THE SKUBAL QUANDARY

*************************************

“What the hell do you think they are going to make us do?” Preller muttered, staring out over the sixty-foot expanse of the Toddler Funyard.

Before him lay a literal sea of white plastic balls, four feet deep, refracting the harsh fluorescent lights. The air smelled of stale vinyl and collective desperation. Twenty-nine of baseball’s most powerful men, dressed to the nines in tailored suits, hovered anxiously around the pit like kids dreading a swim lesson. The younger execs paced the perimeter, while the veterans stayed to themselves in hushed whispers.

Cashman didn’t even look up from the edge of the pit. “You might as well just leave now, Preller. We all know you used up all your ammo last deadline anyway.”

Preller let a smirk slip across his face. “I know what I’m doing… and I always have plenty of ammo to get what I want. And, by the way, how is Soto doing this season? I haven’t been able to watch a lot of Yankees games this year.”

“Good one,” Cashman snapped. “But last I checked, we don’t need MLB’s help to broadcast our games. We own our own network. And hey, we saved seven hundred and fifty million dollars in the process.” He turned to his left and gave a quick wink to the baby-faced executive standing next to him.

“Sour grapes, old man,” Stearns chimed in, adjusting his cuffs. “Just worry about your own team before they hit another swoon.”

Cashman pivots fully toward the younger man, the playful banter instantly vanishing. He planted a heavy, deliberate hand on Stearns’s shoulder. “Here is some free advice, kid. Thirteen men have held your position since I’ve been the GM of the Yankees.”

Stearns stiffened under the grip.

“You should worry about what the Yankees and I are doing because we set the bar while you were still fetching coffee in Pittsburgh as an intern,” Cashman said. He watched the color drain from Stearns’s face with a slow, pronounced smile. “Yeah, I know everything about you, kid. I know everything about every single one of the twenty-nine men in this room right now. That’s what I do.”

The silence grew heavy as everyone in the room waited for what else Cashman had to say.

“And if you haven’t noticed, your honeymoon period? Well, it’s over,” Cashman continued, his voice dropping an octave. “You aren’t in Milwaukee anymore, where you can coast by with a playoff appearance or some bullshit wild card series win that no one will remember in a year. In New York, you either win it all or shut the fuck up.”

He gave Stearns’s shoulder two heavy, patronizing pats. “So worry, kid. Worry.”

Preller watched the younger GM swallow hard, then leaned back with a sigh. “If it makes you feel any better, Stearns, all of us will eventually be fired and forgotten about. Except for Cashman. He will survive us all like a cockroach.”

Before Stearns could utter a word, the heavy double doors swung open. Three men clad in eye-straining, orange creamsicle suits with black shirts and matching white ties marched into the room.

The two men on the flanks stood at attention like secret service agents, while the man in the center stepped forward. Clearing his throat audibly to grasp the attention of the twenty-nine executives, ILITCH Ilitch, the well-heeled chairman and CEO of the Detroit Tigers smoothed his bright orange lapels and smiled.

“Gentlemen! I want to thank all of you for your participation,” Ilitch announced, his voice echoing off the plastic walls of the Funyard. He paused, adjusting his glasses to compose himself. “Some of you might not be familiar with this competition. My father, Mr. I, not only instilled a competitive fire that was reflected in the way he ran his teams, the Red Wings and the Tigers, but he instilled a love for both of those franchises that I can only compare to how I feel about family.”

As the words left his mouth, Ilitch’s eyes darted subtly across the room, landing on a sharply dressed man in Dodger blue. The executive stroked his meticulously trimmed beard and offered a ghost of a smirk. “Gibby was a tough son of a gun,” Ilitch mused, his smile tightening just a fraction. “Even when he could barely walk, the man could still hurt you. It’s a shame he didn’t spend his entire career as a Tiger.” 

He pondered his next words for a brief moment. 

“A lot of you knew my father,” Ilitch continued, turning slightly and pointing toward the glass window that oversaw the arcade room. “And I know a lot of you are very familiar with Mr. Boras.” Twenty-nine heads turned in unison toward the glass, where Scott Boras stood watching them like a red hawk.

