Chapter XIX:
Baseball as a Trade

A FORTNIGHT AFTER the date of his original promise, Sandy finally produced the list of candidates for the seven hitters I had wanted to acquire in lieu of the overpriced Don MacDougal. One of the players I selected was MacDougal’s younger (and far less expensive, being one of my own farmboys) brother Dennis, a second baseman. Genetics do not guarantee similar performances, I know good and well from having observed Sir Gawaine best his younger brothers in tournaments—Agravaine and Mordred usually got the worst of their brother’s drubbings—but Dennis MacDougal’s offensive and defensive stats looked quite handsome, as did the man himself on his video, and thus I elected to take a chance on him.

From Sandy’s report I learned that Duke Southmarch would be able to enter spring training to vie for the position of the Knights’ starting catcher after languishing most of the postseason on IR, nursing a sore throwing shoulder. Another player returning to active status, who had twisted his knee in the final postseason Banner game while making a superb lunging catch and off-footed throw to get an out, was the shortstop Mark Sonoma. Those were the freebies; no further contract negotiations required. I had hoped for one or two additional candidates in this category—the damned Connecticut Yankees can afford hundreds of millions in acquisitions each year; I and my Knights cannot—yet,—but all the other players coming off IR were pitchers.

The free-agent bargains I chose included Paris’s outfielder Sonny LeDuc; the left-hitting, left-throwing first baseman from Altoona, Brian “Southpaw” Blevins; and a promising, drop-dead gorgeous third baseman, Tacoma’s Steve Sotherland. The only player I had to do a bit of horse-trading to acquire, a free agent from the Nîmes Crocodiles, was center fielder Maurice Marchand. His most recent .349 season and seven-year .324 career cost me a topflight right-handed closer, three future draft picks, and two hundred fifty thousand pounds. I deemed Maurice to be worth every last farthing, because his LIPS (that is to say, his Late-Inning Pressure Situations batting average) was reported to be a sexy .363… and the lips of his mouth, thanks in no small part to his glorious French heritage, looked sexy, too.

All in all, quite an elegant haul.

One issue, however, concerned me.

While, as a rule, I did not put much stock in the Yankee’s writings, owing to the fact that he was a deluded lowborn ass, he did record droplets of wisdom amongst the torrent of his far less savory droppings. One observation cut me to the quick: while evaluating the potential of knight-errantry as a trade, and while conceding that it could be a profitable venture given fortunate circumstances, he correctly identified its speculative (and therefore risky, for economic as well as physical reasons) nature, concluding that, “No sound and legitimate business can be established on a basis of speculation.”

I felt the hit as soon as I read his statement. For what is baseball, even within its highest echelons, other than pure speculation upon players’ performances, not only as individuals, but as a group?

And it took me, what, five years to figure this out? Fine; so being “The Wise” does not always make me “The Quick.”

I had already begun to see an increase in revenues based upon the decisions I had been making, especially since taking direct control of the team’s helm after finishing my duties in regard to President Malory’s re-election campaign, and yet in the face of the Yankee’s pronouncement, it seemed to me that my fine enterprise could collapse upon itself at any moment. I voiced my concerns to Sandy, and he said:

“The truth, Boss, is that the entire baseball system does implode, now and then, player strikes and worldwide economic downturns being the biggest contributing factors. A team can’t make money when they can’t sell tickets, no matter how many endorsements and other sublicensing revenue sources the players pull in. We cannot control the economy, the players’ greed, their popularity with fans or companies, or their performances or injuries; but we can mitigate these factors somewhat by manipulating ticket pricing and player contracts, and by relying on statistics and historic similar-player comparisons to forecast performances.”

Whereupon Sandy started his mill to grinding out the finer points regarding which statistics make the best trend indicators for hitting, pitching, fielding, and base running, citing examples and player comps dating back—I jest not—a hundred and fifty years. It was “Adjusted OPS” this, and “True Average” that, and “Defense-Independent ERA” the other thing, on and on and on yet some more until I thought my ears would begin to bleed. I cast an audio-muffling spell just in case.

While the magically muted Sandy-mill continued its verbal production, I continued musing about the comparison of baseball to knight-errantry, and knighthood as a larger whole. The similarities bedazzled me. As with players who eschew entry into free-agentry out of loyalty to their team, you have those knights who flock to your castle out of loyalty to you, their beloved sovereign. To fill out the ranks of the knights you require to protect your castle and lands, you seek to recruit worthies who win tournaments, lead successful campaigns to conquer other castles, or fulfill (and survive) difficult quests… not counting the Quest for the Holy Grail, for the only knights to survive that ordeal were fit for nothing more strenuous than to live out the remainder of their days as monks, whether they admitted that fact to themselves or not. (A most noble retirement, to be sure, and God forgive me if I have implied otherwise,—but completely inappropriate for fulfilling one’s own security needs.) You recruit your selected worthies by bribery: your daughter’s hand in marriage and, by implication, the chance one day to rule your kingdom after you; the offer to become your official royal consort, with all the rights and privileges this entails; a revenue-rich parcel of land; or the equivalent in cold, hard treasure.

Having no daughters myself, and since my husband King Uriens frowned upon my open use of royal consorts (but discreet bedchamber pursuits were fine by him), this left me the latter two options for recruiting knights: land, or treasure; usually in that order. In baseball the order was reversed—players preferred the lion’s share of their worth to be remunerated in cash, though occasionally they might negotiate a mansion for themselves and family, or a nice Mediterranean villa for their aging mother. To the latter requests I always agreed: ’tis hard to say no to such a noble demonstration of filial loyalty.

“Queen Morgan, did you hear my question?”

By this time, Sandy had raised his voice sufficiently to pierce my muffling spell. I reasoned it must have been a question of immense import for him to have done this, so I dispelled the spell, explained (even though no clause in the Royal Rulebook requires me to explain myself to a subordinate) that I had become lost in thought, and bade him repeat his query.

“I asked whether you use your magic to enhance players’ performances.”

The cheek! The unconscionable, unmitigated cheek!

Once I had realized how ridiculous and suspicious magically boosted players could appear, I swore off such spells,—and for Sandy to have asked me this after I had made my personal promise to him demonstrated such a lack of faith and trust on his part that only one possible response remained:

“Sandy Carter, you impudent ass, you are fired!”