“Commissioner!” “Mr. Ichiro!” “Why won’t you answer?” a chorus of reporters said, rushing the stage.
Hideki hurried off, with Cespedes and Jared quick to guard him from the onslaught. Dr. Gray and Karen Egli had an easier time leaving the room. Unfortunately, no one cared about them and the massive project they were about to undertake. This should have been a monumental occasion in human history, and instead it devolved into a circus of reporters trying to get a scoop on Hideki’s potential ousting.
“I thought you handled that pretty well. We’ll have our reporters from WBL-dot-com put out some good pieces about what this means for baseball and mankind,” Jared said, patting Hideki on the arm.
“It didn’t go the way I wanted.” Hideki balled his fist and took in a deep breath to calm himself. “This should have been a victory.”
“It still will be,” Karen Egli said, approaching after she spoke to someone at the side of the stage. Security cut off any reporters who tried to get overly aggressive.
“You think so?” Cespedes asked.
“I do.” Karen Egli nodded. “It will require patience. The public won’t truly care about this until the field is built and we demonstrate for a fact that baseball can be played on the moon’s surface.”
“You’ve seen my gravity plates work,” Dr. Gray said. He offered Hideki a weak smile. “There won’t be a problem, especially with how much solar power the moon has to offer. I wish I’d thought of that sooner.”
“You needed someone with access to the real estate anyway,” Karen Egli said.
Hideki extended his hand, shaking first Karen Egli’s and then Dr. Gray’s. “Thank you both for coming. I’d hoped you’d get a little more press spotlight. Sorry for the way reporters are.”
“I know it all too well.” Karen Egli laughed. “Shall we do lunch?”
Jared and Cespedes nodded to that.
“Sounds good,” Dr. Gray said.
Hideki frowned. “No, I think I should get back to work, make sure this doesn’t turn a P.R. opportunity into a nightmare. The rest of you can go though.”
“You sure?” Cespedes asked. “You could use a little break sometimes.”
“Maybe after this vote-of-no-confidence crisis is over. I’ll catch up with you guys back at the office, okay?” Hideki said.
No one else fought him on that, and the four others walked off toward the back exit, away from the media frenzy in the ballroom.
Hideki veered toward the elevator and hit the call button on the wall. He smoothed down his suit, waiting for the car to arrive. In many ways, he missed the itchy and clinging material of his old baseball uniforms. In his youth, he hadn’t appreciated wearing those, especially the retro-throwback jerseys which, for whatever reason, had the most uncomfortable design in the name of authenticity.
Yonder Cabrera himself stepped from the elevator cab when the doors opened. Cabrera hesitated. Then fire filled his eyes as he seemed to come to the realization that Hideki stood alone.
“You don’t have any of your usual flunkies around to fight your battles for you this time, do you?” Cabrera asked with a mocking laugh. His fist clenched at his side.
Hideki wasn’t sure what to do. Was the man going to try to pummel him like he nearly did at the last ownership meeting? As much as Cabrera’s biting words about his flunkies were cruel and ridiculous, Hideki didn’t relish the thought of a fight. First, he was much smaller than the man in front of him, but second, he abhorred violence. They were adults, not brawling school children. Couldn’t Cabrera see that? “Yonder, calm down. You called for the vote of no confidence already. You’re going to get your say.”
“I watched your press conference,” Cabrera said, his anger not diffused in the least by Hideki’s words. “You’re trying to distract from the vote, get baseball onto a different track, and further ignore the issues of my team. Do you know how much money I’m losing every year in this location?”
“I’m well aware, Yonder,” Hideki said, hands up in front of himself in a surrendering posture. He kept his voice level as he could. “We’re doing everything we can, but the territory rights are going to take time.”
“We’ll see how much time it takes when I’m commissioner.” Cabrera kept his eyes zeroed in on Hideki and then brushed past him, ramming his shoulder into Hideki intentionally.
