically repeated Eastwood’s argument, but I did not have much knowledge of contract ratification procedures. I had just signed the deal.

The board began to review the arguments and the contract itself. The media hounded me for the day gap in between, outside the building, back to my apartment. . . until finally, the day rolled over, and I found myself returning to the board - in the same suit I wore the day before. In my stressed out state, I didn’t think to buy a second one. . . or a different tie. But the day was here, and the decision was going to be made.

I stood as the judge walked in, sat back down as he sat, and shuffled nervously as he arranged his papers, stroked his thin, bearded chin, and began to speak.

Next week: Chapter 31: Decision

[Y0DA55]

We have to wait a whole week?!!?!?!?!

Well done Jazz. I look forward to the resolution.

[jaykno14]

Man not another week until we get another chapter!

[cubuff38]

That was killer. Not coutning the fact that you are an awesome writer with a story that has gripped me like no other, just for that ending, YOU SUCK!

Prediction: He's keepin his job and visiting Playoff City in a year.