Chapter XVII:
A Baseball Banquet

THE INCIDENT WITH Sandy and the book convinced me that I must make time to read the entire account of the Yankee’s sojourn in my Britain. Thus while I awaited the final version of Sandy’s report of potential players to acquire, I immersed myself in Hank Morgan’s sixth-century adventures.

Most High Holy God, what an eye-opener that was.

To think that such an arrogant, lowborn ass could plant himself in the midst of my society without so much as a by-thy-leave and believe that he, and he alone, possessed the wit and wisdom and wherewith to institute what he believed to be improvements to said social system, which had been forged and refined by God and His ordained rulers and clerics over the course of centuries—it curdles my blood afresh even now, years after first having read his journal.

Forgive me, gracious reader; my chronicle is not about him, and thank God for that small mercy.

If there is one thing I have sorely missed about my castle in Gore, it is the feast hall. I have dined in many a fine locale during my tenure in this era—the grand banqueting venues of the best luxury cruise ships being my especial favorites—but there is no substitute for home: the lavender-laced rushes crunching softly underfoot, hiding whatever else one must be crunching upon, alive or dead, as one treads across the floor; the fires raging from the twin opposing hearths so huge that half a half dozen Hummers could drive through them side by side, racing to perform some murderous mission with room to spare; the legions of dogs barking and snapping for scraps; the acrobatic dancers; the sprightly musicians (on second thought, scratch the musicians); the impeccably trained servants; the excellent company of peers; the fabulous stories of combat and conquest and courtly love (not necessarily in that order) in faraway lands told by visiting knights; the mountains of delectable food and rivers of mind-numbing drink, voraciously consumed to the faint but distinct shrieks of prisoners in the dungeons below…

Ah. That is what this century lacks. Privily conducted torture has its uses, to be sure; but nothing screams power to one’s honored guests like, well, screams. That these super-duper-ultra-mega-modern people can appear to be so insatiably bloodthirsty when watching SNN broadcasts of real battles and mayhem on the one hand, yet be so hypocritically squeamish regarding the bona fide exercise of divinely appointed authority… the mind boggles.

Thus when it came to hosting feasts for the team, fellow owners, or other groups, it remained for me to employ the only other available means of demonstrating power: the liberal application of cash.

And nothing says power quite like chartering Cunard’s magnificent Queen Mary 3 for a fortnight’s slosh amongst the barbarically charming isles of the Caribbean, prior to the commencement of spring training, for all the London Knights’ employees and their families. Of course the players always have to work extra hard to shed the effects of the non-stop partying, even with mandatory daily workouts in the ship’s fitness centers and on the jogging track, but the technique proved to be an effective way both to induce players to arrive at camp on time and to build camaraderie across the organization, an important ingredient in any formula for victory; thus, I have decreed it to be a permanent fixture in the Knights’ annual schedule—and Cunard’s.

This day, however, I had to lay aside the Yankee’s chronicle for to attend the postseason banquet hosted by the WBF to honor the season’s MVPs and other worthies.

“Banquet,” here, is a misnomer by my queenly standards. With more than a hundred trophies to award to individual players and managers from all four leagues, plus the team trophies, this makes for quite a crowd when factoring in the invitees’ spouses, agents, significant others, and other cling-ons. The best one can hope for each year is a choice between underdone chicken, overdone beef, or a vegetarian plate that is not worth the ink used to print it on the RSVP card. Heaping insult upon this culinary injury is the necessity of paying for one’s own alcohol consumed during the event—which becomes even more insulting when the voted awards go to players so undeserving that one wishes one could rack the entire voting populace, be they sportswriters, players, or fans.

On the other hand, these perennial ignoramii are not worth the trouble.

Such vagaries occur every year without fail. Following a cursory and vague prayer intoned by the WBF’s chaplain, the sentiment of which may be distilled to “Bless this mess,” and an hour’s worth of speech-free (though not conversation-free, making it difficult to attend to the most important business of the moment) eating, and a speech of welcome delivered by the commissioner (ten solid minutes of mindless yapping that lasted eleven minutes too many) at this year’s WBF “banquet,” I had to suffer the indignity of Robbie Clemens, my starting right fielder, losing the Titanium Slugger to none other than Don MacDougal, the former Stirling Bravehearts’ free agent whom I had lost in the off-season bidding war. MacDougal’s batting curse would not take effect till the following season; a pox on all those damned Connecticut Yankees, MacDougal most especially!

Perhaps it would not be so very much trouble to rack the voting sportswriters after all. A hundred or so, stretched out (pun intended, naturally) over the course of four months, give or take, would go quite far toward making me feel much more at home in this Godforsaken era.

It is a dream I have.