Hideki stumbled, but he held his ground and didn’t look back. Anger like that wouldn’t be helped by further engagement. As commissioner, this whole situation with Toluca’s relocation was a no-win situation. A change in leadership wouldn’t help either. The team owners had all the cards here. Why couldn’t Cabrera understand that?
He shook his head and proceeded into the elevator.
The next board meeting arrived before Hideki could blink. The press conference did have an effect on public perception, but it had a secondary effect of bombarding his staff with interview requests. Hideki had spent the last week fielding those, and dodging the ones that appeared like they would be traps. That, coupled with his regular duties, left him no time to actually handle the politicking and glad-handing necessary for the no-confidence vote.
At this stage of Hideki’s career, the thought of politics left a sour taste in his mouth. As a player, he had been judged based on his work. His efforts through high school, and the hours spent in the back yard honing his swing on a tee, paid off with a scholarship. In college, he was the first to the locker room and the last to leave, hounding the coaching staff for extra time to help him with his fielding capabilities, or to throw a few more balls for batting practice. His hard work and resolve had impressed scouts in both of those cases, which led him to getting drafted by the WBL.
Only in his retirement had he seen the world of politics. Back offices, front offices, the league itself, it didn’t matter. Every position came as an offer because of his popularity as a player. Hideki was grateful for the opportunities, as few ever maintained such a long career in the game, but talent wasn’t the end-all determination of who received a job, or how long one stayed at one.
In the public perception of the league, the actual results didn’t matter. If baseball were declining, it didn’t matter how much he slowed that descent. Grumpy owners would blame him for the situation. If someone’s revenues were up, owners would pretend to be his friend again, but that only lasted so long as the commissioner’s office towed their line. So many people over the years had told him that sports took the old adage, “What have you done for me lately?” to an extreme. In reality, the offices had it far worse than on the field.
Even so, people generally liked Hideki. Perhaps it was his name, his records, his past MVP awards—but baseball executives coalesced around him, which placed Hideki in the commissionership proper. He’d been here for how many seasons now? Each year went by like a blur at this age. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough time in the least. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, lose.
Baseball was life.
The conference room doors opened. Jared and Cespedes filed in, along with several familiar faces. Guierlmo Rodriguez and Yonder Cabrera made their way in toward the end of the table, neither looking happy. At least they were united in something.
“Cespedes, will you get this meeting started?” Hideki asked once the room had filled. He had to appear strong, and not let his nerves get the best of him. Too much speaking would cause him problems, so he’d planned to hand most of the meeting over to his subordinates. Despite Yonder Cabrera’s ambitions, there remained a high probability that someone from this office would end up with the commissionership when this all ended.
The meeting proceeded as usual. Cespedes took roll, and discussed the agenda points.
Throughout the meeting, Hideki hardly listened. He couldn’t focus on baseball operations or anything else. His job was on the line. This was his bottom of the ninth with two outs. He needed to hit a home run here even to tie the game and stay in his place. Otherwise he’d be out, and this time for good.
Sweat dripped in
his suit. He shifted uncomfortably.
Cespedes drew in a deep breath. “Let’s move on to our next topic,” he said, eyes shifting to glance at Hideki. “We have the matter of the vote of no confidence in Commissioner Hideki Ichiro, as proposed last week. We will hear arguments from Yonder Cabrera, and then Hideki Ichiro for a rebuttal. As we’ve had plenty of time to deliberate, each statement will last no longer than five minutes.”