“They both possessed a flair for the dramatics, and an affinity for not only competition, but also games,” Ilitch said, his tone turning slightly apologetic. “Myself… I’m not a fan. So I apologize for this crude behavior, but my dear mother, Marian, told me that this is how my father did business, and I must respect his wishes.”

With a sudden burst of showmanship, Ilitch raised a sleek silver briefcase over his head. “Gentlemen, inside this briefcase, each of your teams’ trade proposals are sealed in separate envelopes. I wish you all luck.”

He gestured grandly toward the massive pit. “Please, make your way to the edge of the ball pit. Right now, all you see is a sea of white. But buried beneath the surface are six orange balls, each with the phrase “PIZZA, PIZZA” embroidered on the side in white block lettering.”

The general managers leaned in, their collective desperation palpable.

“The game is simple,” Ilitch said, pausing as he searched for the right words. A small, amused grin finally broke across his face. “The six men who fish out these coveted… let’s say, golden tickets… will move on to the next round.”

The twenty-nine looked at one another with instant disdain. The fragile alliance of baseball’s elite shattered in a second as they began to shove, elbow, and jostle for position at the very edge of the plastic abyss.

“Gentlemen,” he intoned with a hint of excitement, “Pizza, Pizza.”

*************************************

And baby it’s amazing I’m in this maze with you 

I just can’t crack your code

One day you are screaming you love me loud 

The next day you’re so cold

One day you here, one day you there, one day you care, 

You’re so unfair, 

Sipping from the cup, till it runneth over, Holy Grail

The crystalline voice of Justin Timberlake blared over a stripped-down piano beat, echoing from the premium speakers of the Carpathian Grey Land Rover. The mid-morning sun caught the metallic paint of the SUV as it crawled toward a heavy, closed garage door leading to the lower level of the Motor City Casino. Behind the tinted windshield, the classic blue font of the Michigan license plate read SKUBBS.

Tarik Skubal reached over, lowering the volume before staring blankly at his phone.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” he muttered. His flat, monotone voice didn’t quite capture the sheer mountain of frustration building inside him.

He tapped the horn. Within seconds, the heavy garage door creaked upward, revealing two burly security guards. Both wore dark sunglasses and black suits, complete with crisp white shirts and glaring orange ties. They waved him inside.

“What the hell?” Skubal mumbled, steering the SUV forward.

Suddenly, his phone chirped in the cup holder. A text from Scott Boras popped up on the screen: PASSWORD IS SKUBAL-DOOBAL-DOO

Skubal let out a heavy sigh, letting the Land Rover creep forward. He rolled his window halfway down as he approached the first guard, who stepped up to the vehicle.

“Hello, sir,” the large man said, his face a perfect, professional mask. “How can I help you today?”

“Um. Geez…” Skubal rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing. “I guess… I’m supposed to say this stupid password? Skubal-Doobal-Doo?”

The guard’s professional mask cracked, and a childish smirk crept onto his face. “Actually, sir, there is no password. We know exactly who you are, and your party is already inside. Please park in any open space you like. You’ll see a glass, tinted door with neon green lettering that reads CAESARLAND above it. That’s the entrance.”

A wave of intense humiliation washed over Skubal’s face. He offered a tight, forced nod, quickly rolled the window back up, and gripped the steering wheel.

“Fuckin’ Boras,” he growled to himself.

He pulled the Land Rover into a spot, parking next to an older model white Land Rover and a row of three identical, blacked-out Mercedes-Maybach sedans. Shaking his head, the imposing six-foot-three pitcher killed the engine. He was dressed casually in black jeans, retro black-and-orange Nikes, and a white long-sleeve shirt with the word IRON printed in bold black block letters across his chest.

He slid out of the truck and moseyed toward the entrance, his eyes narrowing as he tried to peer through the heavy tint of the glass doors. The only thing visible through the dark panes was a dizzying array of flashing, colorful neon lights.

“What the hell is this?” Skubal muttered, cautiously looking over his shoulder at the empty garage before reaching for the handle. “He better be in here.”

*************************************

Purple walls pulsed under the neon arcade lights as a chorus of machines screamed their electronic jingles in unison. Cascades of pink prize tickets littered the carpet, and a nearby announcer bellowed triumphantly over a loudspeaker that someone had just hit the jackpot. Before Skubal could take a second step inside the sensory overload, a weathered-faced man with a massive fistful of tickets waved him over to a flashing Whack-a-Mole machine.

