The Gravity of the Game

by Jon Del Arroz

“Can’t leave a pitch hanging like that, old man,” Hideki jabbed right back as he padded around third base, on his way home.

  He touched the plate. No feeling in the world could compare to hitting a home run, even in an exhibition softball game for charity among retired players.

  His teammates rushed out of the dugouts, showering Hideki with high fives and pats on the rear.

  “A walk off!” said a former New York Yankee, Reginald Garris. “Knew you had it in you, Commissioner.”

  Hideki chuckled, patting Garris on the shoulder. “How have you been, Reg? Knee holding up okay?”

  “Already had a new one popped in. Maybe I should try out for the team again. My joints are newer than the twenty-year-olds’ they got out there now, right?”

  “I think it’d be great P.R. to have an old timer back in the game. I’d be all for it,” Hideki said. The two men descended the steps into the dugout, headed through the door toward the clubhouse. “You been following the WBL news lately?”

  “Yeah. Rough year for you, huh? Happens a lot around this time in a commissioner’s cycle. Honeymoon over, people think they can do a better job than you. Don’t let it get to you, though, you hear?” Garris stopped, turning back to Hideki with a serious look to his eye.

  Hideki also halted as their teammates continued down the long, underground hallway. “I appreciate the support, Reg. I really do. Have you heard anything from the Yankees’ ownership board?”

  Garris shook his head. “Just rumors here and there. Board’s split on how to cast their vote should a no-confidence situation arise. For now they’re not talking about anything. They’re waiting to see how things hash out in the media, I think.”

  “I’ve had the same response from most club ownerships I’ve approached. No one wants to get involved or rock the boat. It’s frustrating,” Hideki said.

  “Everyone will see you’re working your tail off, Ichiro,” Reginald said with a nod. “You don’t gotta worry. Supporting charities like this today—that’ll get you some love from the media, and the ownership here too. Don’t think they don’t see you supporting them.”

  Hideki shrugged. “That’s not why I do this sort of thing. You know that.”

  “I do, and that’s why I love you. Now let’s get goin’ and sign some autographs, shall we?” He motioned his head toward the clubhouse and walked that direction.

  Hideki followed.

  Once in the clubhouse, Hideki showered and changed with the rest of the players before heading up to a reception banquet hall. The room was set up to seat about a thousand people at tables for a meal, and had a table at the front where some of the players were already signing autographs for the Chicago elites who paid good money for this charity gala.

  Hideki took his place behind his name placard, picked up a pen and signed a photograph that was placed in front of him. “Who should I make this out to?” he asked.

  “Rebecca Egli,” a voice said.

  The woman’s voice caused Hideki to look upward. He’d heard that voice before, and when he saw her face—a blonde woman in her late forties, dressed in formal, professional attire—he recognized her instantly. “It’s good to have EdgyCola’s support at this fundraiser,” Hideki said, looking down again to scribble the name. What a fortuitous meeting, considering his conversation with Dr. Gray the other evening. “Rebecca… your daughter?”

  “That’s right,” the woman said. “She’ll be thrilled to get so many Hall of Famer autographs in one evening. How’s the league doing?”

  “We’ve had better days, though we still appreciate your company’s sponsorship,” Hideki said. He slid the photo back to her.

  The woman, Karen Egli, EdgyCola’s vice president of marketing, and one of the heirs to the Cola company’s original fortunes, held the photo up. She blew gently on the ink so it would dry. “We’d be foolish not to, when we can provide concessions at all of the WBL’s ballparks. Sorry to hear your day isn’t going well. I’ve seen the news lately, and I for one wouldn’t support your opposition. If I were able to vote,” Karen said.

  “The sentiment is appreciated. I’ve received a lot of support from our sponsors and players.” Hideki tried to keep a neutral, professional tone.

  Karen turned her head. “I hate to hold up the line, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you anyway. I read in the Wall Street Journal that you took a tour of Luna City a few weeks ago—visited a hospital up there.” She tilted her head. “I’m guessing that was more than a simple charity visit?”