Yonder Cabrera stood, toying with the button on his suit jacket. The collar of his shirt was open, revealing a small tuft of chest hair. “Thank you for listening,” he said, avoiding meeting Hideki’s eyes. He produced a small pad from his jacket pocket, and tapped it to display his prepared comments. “Over the course of Mr. Ichiro’s reign of our league, we’ve seen nothing but problems. Revenue is down, the players’ union has been making more stringent demands, and this office has done nothing to curtail it. Mr. Ichiro has not shown compassion for small market teams, the ones who need new facilities in order to compete in this ever shrinking pool of revenue. On top of this, he has spent what funds that the league has on foolhardy missions to the moon, where, by his own admission, there isn’t enough gravity to play a game of baseball. He doubled down on this proposition by holding a press release about some nonsense magical gravity device, allegedly constructed by a Dr. Joshua Gray. I’ve never seen such obfuscation or flat-out lies in the course of trying to preserve one’s power. Mr. Ichiro is not fit to be commissioner.”
Grumbles of agreement followed from around the table and over the conference line. It sounded like Hideki had even more detractors than he had realized, and that struck right to his core. It made him more nervous, and angry that these owners who he’d toiled for could agree to disrespect him. That anger would have to wait. For now, he had to retain his calm and professionalism. He had a rebuttal to make.
Cabrera nodded and seated himself, still not looking in Hideki’s direction.
“Commissioner, your rebuttal,” Cespedes said, a thin frown crossing his face as he looked to Hideki.
Hideki stood, making sure to connect in eye contact with each of the people in the room. Janet Clark acknowledged him with her own steady gaze, a look of respect on her face, rather than the hostility he had expected.
Hideki cleared his throat. “Baseball is my life. I’ve worked hard for the game since I was a child. Its elegance, its beauty, is unparalleled in sports. My parents were kind enough to put me in year-round Little Leagues, allowing me to travel and see places I never would have without the game. Through college, the minor leagues, and my professional career, my world expanded even further because of baseball. I’ve been blessed to be able to see more sides of this industry than most.”
He paused, surveying the room. “And I’ve continued with that love and reverence for the game as commissioner. We’ve had our challenges, our bumps along the road. Revenue and interest for the sport has dropped, as Mr. Cabrera so mentioned, despite all of our best efforts. However, those efforts curtailed what would have been disastrous losses had we not taken action. I know each of your individual clubs have tried to freshen up your marketing departments. We’ve done the same with the league. Even so, the truth is, when entertainment doesn’t change, when it stays stagnant for too long, it begins to bore the public. That’s why we started our Lunar expedition to begin with. We all agreed that baseball needed to expand, because if we did nothing, the sport would dwindle.”
Hideki paused to try to connect again with some of the faces watching him. “I’ve been working on the Lunar baseball project for more than a year. You all were eager when it first started, don’t you remember? This project provided an opportunity to bring this great game to more than just one world. We have the ability to institutionalize baseball to be something that is part of the entire human race. How exciting is that?”
“Very,” Janet Clark mouthed to one of the other owners next to her.
“This isn’t a marketing stunt. Dr. Gray’s gravity plates are real. It’s going to be pricey, but it’s doable. We even have a corporate sponsor ready to break ground.
“I know I’m talking about a project, and not me. Frankly, I think it’s more important that this project continue than my commissionership. I want baseball to succeed. I want it to continue. I want it to grow. I love working here. I give one-hundred-and-ten-percent effort every day for baseball, and I will always do so as long as you allow me that privilege.” He gave one more look around the room. “Thank you for your time.”
Mutters came from the table, but it was too hard to tell if anyone sounded swayed by his remarks. Hideki didn’t consider himself a charismatic speaker. He was just what he said—someone who worked hard for the game.
“Thank you, Mr. Ichiro,” Cespedes said. “If you wouldn’t mind retiring outside while we take this next vote?”
Hideki opened his mouth to protest, but he thought better of it. Though he hadn’t been prepared for his subordinate to dismiss him, of course Cespedes would want him to be blind to the vote, and not let him see who betrayed him. It was for his own benefit as well as theirs. Either way, this league would continue, and the owners and staff needed to be able to work without fear of retribution, whether that fear had any basis in reality or not.