“Redhawk! Over here!” the man shouted over the din, not once breaking his rhythm as he methodically brought the rubber mallet down on a plastic mole. “Isn’t this perfect?”

The elder statesman of baseball agents was draped in his customary blue slacks, a white collared shirt buttoned tightly to the top, and a zipped-up fleece featuring a capital “B” inside a baseball diamond embroidered on his chest. A Grinch-like grin stretched from ear to ear as the machine whistled, dispensing a long, continuous tongue of tickets that Boras happily scooped up into his arms without looking down.

“I’m cleaning up here, Redhawk!” Boras said, his voice entirely calm and smooth despite the flashing lights and the plastic mallet in his hand.

Skubal looked around, his shoulders tense, completely bewildered by the flashing screens. “Scott! Where the hell are we?”

“Look around,” Boras replied. He timed his swing perfectly, whacking another mole with effortless precision. “This is the last Caesarland in existence. Mr. I, God rest his soul, built this under his casino just for kicks. Nobody knows it’s here. That makes it the perfect place.”

“For what?” Skubal asked, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the room.

“Don’t worry about that. Everything is already in place,” Boras murmured smoothly, tracking the moles with analytical eyes. “The first game has already started. I need you to head over to the entertainment area to meet with ILITCH, Scott Harris, and Jeff Greenberg.”

Skubal rubbed the back of his neck, his voice dropping in disbelief. “So we’re really doing trade negotiations in a fuckin’ arcade?”

“Just trust me, Redhawk. This is exactly how the Prince Fielder trade got done back in ’12,” Boras said. With a casual, childlike flick of his wrist, he slapped Skubal on the back. “Every team has their own way of doing things. Now just head down the hall to the right and follow the music.”

Skubal didn’t move. “Seriously? And what are you going to be doing?”

Boras finally paused, looking at his growing pile of pink paper. “I just need to win twenty-nine hundred and twenty-nine more tickets.”

“You’re joking, right?” Skubal scoffed, gesturing wildly at the prize counter across the room. “Just buy whatever the hell you want!”

“Buy it?” Boras let out a soft, amused chuckle, genuinely offended by the suggestion. “C’mon, where’s the fun in that? The best part is playing the game and earning it. Just like you did. Now get over there and see what those guys have to say.” He leaned in slightly, his eyes locking onto Skubal with unshakeable composure. “Like Eminem so eloquently put it, this is your moment. This is your moment, Skubbs!”

Skubal ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Scott…”

“So, are you going to capture it?” Boras asked, his voice deadpan and serious as he turned back to the Whack-a-Mole machine. “Or are you going to let it slip?”

“Alright, Scott!” Skubal groaned, turning on his heel toward the hallway. “Just stop quoting Eminem lyrics.”

*************************************

Behind the heavy double doors of the entertainment area, the atmosphere was thick with the surreal hum of a private viewing room. A large monitor on the wall flickered with live closed-circuit footage from the Toddler Funyard, while a bizarre, repetitive rhythmic clanking echoed from the shadows at the back of the space.

“Did you see Cashman?” ILITCH Ilitch laughed, leaning forward over a long conference table. “That old motherfucker knocked out Craig Breslow with one shot!”

“Yeah, I had a feeling Cashman would pull out all the stops,” Jeff Greenberg replied, tracking the pixelated chaos on the screen. “He’s been through this kind of thing before.”

“I have to say, my old man was right,” Ilitch said, a wide grin crossing his face. “This is a hell of a lot better than doing this in a boardroom. I made sure we recorded everything we missed, too.”

Greenberg leaned back, tapping his chin. “I got my money on Gabe Kapler making it out of there. The guy is built like a brick house.”

“I don’t know, that might actually hurt him,” Ilitch countered, shaking his head. “He can’t fit into the tighter spaces down there. I like Stearns’s chances. He doesn’t look like much, but he’s young and went to Harvard.”

“True.” Greenberg shifted his eyes from the screen to Ilitch. “So, I noticed you stared at Gomes for a moment during your speech. Is that the direction we’re heading?”

