Minor-League Buzz, Major-League Life

“Welcome to professional b-b-b-baseball.” Lincoln Stuart shook Buzz Meyers’ hand.
Buzz smiled and acted cool. He had become acquainted with Stuart’s stuttering during his interviews. Aside from that, Buzz’s insides were turning flips of happiness. Today was his first day as the general manager of the Speedway Beach Racers. A class A team in the Florida State League. To be sure, small fish in the big pond of pro sports, but it was still about baseball and it was still about making money and living the dream.
He inhaled the morning sea breeze and imagined a bar-b-que on the beach, the fragrance from sunscreen slathered on girls in bikinis, the bouquet wafting from cash piled on his desk--in all, the sweet smell of success.
Stuart turned away from the front door to the team offices. He started walking down the sidewalk, his gangly legs striding mechanically across the pavement. Buzz hustled alongside and wondered where they were going.
Stuart caught Buzz glancing back to their offices and then explained, “We’re going to meet the Speedway Beach Parks and Recreation d-d-d-director.”
“B-B-Before we can start anything with the team,” Stuart said, “we have to n-n-negotiate a new lease for the stadium.” His stutter became the frantic beat on a drum warning of bad news.
Buzz couldn’t hide the hitch in his step. The ocean air lost its perfumed scent, and he became aware of an undertone of rotting fish. His palms moistened as his mouth went dry. He swallowed to wet his tongue and said, “I thought my job here was a done deal.” He grasped for hope. “What the hell, how hard could it be to negotiate a new lease? A baseball team is an important commodity of the town. It’s a vibrant part of the community and surely, they want us to stay.”
Stuart gave Buzz a sideways squint and added a condescending attaboy. “Th-th-that’s the spirit.”
They proceeded the two blocks to the Parks and Recreation office building. Weeds pushed through the cracks in the pavement. Sea gulls pecked at discarded bags of fast food littering the curb. Stuart led Buzz through the foyer and an office door labeled: Director. Stuart introduced the man as Joe Skylar, the director. Buzz reached out to greet him but Skylar didn’t bother to shake hands. His beady eyes glared from within concentric wrinkles beneath his heavy brow, first at Buzz, then at Stuart. “Lithen, you no good Yankee cockthucker. I done tole you, if you ain’t got the cath reserves, community commitment and local thponsors, then no contract.” “F-F-Fuck you,” stuttered Stuart. “It’s your m-m-mismanagement that has gotten us in this m-m-mess.”
Skylar’s face turned red as a boiled crab. He clenched his fists, leaned toward Stuart, and continued his vulgar tirade. Stuart lowered his head so that he and the director were nose-to-nose, screaming garbled obscenities, and circling one another like pissed-off alley cats.
If the argument hadn’t been about his immediate future and the choice between him having a paycheck or panhandling on a street corner, Buzz would’ve started laughing. He could have never imagined a cleft lipped gent with a Southern accent and a stutterer trading broadsides of insults.
Skylar paused to focus his overheated eyes on Buzz. “Fuck you too, Meyerth.”
“What did I do?”
The director pointed a fat, crooked finger. “You’re juth another goddamn Yankee.”
Buzz raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough thinth you work for this athhole.” Skylar swung the finger at Stuart. The director braced the door open in an obvious invitation for Stuart and Buzz to leave.
Buzz followed Stuart back to the team offices. At the end of the block to the stadium, Stuart jerked his head toward a pick-up truck in city markings outside the front door to his office. His steps quickened and Buzz sensed more bad news. Stuart broke into a run, hollering, “Hey! Hey! Wait a g-g-goddamn minute.” Buzz sprinted at his boss’ heels.
Two City Parks & Recreation Department workers were getting ready to change the locks. Stuart pleaded with them to let he and Buzz go inside to gather their belongings first. They agreed and Stuart immediately pointed to a set of file cabinets. “Drag those outside.”
“What are we doing?”
Stuart next pointed to a broken pitching machine in the hall. “That too.”
Stuart tossed him the keys. “The supply closet is behind you. Take everything and pile it in the street. Find a couple of c-c-cardboard boxes and empty the desks.”
Buzz stared dejectedly. Day one as a general manager in professional baseball and already he had fouled out.
Stuart backed through the door. “I’m b-b-bringing my car. We’ll load as much of this shit as we can.”
Buzz closed his eyes and prayed for strength. A tiny voice in his head told him that in circumstances like this, it wouldn’t be dishonorable to cut and run like a monkey.
But he’d been through worse and now that he had his foot in the door of professional baseball, he wasn’t going to retreat. He shrugged off his coat. An ursine and powerful man, he muscled the file cabinets out the door to the curb. He went back in and emptied the supply closet, heaping bats, baseballs, line markers, water coolers, and banners beside the cabinets.
A Buick Estate Wagon backed against the curb and knocked over one of the file cabinets. A drawer slid open and papers exploded over the sidewalk. Stuart climbed out of the station wagon and dropped the rear gate.
Buzz leaned against a wall by the door and wiped his brow. He had stripped out of his shirt, and his wife beater was matted to his hairy chest. Dust and grime soiled his trousers. His scuffed shoes were crosshatched with scratches.
Buzz pushed away from the wall and helped Stuart cram what they could into the station wagon. The Buick sank under the weight of so much gear that its springs began to groan. They heaved the line marker and the file cabinets onto the roof and tied them down with a length of mossy water ski rope Stuart had scrounged from a dumpster.
“Let’s g-g-go,” Stuart ordered and climbed into the driver’s seat. Buzz retrieved his coat, shirt, and tie. He returned to the station wagon and pushed aside a typewriter to make room on the front seat. A duffle bag full of gear pressed against the back of his head.
The station wagon chugged from the stadium and its chassis bottomed out at every dip in the road. Buzz cut his eyes to a rear view mirror and noticed a cloud of chalk dust and papers billowing behind them. But he figured it was pointless to mention this to Stuart.
When they arrived at Buzz’s apartment, Stuart said, “We need to store the team equipment for a while. At least until that p-p-prick Skylar comes around.”
They unloaded the Buick and dragged everything into Buzz’s tiny second-story apartment. The piles of boxes, battered file cabinets, dingy bags of equipment, and the funk of unwashed baseball uniforms only added to the squalor of his humble abode.
Stuart headed back to his Buick. He walked with an air of finality and he didn’t invite Buzz.
“Where are you going?” Buzz called after him.
“Home,” his boss answered. “New J-J-Jersey.”
“B-b-but,” Buzz replied. Maybe stuttering was an occupational hazard of operating the Racers.
“You wanted the job of general manager, here you are. Negotiate with the city for a n-n-new lease. If that doesn’t work, then look around for another t-t-town that wants a professional b-b-baseball team.”
“I’ll need a car.”
“C-C-Can’t afford one.” Stuart levered his lanky body into the Buick. He closed the door and shouted out the window. “When you find a place for us to p-p-play, do your best to get wheels from a c-c-car dealer as part of their sponsorship. Until then you gotta take the b-b-bus. Sorry for the b-b-bad news, B-B-Buzz.” He started his car and left.