Chapter XII:
Slow Torture

MY MEETINGS ALONE with Sandy were the only ones I enjoyed, even when we were engaged in bona fide team business. I had many opportunities for comparison; my schedule was awash with meetings. Breakfast meetings, lunch meetings, dinner meetings, tea meetings, tee meetings, pee meetings, meetings with board members, bored members, other owners, representatives of this, that, and the other department of the WBF organization, the umpires’ association, sponsors, donors, vendors, politicians, statisticians, journalists, analysts, charities, accountants, lawyers, scouts, louts, pouts, coaches, managers, and players, present and prospective, from all levels of the franchise.

Merciful God Above, did I ever grow to despise meetings.

I had to keep reminding myself that I chose this course of action, for I wished to learn all that could be learned about baseball, and in so doing I wrought this torture upon myself. Perhaps a canny reader might become wary of meetings, and rightfully so; avoidance shall double a person’s lifespan. On the other hand, perhaps this is not woven into the fabric of this century, since it would grind to a screeching halt if someone could outlaw meetings… and wield the power to make the ban stick. As Queen of Gore, I had perforce to confer with my ministers, but never in the long years of my governance of that fair land had I been subjected to such an endless and all too often useless string of time-gobbling events.

Meetings with other WBF owners featured an especially disgusting method of torture. My employees soon learned the two things I could not abide: discourteous speech toward any meeting attendee, and smoking. The existence of my signature upon their paychecks was all the magic required to convince them to heed these rules.

The WBF franchise owners presented a singular challenge, since they varied from kings and queens of industry to kings and queens in fact (or wealthy and/or powerful enough to be counted in that grouping, if not precisely so titled). The latter types looked upon their teams as an expensive toy to be taken from the shelf and played with on occasion, leaving the staff to bear the dusting and maintenance of it, while the former owner types ran their respective operations with all the exactitude and enjoyment of a naval vessel at war. There were a few owners, like myself, who saw their teams as both a business and a fount of fun whenever we could divorce ourselves from these infernal meetings.

“Infernal” is the operable word. Most of the owners, of whatever gender or ilk, liked to smoke during our meetings, whether we had assembled for business or social reasons: pipes, cigars, cigarettes, cigarillos, it mattered not. If someone was offering, someone else was accepting the disgusting, smoldering stinky little sticks, which I had seen my nemesis The Boss employ during my century, and which goes a long way toward explaining my abhorrence of them. I could not impose a ban upon this practice by earnest pleas or by magical incantations to save my soul. The male owners were the worst offenders, and my magic proved no match for the uncontrollable urge to spew at irregular but frequent intervals like a short chimney on a steep-pitched roof. The best I could do, discreetly of course, was to invoke a spell to waft the smoke away, to spare me from inhaling that vile air, replacing it with the strong yet soothing aroma of lavender. For those who believed I was wearing too much perfume, I did nothing to disabuse them of that false assumption. Inhaling the occasional waft from a fireplace because one prefers a bit of coughing to freezing to death is one thing; why anyone chooses to pollute his or her body with smoke on a habitual basis is quite simply beyond me. I trust that you, my wise reader, do not fall into this malodorous and self-destructive temptation.

Sandy was a tremendous help, not only in the execution of his official duties as general manager but in guiding me through my learning process, accompanying me to as many meetings as his own relentless schedule would permit, and answering my questions with the patience and wisdom of an army of hair-shirted saints.

For the first several weeks, I remained content—if this word can be applied to the attendance of any meeting—to observe silently, taking note not only of what was said, but how it was said, by whom, and to whom, where people sat, what they wore, what they ate or drank, whether they arrived late or departed early and the excuses they presented for said aberrations, whether they seemed cheerful, glum, somber, sober, nervous, confident, bored, stupefied, or asleep. Much can be learned when one keeps one’s eyes and ears and mind open, and mouth shut, even if one is shutting one’s mouth to conceal one’s ignorance of the topic being discussed by the other wit-heads.

Meetings of whatever type or topic all have the same cast of characters present, whether the meeting is a group of players, lawyers, owners, or security guards. And everyone wanted a decision about something, from which player to hire and how much to pay him, to which home game would be designated as Bring a Photo of Your Pet and Receive a Free Baseball Day (offer available to children ten and under presenting a valid game ticket and identification and accompanied by a ticket-holding adult; not available to children of employees of the London Knights WBF Team, or to children of employees of the WBF or their affiliates; offer good while supplies last, or at the discretion of the spotty-faced kids we pulled off the street at the last second to hand out these confounded things; and void where prohibited by law).

One meeting was particularly memorable, and not only for being the meeting wherein I chose to end my silence.