Before Ilitch could answer, the low-frequency mechanical clanking from the corner suddenly culminated in a loud, grinding whir. Scott Harris slammed his hands on the table, leaping to his feet.

“I don’t know if I can handle this anymore!” Harris screamed, his face pale.

Greenberg blinked, startled. “Handle what? The pressure of the games?”

“No! These damn animatronics!” Harris gestured wildly toward a dimly lit stage in the corner, where a giant, robotic, bug-eyed caricature of Julius Caesar was jerking back and forth, its plastic mouth clicking open and shut. “How the hell can you guys think with Caesar over there just screaming ‘PIZZA, PIZZA!’ over and over again?”

Ilitch just chuckled, raising his voice slightly to talk over the musical jingle that began to loop from the stage. “It’s like white noise to me, Harris. Don’t worry. Boras just texted me that Skubbs is here. Once we fill him in on everything, we can head back to the Funyard.”

Another set of heavy double doors clicked open on the other side of the room, and Skubal stepped into the room with a look of absolute stupefaction. He froze for a second, his eyes darting from the high-powered executives in their matching creamsicle suits to the erratic, singing robot malfunctioning in the corner. He cleared his throat.

“Hey, ILITCH. Scott. Jeff… This is a bit awkward.”

The tension in the room instantly evaporated. The executives stood up in unison to welcome the lengthy lefty, moving around the table to shake his hand.

“I don’t want to waste any more of your time, Skubbs,” Ilitch said, gesturing for everyone to take a seat. “My dad and Boras did business this way, and it always worked out in our favor. I’m not saying we aren’t going to regret trading you, but we have to do what’s best for business.”

Skubal took a seat, looking remarkably calm compared to the men in front of him. “I understand.”

“How are you feeling, Skubbs?” Greenberg asked.

“I feel alright. My slider and changeup are coming along. I’m not sore or anything. Honestly, I feel like I’m right on track.”

“I knew if anyone could bounce back, it would be you,” Greenberg said, a look of genuine relief washing over his face. “That’s great to hear.”

Harris leaned forward, trying to recapture his professional composure despite the robotic music fading out behind him. “So, Skubbs, I know this is entirely out of the ordinary, but this is how we have to execute it. This is a massive deal for all of us… including you.”

“Yeah,” Skubal said quietly, looking down at his hands. “It’s just too bad we have to do it at all. I really thought we had a shot at taking the AL Central and making some noise in the playoffs this year.”

An uncomfortable silence descended on the table. Greenberg and Harris squirmed in their seats, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“You and I both,” Ilitch admitted, his tone softening for a fraction of a second before the corporate resolve returned. “But for now, I want to ensure we do right by you, which is why we want you involved in these negotiations. We’ve had preliminary talks with every club in the league and we did our homework. Hopefully, in the next few minutes, we will know the six organizations that will be competing for the opportunity to trade for the best pitcher in baseball.”

Skubal looked from Ilitch to the pixelated brawl still playing out on the wall monitor. “So you are just going to give my contract to whoever wins this absurd gauntlet you put together?”

Ilitch offered a sheepish, tight-lipped grin. “That’s the plan.”

Suddenly, Ilitch’s phone chirped with a sharp notification. He glanced down at the screen, and his posture instantly straightened.

“Well, the first round is over,” Ilitch announced, standing up from the table as Harris and Greenberg flanked him on either side like a pair of pumpkin-suited bodyguards. “We better head over to the Toddler Funyard and see who is left standing.”

Skubal stayed firmly seated, the sheer bewilderment finally breaking through his stoic expression.

“C’mon, Skubbs!” Greenberg called back, gesturing toward the door.

“This is crazy,” Skubal sighed, slowly pushing himself up from the chair. “Can you at least tell me what’s next?”

Ilitch paused at the doorway, letting out a low, ominous chuckle. “Let’s just say things are about to get a whole lot crazier.”

*************************************

The doors to the hallway hissed open, revealing a scene that looked like a battlefield triage unit. The air was instantly choked with the smell of stale sweat and sheer exhaustion.

“Well, I can’t say I’m too surprised to see some of you,” Ilitch announced, adjusting his orange lapels as he stepped into the corridor. “All of you have not only constructed impressive teams this season, but have been successful for much of your careers.”

