In the concrete bunker in Brooklyn doubling as GM/Manager Marques Williams’ office beneath the Field of the Whales, two men with an uneasy history sat across from another. Like two boxers, they were sizing up their adversary for any sign of weakness.
Williams, the legendary baseball man and profane giant charged with running the Brooklyn baseball operations by the LBL league office, spoke first and broke the silence on his terms.
“Listen, Joe,” he started, addressing the wayward veteran third baseman. “I am sorry about how this shit all went down last time. It was a God damned shame, is what it was. But this fucking team needs you. Nobody’s left from when this team got over the hump last time. Chick was a rookie when we won that first one. Christ, you were here 6 seasons before you won a fucking Cup. And, as you’ve probably read about in the fucking papers, that 1902 Cup was a fucking nightmare without you.
I need you here to help me win another fucking Legacy Cup. I have tried everything I can fucking think of to motivate these assholes, and we are sitting in third fucking place. I don’t manage third place ballclubs, Joe.
And further, those shitstains in Philadelphia have five now. Fucking five, Joe. We’ve got three. Let’s get a fucking fourth this year, huh? I need you here to help teach these guys how to flip from contender-to-God-damned-champion.”
A long silence filled the room as the veteran considered the words of the Whales’ manager. The desperation in Williams’ pleading was perceptible, if not completely overt, to the former Whale.
“I’m 38 years old, Skip. I have barely played professional ball since you cut me loose back in ’02. Haven’t swung a bat in a year. Plus, you’ve got Keyte and that new kid in my spot. You don’t need me.”
The coy parry was noted by Williams, but mostly ignored. He knew Cherry would not be sitting in his office if he were not interested. Now, it was time to close the deal.
“I just said I fucking need you, Joe. Listen to me, you stubborn asshole. I don’t care that you haven’t swung a bat. You never could fucking hit anyways. I need your glove and your fucking composure. I need you to show this sad fucking team how to win, not coast on their fucking reputation. And, I know you want this just as fucking much as I fucking need you to want this. Come in from the God damned wilderness, Joe, and help us win a championship.
Don’t you worry about Keyte, either. That greedy asshole is off to St. Louis on the next train. Gave the rook nothing but a hard fucking time about taking his spot this year. I need someone to help teach the kid how to play third base, and John sure-as-shit was not going to go out of his way to help his competition. You aren’t like that, though, Joe. I fucking know that. You’re out of baseball. I am offering you a way back in. Let’s beat the shit out of these third-rate Eastern League cocksuckers. Together. Like old times.
What do you say? Give me one more fucking dance and bring home another trophy? You will go down as a fucking Brooklyn legend, Joe, if we can pull this shit off.”
Again, a long silence.
“I will help you, Skip. But, it’s going to cost you,” the proud veteran said.
“Getting cut hurt my pride, Skip. Hurt my chances with signing onto another club, with the way you handled that, too. So, you are going to have to pay me for that. Let’s call it backwages.”
“Done,” the gargantuan manager said, starting to rise to shake hands with his new third baseman.
“Not so fast, Skip. I have got one other condition.”
“Fucking name it, Joe. It’s yours.”