Sandy and I had just concluded a bout of pre-meeting… business. Were we late arriving at the appointed venue? Of course not; a queen by definition is never late. Everyone was already present, chatting amongst themselves. The chatter ceased upon my appearance, as though I had invoked a spell. I swear I did not. Every head in the room nodded toward me. Timekeeper consulted his chronometer with an amusing twitch of his arm in a vain attempt to be discreet.

Such palm-size communication devices do everything from displaying the time of day to spot-cleaning your chemise. Oh, aye, and you can speak or send a message to another person, or at least pretend to be so doing when in fact you are playing “Sims Multiverse Adventures.” I did not ban these devices from my meetings because I quickly learned two things about them: they were crucial to have in the event of an emergency, and those who were engaged in operating their devices were not violating my primary restrictions for meeting behavior. If someone missed an important decision due to inattention, well, that is what firing is for.

It is good to be queen.

“They’re late again,” mumbled Faultfinder.

I heard him, as did everyone else in the room, to judge by their subtly horrified expressions; but I was feeling content in the wake of my private meeting with Sandy and thus allowed Faultfinder’s jibe—to employ a baseball idiom—to slide.

Sandy bristled beside me but followed my lead. We cordially greeted everyone as we took our places. I brought the meeting to order and requested a summary of unresolved issues.

“The shade of red in the new logo design—” began Caffeine Charlie between slurps of his yard of coffee.

“It’s too close to the shade in the logo of the Tokyo Ninjas.” That from Miz Knowitall.

“It looks the same as always!” argued Sugar Sue, although I found it difficult to take her seriously with confectioner’s sugar dusted here and there upon her lips and blouse. I engaged a harmless little spell to gradually make the bits disappear. “Are you sure the color is off?”

Of course Miz Knowitall (Deirdre Stardahl, in this meeting) was sure; she is always sure.

We spent the next five minutes listening to her dissertation about how her retinas are keenly adapted to sensing subtle color variations before Sandy came to our rescue with, “Noted. Deirdre, go back to the design group and have them double-check their color settings. Report back here in a week.”

Miz Knowitall nodded, looking more than a trifle smug as everyone else suppressed groans at the prospect of yet another meeting. At least Miz Knowitall contributes to the solution, even though it galls everyone else to admit that her ideas bear merit.

“No,” said Faultfinder. “Next week at this time is a bank holiday. No, you cannot expect Design to come up with an acceptable…”

Standing in stark contrast, Faultfinder forever blows holes in every presentation, looks for the black cloud towering above the silver lining, and prefaces each remark with “No,” before launching into chapter and verse regarding why a thing cannot be done, should not be done, and will not be done forever and evermore, amen. Faultfinder does reveal a valid issue from time to time, which is why I excused this Faultfinder’s earlier remark, but the primary fault I find with all Faultfinders is they fail to realize that I would value their counsel far more highly if they were to temper their nays with even half as many yeas.

“We’ve got to push them,” Sandy said in a low, measured, dangerous tone that had to be the envy of every tiger in the London Zoo.

Aided by my prophetic gifts, I added, “If we do not, the product line will not be ready in time for spring rollout.”

“Yes’m, I’ll give Design a push for you!” offered Yes’m. “We’ll have the new line ready for Opening Day, yes’m, we will!”

I was about to ask Yes’m if I could make his head roll if he failed to make good on his promise when Court Jester said with a grin, “Ms. Hanks could make a personal appearance at their office. That would get their”—he grinned wider and winked—“balls rolling, won’t it, Mr. Carter?”

 

 

 

Jesters in my court of fifteen centuries past performed a critical function: they broke the tension of a stressful situation with a well-timed laugh; at least, those jesters funny enough to survive till retirement did. Nobody has any use for an unfunny jester.

On this day, neither did Sandy.

He leaped out of his chair and fairly flew across the table to begin throttling Court Jester, muscles pumping—

“Ms. Hanks.”

I am not certain who spoke first, Sugar Sue or Tiny Bladder. At this point, it mattered not to me as I remained mesmerized by the spectacle of shirts ripping, fists pounding, sweat flying, blood spattering—

“Ms. Hanks!”

The shrill chorus had grown to Greek proportions, incorporating all the women present: Sugar Sue, Tiny Bladder, and Miz Knowitall. Of their male colleagues, Timekeeper, Fidget, and Caffeine Charlie were wrestling Sandy into submission, while Yes’m and Faultfinder pulled a battered and very much not laughing Court Jester beyond flailing range.

“That is quite enough, gentlemen.” The combatants’ struggles ceased at once, though I derived no satisfaction from their obedience to my command.

Yes’m phoned the closest security guard post and stepped from the room. “Yes’m, we’ve had a bit of a dustup here,” I heard Yes’m say in subdued tones to the woman on the other end of the line. “Yes’m, everyone is fine, for the most part. Yes’m, dispatching an officer would be most helpful.”