The survivors of the funground abyss were hunched over, leaning heavily against the purple walls just to stay upright. Their multi-thousand dollar designer suits were tattered, shredded, and soaked with sweat and blood. Brian Cashman had a deep, visible gash slicing across his forehead, while David Stearns winced as a nasty black eye rapidly swelled shut. None of them could catch their breath long enough to respond.

“I’m sure you are familiar with all these gentlemen, Skubbs,” Ilitch continued smoothly, gesturing down the line of battered executives. “But just in case, let me introduce them. We have Brian Cashman representing the New York Yankees, David Stearns from the Mets, Brandon Gomes from the Los Angeles Dodgers, Matt Arnold from the Milwaukee Brewers, and Justin Hollander from the Seattle Mariners.”

As their names were read, the men gingerly stepped forward, offering Skubal weak, trembling handshakes with knuckles skinned raw from plastic-ball combat.

Harris frowned, counting the men. “Wait. That’s only five?”

Ilitch quickly whipped out his phone, double-checking his notifications. “I was told the game was completed and we had our six winners.”

Right on cue, a loud, brash voice echoed from the far end of the corridor. “I got it! I got it!”

A shorter man came sprinting down the hall, screaming with a thick, manic New York accent.

Gomes’s eyes went wide. “Shit. It’s Preller.”

Hollander wiped blood from his lip, looking confused. “Wait… I thought I saw Getz with one of the orange balls?”

“I told you assholes! I knew what I was doing!” Preller roared, skidding to a halt right in front of the group and waving a plastic orange ball in the air. “I got it! Where’s Skubbs?!”

Before anyone could stop him, Preller lunged forward to pump Skubal’s hand vigorously. “Skubbs! Wow! You are going to love San Diego! Or shall we call it Skubbs Diego?!” He let out a wild laugh and offered a sharp wink. Skubal couldn’t help but let out a startled chuckle at the sheer absurdity.

“Slow down, Preller,” Ilitch interrupted, waving a hand. “There are still five of you. Which brings us to our second event…”

“Wait! Hold on!”

A ragged, desperate cry cut Ilitch off from the direction of the Toddler Funyard exit. Chris Getz, wearily dragging his feet, staggered into the light. The athletic White Sox GM was a disaster area. His boyish face was covered in scratches and dried blood, and half of his ripped shirt was tied haphazardly over his right eye. He was bent nearly double, barely able to walk.

“I had… I had that ball,” Getz wheezed, his voice trembling as he pointed a shaking finger at Preller. “And I showed it to the official. He… um… he congratulated me and told me I was moving on. But someone clocked me in the back of the head from behind and I just woke up. It had to be him!”

Preller scoffed, crossing his arms over his torn suit. “Hey! Ilitch said whoever has one of the balls at the end moves on. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Getz.”

“But the official said I moved on!” Getz pleaded, turning to the Tigers front office. “C’mon. You can’t let him get away with this! We are finally turning things around. We have a real shot at winning the AL Central!”

As the other exhausted competitors watched in silence, licking their literal wounds, Ilitch, Harris, and Greenberg quickly huddled into a tight whisper circle. After a few seconds, Ilitch broke the huddle and turned back to the bruised White Sox GM.

“Getz, you technically won,” Ilitch admitted. “And you should move on to the next round.”

Getz let out a ragged cheer, jumping up and down as he snatched the orange ball back from Preller’s grip. “Put it on the board! Yes!”

“Hold on,” Ilitch said, raising a finger. “Technically you won, but… um, how do I put this?”

Harris stepped forward, his expression deadpan. “You aren’t getting Skubbs.”

“Not even if you offer us Hagen Smith, Noah Schultz, Caleb Bonemer, The Montgomery boys, and your stupid mascot Southpaw,” Greenberg added, shaking his head.

Getz froze, his jaw dropping. “But… why?!”

“You’re in our division, Getz!!! Getz it?!?” Ilitch burst out laughing at his own pun. “Ah, I just thought of that. But seriously, we can’t have the White Sox winning the division. You guys have been the joke of the AL Central and made us look competent for years. Sorry, but you’re eliminated. Preller, you’re back in.”

“This is bullshit!” Getz screamed, spit flying from his lips as his face turned green like Southpaw. “You’ll see! When Cholowsky, Bonemer, and Carlson get called up! You’ll see! You all will see!”