  Hideki glanced at the other players, each rushing along in their autographs and none appearing to pay much heed to his conversation with Karen. He turned his attention back to her. “Yes. I made a formal report to the board, but we haven’t released that to the public.”

  “You’ve talked in past interviews about bringing baseball to the moon. I keep track of these things.” Karen smiled. She was fishing.

  “You know me well.”

  “I try to pay attention to people that have something worthwhile to say. So what’s the conclusion? Should I be buying rights to the first Lunar team?”

  Hideki considered Karen’s interest in the moon. Though she surely enjoyed baseball, she had to have something more in mind. “This is about EdgyCola’s lunar property interest.”

  “I wear my heart on my sleeve, Mr. Ichiro. And my heart belongs to the company.”

  Hideki tried not to let his excitement show. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up too soon. We found that baseball under different gravities would be untenable. There are other technologies perhaps that could provide an equilibrium, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.”

  Karen raised a brow, and then reached into her handbag. She produced a business card and slid it across the table to Hideki. “If anything develops on that front, call me. Perhaps we could work out some kind of partnership?” She surveyed the signed photo. “Something to think on. Thanks again for the autograph.”

  Karen sauntered off and the next person in line came forward. Hideki signed autographs again.

  Reginald Garris set his pen down and smirked at Hideki. “Getting pretty ladies’ numbers, are you?”

  Hideki chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing like that. Could be the start of something good, though.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about it later,” Reggie said.

  They spent the next hour and a half signing for the fans.

  The next week marked another meeting of the WBL’s ownership board. Tanya Nelson flew in from Australia, representing Melbourne’s ownership. Yonder Cabrera sat across the table from her, never missing a meeting as of late. He had a glower directed firmly at Hideki.

  Cespedes hit the gavel onto the table, clearing the chatter from the other twenty board members in attendance. “Let’s begin. First on the agenda, we have a proposal from the player’s union to make substantive contract changes, starting next season.”

  That produced grumbles from all present.

  “All right, settle down,” Hideki said. “The Union’s been talking about these changes for years, and none of us want a strike on our hands.”

  Tanya Nelson cleared her throat to garner attention. “Our accounting team ran numbers on this proposal. It’ll create a substantive loss in revenue for teams over time,” she said. “Melbourne can’t support the proposal.”

  Jared Stewart leaned in toward the table from Hideki’s right. “Look, Tanya. Hideki’s right. They’ll strike if we don’t make the changes. We don’t have much choice.”

  Chicago Cubs General Manager Jim Wan chimed in. “We could just put up replacement players, tell the union to go stuff their—“

  “You think that you’d lose revenue with the changes?” Hideki cut the man off before he could finish with his colorful word choices. “But not with replacement players? Come now. No one will be watching baseball without the stars.”

  “For a time,” Jim Wan said, folding his arms over his chest. A stubborn man, not to mention severely anti-union in both b
aseball and in his political leanings.

  “It’ll bankrupt several clubs in the process, possibly all of us,” Hideki said. “Come now, see reason. If we cooperate with the union, maybe we could get some concessions on other matters? An increased playoff pool of teams, perhaps? That would generate more money for everyone.”

  The room grumbled again, but about half of them sounded happier with that prospect. Everyone loved more post-season games, with winning teams competing in full stadiums. Increasing the number of eligible teams increased revenue for everyone, as the races for those spots opened up further.

  “Obtain for us, in writing, the sign off for an extension of these playoffs, and the South American league will agree,” Brazilian owner Faye Cardoso said. Her words elicited rumbles of agreements.

  “I’ll talk to them and we’ll bring this back next meeting,” Hideki said. It wasn’t quite a victory, but close enough. At least he didn’t have to hear another ask from Toluca’s team.

  “I would like to interject with a matter.” Yonder Cabrera stood. “The case regarding Toluca’s move and approval of a new stadium in Santiago Tianguistenco. Our ownership demands a vote. This matter has been tabled for too long.”