He tried to force a smile, but he could not. Despite his best efforts, his eyes became heavy and wet, but he held himself back from crying in front of the others. There were no tears in baseball. That mantra had been repeated to him since he was a child.
Hideki hurried outside the conference room, making his way out into the offices. He rushed past everyone in the cubicles to his office and shut the door, leaning against the wall and dropping to a crouch. Minutes passed by like an eternity while he waited for the call, and the final vote tally.
Hideki stood at the door to the conference room, staring at the control panel. He dreaded this moment. The downward spiral of dread and dark thoughts had kept him from sleep the entire week preceding the vote.
Worst come to worst, there would be one benefit of being out of the game. He could spend the quality time with Susan that she deserved. Though she had never demanded that he give up baseball, or even that he slow the pace of his work, Hideki saw that his frequent absences drained her. That look in her eyes when he had to leave for a business trip killed him every time. Maybe this would be for the best.
As much as that thought should have comforted him, he cared far too much about baseball to feel positive about it being ripped from him. He had to hope that the owners would show mercy.
An intern appeared from around the corner to greet Hideki and usher him back to the board meeting. Hideki stood there for a long moment, gathering his thoughts and giving one silent prayer that the board would look kindly upon him. Finally, Hideki tapped the control. The door whooshed open in to reveal the entire board staring at him. Cespedes and Jared had sullen expressions on their faces.
The room hung in a silence that lingered for all too long. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ichiro,” Cespedes said. “The ownership has voted to remove you from the commissionership.”
The owners at the table rumbled. Cespedes banged his gavel to quiet them.
“Now what?” Yonder Cabrera said, full of fire as ever. He’d won a major victory, and the confidence showed. “I would like to move that Janet Clark be nominated for commissioner.”
So that’s how he got to her, Hideki thought. The threat of him taking the commissionership himself had been a red herring, something to get under Hideki’s skin, if nothing else. It seemed obvious now. Janet had been so agitated the last time they held this meeting. It must have been from guilt that she felt in this coup. But she was getting rewarded in a way that no one could turn down.
“I’m sure she’ll do a fine job,” Hideki said, trying to be the bigger man and hold in the pain of betrayal. The majority of this room voted against him. No, he had to stop thinking about it before he became bitter. He couldn’t change the facts now.
“Yes, well, we’ll have a full hearing
of who will be nominated at the next meeting, in a week’s time. Under the current bylaws, an interim commissioner is set to oversee the transition. A new elected commissionership would not take hold until next season, which leaves plenty of time to figure out who will replace Mr. Ichiro. In the meantime, under those same bylaws, I will be taking charge as deputy commissioner,” Cespedes said.
The room erupted again, this time more loudly. Yonder Cabrera turned a bright red.
Cespedes slammed his gavel down with more fervor than before. “These are the league’s bylaws. Read them yourselves. We can debate and have a vote later. However, there is one more order of business to conduct before we adjourn.”
Yonder Cabrera fumed like he would explode at any moment. The whole purpose of this coup had been to get traction on his team’s move. That would be delayed for another year under Cespedes’s leadership. Hideki had no sympathy for the man.
“What order of business is that?” Janet Clark asked, maintaining her own calm and professionalism, which broke some of the tension in the room.
“A nomination for a commissioner of the Lunar Baseball League and head of the lunar expansion.”
Jared inclined his head. “I would like to nominate Hideki Ichiro, as he has shown dedication and passion toward this endeavor beyond anyone else.”
“Seconded,” Cespedes said. “Will you accept, Mr. Ichiro?”
Hideki almost couldn’t hold back his tears, this time from joy. Jared and Cespedes—they had planned this. They always spent time in each other’s offices; of course they would come up with a loophole and a solution. Hideki may not have his former title for much longer, but he still would be able to grow the game the way he had dreamed. What amazing friends and co-workers those two had been, and would be in the future. “I…” He paused, trying not to choke up. “Thank you. I accept.”
The Gravity of the Game Page 6