Before he could lunge at everyone, two massive security guards appeared seemingly out of thin air, grabbing Getz by his elbows and dragging his kicking, screaming body down the hall.

Ilitch didn’t even blink as Getz’s screams faded away. “Gentlemen, let’s make our way to the dining area for our next event.”

Just then, the doors to the arcade swung open. Scott Boras strolled casually into the hallway, happily chewing on a candy necklace while clutching a massive, neon-pink plush hippopotamus under his arm.

He looked at the bleeding, tattered general managers, then at Ilitch. “What did I miss?”

*************************************

The six remaining participants were led into a private party room and seated around a massive, circular mahogany table, forcing them to look each other dead in the eye. In front of each battered executive sat a large, silver-domed platter with a single glass of water beside it. The heavy, nostalgic scent of artificial garlic butter and hot grease filled the air.

“Gentlemen!” Ilitch announced, standing at the head of the table. “Each of you has presented us with an impressive trade package for the right to have the best pitcher in baseball on your roster for the stretch run. And in those packages, you each have one… let’s say… crown jewel to headline the deal.”

The general managers sat up a little straighter, their tattered suits sticking to the vinyl chairs.

“Gomes and the Dodgers offered Zyhir Hope,” Ilitch began, counting on his fingers. “Cashman and the Yankees offered Carlos Lagrange. Stearns and the Mets offered Ryan Clifford. Hollander and the Mariners offered Michael Arroyo. Arnold and the Brewers offered Josh Adamczewski. And Preller and the Padres offered Kruz Schoolcraft.”

He took a slow lap around the table. “All very impressive young ballplayers whom we would love to see as future Tigers. So, I decided for our next event, we will take the number of letters in each of those top prospects’ names and give you that exact amount of Little Caesars Crazy Bread under your dish. The rules are simple: the first two of you to clean your plate will move on.”

As he spoke, Ilitch coyly looked over at Gomes. The Dodgers GM acknowledged it with a subtle, knowing smile, adjusting his cuffs.

Cashman slammed his fist on the table. “That’s bullshit! Gomes’s guy only has nine letters! The rest of us are well into the double digits!”

“My wife has me on a juice cleanse!” Arnold groaned from the other side of the table, looking at his dome with palpable dread.

Greenberg snorted. “You need it, Cheesehead.”

Arnold snapped his head around, his eyes narrowing. “Screw you, Jeff! You’re just mad because I single-handedly made you leave the Cubs and baseball altogether back in ’23! You’re still traumatized by how many times we beat up on your Cubbies between 2018 and 2022!”

“Shut up!” Greenberg shot back, his face flushing red. He turned to Ilitch. “Mr. Ilitch, can we add ten more pieces to Arnold’s plate?”

Ilitch shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

A server in an orange apron scrambled out from the kitchen, lifted Arnold’s dome, dropped ten extra grease-glistening breadsticks onto the pile, and slammed the cover back down.

“This is complete bullshit!” Arnold yelled.

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask for you to stuff all three of those stupid sausages from your idiotic stadium race down your throat,” Greenberg sneered. “And by the way! Italian Sausage is a Chicago thing, asshole!”

“C’mon Mr. Ilitch, Scott (Harris)! We know that Luis Lara is the actual headliner to our deal!” Arnold countered, leaning over the table. “I should only have eight pieces!”

Greenberg tapped his chin, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “Hmm. Maybe if you switch it to your other Luis…” Arnold blinked, looking utterly confused. “…Luis Pena? Then maybe we can arrange that.”

“No way! You must be out of your mind!” Arnold stood up so fast his chair screeched against the tile, tumbling backward into an empty corner of the room. He yanked his plastic birthday bib off his neck and threw it onto the table. “I’m out of here! And you can eat my sausage, Greenberg!”

Arnold stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ilitch watched the door swing shut, completely unfazed. “Well, I guess that betters all of your odds to finish second, fellas. Does anyone else want out?”

The remaining men slouched in their chairs for a moment, the absurdity of the room weighing heavily on them. Then, they looked over at Skubal, who was watching from the corner with a look of profound secondhand embarrassment. The stakes were too high to quit now.