  Guierlmo Rodriguez inclined his head, smirked at Yonder Cabrera, and spoke with derision. “I propose we table this matter for a future meeting.”

  Yonder Cabrera’s eyes showed he was out for blood. He launched himself toward his rival team’s owner, grasping the man by the collar. “Tu eres un perro feo!” he shouted, shaking the man.

  “Security!” Rodriguez hollered, trying unsuccessfully to push Cabrera off of him.

  Jared and Cespedes both jumped up from their seats. Each took one of the fighting men by the arm and pulled them back, peeling the two apart. Yonder Cabrera pushed forward all the same. “This is unacceptable. You will pay for this!”

  “Order!” Hideki shouted, trying to get the gathered owners’ attention once more. “We won’t have any violence in here, or I’ll kick both of you out and fine both teams.”

  “But he—” Cabrera started.

  “Both of you,” Hideki said, voice firm. “Settle down.”

  Cabrera glowered at Hideki, pushing Jared away from him before dusting off his suit. “Then do your duty, Commissioner, and order a vote on the matter.”

  Rodriguez pouted, but remained silent.

  What could he do? If Mexico City did threaten to part with the league, it could cause bigger rifts. There were already rumors circulating of breaking up the WBL into smaller, regional leagues, which Hideki believed would sink the game. With markets that only turned profits sporadically, professional baseball was too volatile to exist without solidarity between teams. Revenue sharing would mean nothing if teams like Mexico City pulled out. The game would lose teams and everyone would sink as a result. Couldn’t these short-sighted owners see that?

  The true problem was that the ownership of these teams had been presented with far too much negative news and unresolved problems over the last several meetings. Hideki needed to do something to put a stop to the bleeding.

  “Can I please hear a vote on whether to table this motion?” Hideki asked, trying to restore the meeting to order.

  What he heard back was mostly “aye” but a few “nay” mixed in, more than the last time. Was Toluca gaining traction? This could pose a bigger problem than he had thought.

  “The aye’s have it. We’ll table this until next meeting,” Hideki said.

  Cabrera fumed. Hideki could see it, but he did not avoid the man’s eyes. That would be a sign of weakness, something he couldn’t show now.

  “I propose another matter then,” Cabrera said through clenched teeth.

  “Now is not the time to open suggestions,” Cespedes said.

  “I don’t care!” Cabrera shouted. “This has gone on too long. I want a vote of no confidence for the commissioner, now. No delays!”

  Rumbles erupted around the table.

  Jared leaned in, motioning for attention. “It’s against the bylaws to have a vote of no confidence based on a suggestion. It clearly states that members propose a vote on the matter, which in turn gets scheduled for the following meeting,” he said.

  “Then I motion for that!” Cabrera retorted, angry. He looked around the table. “Who’s with me?”

  “Seconded,” Tanya Nelson said, her voice much more reserved than Cabrera’s.

  An uneasy pause filled the room. Hideki scanned the assembled group. Many of the owners, people he considered his friends, said “aye.” There were more of them than had voted to table the motion of Teluca’s move. The very people who he’d worked with for years, who placed him here, had betrayed him.

  Cespedes looked to him, as did Jared. Hideki didn’t know what to say. He cleared his throat, but a frog crept into it anyway, cracking his voice. “Very well, we will have the vote on the matter at our next stated meeting. I assume there are candidates for the position at the ready?”

  Cabrera narrowed his eyes at Hideki. “There will be by the next meeting. This I promise.”

  Jared stood, hovering behind Hideki. “Well, I believe we’ve had enough excitement for the day. Let’s break the meeting, shall we? Anything we haven’t covered can be downloaded via your information packets. There is a lot to consider.”

  “I second this motion,” Cespedes said.

  “With that, we’ll break,” Hideki said. He pushed back his chair, Jared and Cespedes flanking either side, as if to put a stop to any other unwanted conversations. Being around this many people felt like walls constricting around him. Breathing proved difficult. He had to get out of here, had to think. How could his career, his life, go up in smoke so quickly?