I faced Court Jester and said, “Mr. Christopher, stop by the team physicians to get bandaged, then take as much time as you need to heal. You are hereby excused from all team duties and responsibilities, with pay, until you feel fit to return. Payroll shall not deduct this from your pool of sick days.”

“I want an apology!” Court Jester whined. “And restitution!” If he had been wearing garb appropriate to my era, I am certain the bells on his cap would have been clamoring in furious agreement.

Having finished his call, Yes’m rejoined the gathering.

Sandy looked far too belligerent, caught fast in the grip of Caffeine Charlie and Fidget (who had begun shifting from foot to foot in the wake of his adrenaline discharge), to do anything other than resume his attack. I said:

“Mr. Carter shall apologize to you, publicly, when he is ready to do so. His restitution shall be the sum of fifty thousand pounds, split evenly between you and the team, and payable at once.” I glanced toward Yes’m. “Make all the arrangements with Payroll.”

“Yes’m!” he said, and bounded off to do my bidding. I suppressed my amusement; usually, Yes’m was a colossal annoyance with his constant refrain, as if I were a witless child who could never bear to hear the word no. Usually, I would be tempted to remind Yes’m that the world would not end if he must tell me “No” as the occasion demanded, that if Yes’m would stop saying “Yes’m” and listen, I could tell him that I know for a certain prophetic fact the world shall not end until 11/11/3111, the day all the digits turn odd, turning the entire world so odd that the center cannot hold.

After Sandy’s attack upon Court Jester, and Yes’m proved that he did listen to me for once in his life, I appreciated his ebullient assistance no matter how many yes’ms he had tacked to it.

The arrangements seemed to satisfy Court Jester. With a funny attempt to repair his dignity by rearranging his disheveled clothing and an even funnier, beetle-browed glare at Sandy, he palmed his communication device and marched from the room.

The chief problem with jesters is that I cannot fire anyone for being unfunny; and in this case, I had no desire to incur consequences that would have been far more complicated to resolve. I am, however, a creative woman.

When I turned my full attention upon the hapless Sandy, his bellicose attitude withered into something resembling the puppy that knows it will be punished because it peed on the prized antique Persian rug. Never having allowed myself to be manipulated by guilty puppies, I said:

“Mr. Carter, you are hereby suspended from all team duties and responsibilities, without pay, until such time as you are able to sincerely and publicly apologize to Mr. Christopher, or for the period of one week, whichever is longer.” By his reaction to the slight emphasis I put on the word “all,” I knew he understood that meant being benched from personal liaisons with me, too. I hated to do it, but his behavior warranted nothing less. The latter stipulation I added to give Sandy—in truth, both of us—hope that his benching would not be permanent. Less sternly, I said, “Let the physicians examine you on your way out.”

As I watched him nod and shuffle from the room, escorted by the security guard Yes’m had summoned, in that one terrible moment it was not good to be queen.

I wish to God that had been the only such moment during my reign… in either century.

I spent those dreary seven days willing time to speed up so that Sandy and I could reunite.

Look at me, digressing again. You would think after fifteen centuries I would know better than to moon after a pair of trousers, no matter how enticingly they clung to certain regions. With Sandy, as with Accolon before him, it was nigh impossible not to moon. The heart does what the heart does.

I reconvened the meeting, but everyone was displaying various degrees of having been shaken by Sandy’s breach of decorum. I said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby add a third item to the list of prohibited meeting behavior: violence. It should not have needed to be said, but obviously Mr. Carter has demonstrated otherwise. I reserve the right to mete whatever fines and punishments, to include firing”—that pronouncement raised eyebrows all round the table, but I resisted the urge to advise them to count themselves lucky that I had not included torture and execution—“as I deem necessary. Ms. Stardahl,” I said to Miz Knowitall, “ensure that a memo is disseminated team-wide to this effect, including the farm teams. You may include a summary of the events that transpired between Mr. Christopher and Mr. Carter at your discretion.”

Since I knew good and well that Miz Knowitall prided herself upon the accuracy of her knowledge, she was the only one to whom I could entrust this delicate task and not have it degenerate into a PR nightmare.

“Yes’m,” she said.

Silently I forgave her that indiscretion.

Aloud, I dismissed the battle-fatigued group. Caffeine Charlie, Sugar Sue, and Tiny Bladder were the first to rush from the room, doubtless to pursue nature’s invitations toward various aspects of their constitutions. I waited for everyone else to take their leave of me.

Alone among the walnut-paneled walls, gleaming brass fixtures, twinkling crystal, and leather-padded swivel chairs, I propped my elbows upon the mahogany-framed tabletop computer monitor, lowered my head into my hands, and began my slow, self-imposed torture of separation from Sandy.