  The owners filed out of the room.

  Hideki reached into his office desk drawer. In the three hours since the WBL owners meeting, his headache had compounded multiple times. After fumbling around his junk drawer for a few moments, he produced an inhalant anti-inflammatory. He breathed in, depressing the tab to release the painkiller, and closed his eyes.

  The office held peacefully quiet for him, and his headache dulled within moments. After hours of a blur of anger and hopelessness, Hideki could finally find enough of a grounding to think about his situation.

  When had he lost control of the WBL board? The Toluca situation had been festering for years. It wasn’t as if that team had any particular power. Mexico City had the biggest draw of any team south of the Los Angeles Dodgers. That situation hadn’t become more critical in recent months, except to Yonder Cabrera, perhaps.

  Collective bargaining with the players’ union hadn’t been Hideki’s fault as a commissioner either. As a player, he had gone through many negotiations where he’d heard the rumblings of team owners complaining it would “sink baseball.” Injury prevention had been the hot topic then, as seventy-nine percent of pitchers blew out their elbow ligaments within their first three WBL seasons, requiring invasive surgery. The player’s union wanted measures to prevent against that, and in the end, they obtained them. Decades later, pitcher injuries had been halved. The WBL still existed, a robust entity that could survive typhoons, let alone high tides.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Hideki looked up to see Jared Stewart standing in front of the sidelight of his office. “Come in,” Hideki said, motioning Jared toward him.

  Jared stepped inside, a look of concern chiseled into his eyes. “Hey, Hideki, how you holding up?”

  “My head finally doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode. That’s a plus, right?” Hideki chuckled to himself.

  Jared stepped toward him and took one of the guest chairs across from his desk. “The whole office feels like we just had a funeral. I don’t think anyone here wants you out as commissioner. It’s been a good few years. Baseball’s at the best it’s ever been.”

  Hideki grimaced. “I appreciate the kind words, but that’s not true.”

  Jared leaned forward, as if about to argue.

 
Hideki held up a hand. “Hear me out. The whole reason we started the lunar expedition is because we had been brainstorming ideas to increase attendance and viewership. We’ve been on a decline. It started before I became commissioner, true, but the sentiment we’re feeling from the club owners is because they’re afraid it’s the bottom of the ninth and we’re down too many runs to mount a real comeback.”

  Jared appeared to contemplate Hideki’s words. His dark eyes softened, losing a little of the fighting spark that they held when he entered the room. His shoulders dropped. “Yeah, you’re right. So what do we do?”

  “That’s the billion yuan question. I’ve been sitting here for hours thinking. Really we’ve been spending months just thinking, and we haven’t come up with a solution.” Hideki leaned over onto his desk, head in hands. “Or Cabrera could be right. Perhaps we do need some new blood in here to come up with solutions.”

  “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?” a voice said.

  Hideki looked up to see Cespedes standing in the doorway.

  Cespedes shook his head. “No way. The Hideki Ichiro I played with never gave up. Two strikes, down by four, no runners on, didn’t matter. He was one of the hardest workers in the game, all the way to the end of his career.”

  Hideki chuckled. “Come in, Cespedes. We’re brainstorming.” His long time friend had always been known as a “clubhouse guy,” the type of person that could lift spirits even when a team was in a slump. These last few weeks he had proven no different. They probably could use that now.

  Cespedes took the offer with a nod, helping himself to the chair beside Jared. “Here’s what I think. I think you go straight to the media and blow this whole thing up.”

  Jared paled at the suggestion. “Starting fights like that does no good. If we go after Cabrera and their crew from the commissioner’s office, we’ll give them more validity if anything.”

  “I tend to agree with Jared,” Hideki said. He leaned back in his chair. “But what do you have in mind?”

  “That’s not what I meant, exactly,” Cespedes said. He grinned. “Your moon ball. Your last report you talked about some scientist that could toy with gravity, right? Make it just like here earthside?”