Stearns cleared his throat, trying to project confidence despite his swelling black eye. “I’m game. But maybe you should ask if the old guy over there doesn’t need a nurse to help spoon-feed him.”

Cashman’s head snapped toward the Mets GM, his gaze icy. “I don’t need a nurse, kid. But you will if you keep talking. And if you don’t believe me go ask Breslow!”

Stearns immediately squirmed in his seat, suddenly finding a pattern on the table intensely interesting as he avoided eye contact.

“Fine. Damn,” Hollander muttered, rubbing his temples. “I should have just let Mr. Dipoto do this like he wanted.”

“Fuck it!” Preller roared, slamming both hands on the table with manic energy. “I ate twenty Friar Franks in twenty minutes on a dare in college! I can take down fifteen pieces of crazy bread in half that time! Let’s do this!”

Ilitch smiled, raising his hand in the air. “Alright, gentlemen. Pizza, pizza!”

*************************************

“Jesus,” Skubal muttered, leaning his head against the hallway wall. “I have never seen a human being throw up that much in my entire life.”

Boras didn’t even look up from his plush hippo, casually pulling another candy off his necklace. “That’s nothing, Redhawk. Cashman did twice as much back when he wanted Prince Fielder.” He let out a wheezing laugh at the memory. “The man was and still is a machine.”

Harris walked out of the dining room, loosening his orange tie. “I still can’t believe no one helped Preller when he started choking.”

“I would have,” Greenberg chimed in, stepping out behind him. “If he still had Leodalis De Vries in the deal.” He giggled like a schoolkid.

The other three men stopped and gave him a thoroughly unsettled look.

Greenberg quickly held his hands up. “Kidding, fellas! I’m not a monster. I knew we had the EMTs on standby. Besides, I actually kind of wanted Preller to win. I really like that Kruz Schoolcraft, Kash Mayfield, and Jorge Quintana package he put together. I’m pretty sure we could have squeezed him to add Ty Harvey too, if he’d made it to the final round.”

Skubal threw his hands in the air, his voice cracking. “This is absolute insanity!”

“Look, Skubbs,” Boras said, his tone instantly shifting into his smooth, trademark agent-speak. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on the pitcher’s shoulder. “This is all just part of the dance. After the season is over and you hit free agency, you will really see the extent to which these guys will go to sign you. This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo.”

Skubal looked down the flashing neon hallway, completely exhausted. “Please, just tell me this will be over soon.”

“Almost,” Greenberg said, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he gestured toward the main arcade floor. “They just have one more game to play to determine the sole winner.”

Skubal blinked. “What game now?”

Boras smiled, his eyes twinkling under the flashing arcade lights. “Sku-ball.”

Harris and Greenberg instantly snickered to themselves at the pun. Skubal just stood there in the center of the arcade, entirely silent, staring at them like he was trapped in a nightmare.

*************************************

Gentlemen,” Ilitch voice echoing off the concrete walls of the narrow corridor. “We are finally here, and the two best men are left standing. Mr. Gomes from the Dodgers, and Mr. Hollander from the Mariners.”

The remaining general managers looked on, battered and nursing their various injuries, while Cashman glared from the back of the pack, nursing a severe case of indigestion.

“I’m sure you are wondering what the final game is, so I won’t waste any more of your time,” Ilitch said with a grand flourish. “Come with me to the play room.”

The trio walked into a pitch-black room. The air was dead silent until Ilitch sharply snapped his fingers. Suddenly, twin columns of neon-colored bulbs flashed to life, illuminating two classic skee-ball lanes. Twenty seconds later, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzed on, revealing Skubal, Boras, Harris, and Greenberg standing perfectly at attention beside the machines.

“Gentlemen,” Ilitch said, gesturing to the wooden ramps. “You will each have one roll of Sku-ball. Whoever gets the higher score wins.”

Gomes stared at the rings, blinking against the sudden brightness. “Wow. Alright.”

“What’s my advantage?” Hollander asked, rubbing his palms together anxiously.

“Well, before we get into that, there is one more part to this,” Ilitch said, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Harris stepped forward, crossing his arms. “Gentlemen, both your organizations are known for your elite farm systems, and you both presented highly impressive trade packages. The Dodgers’ offer of Zyhir Hope, Emil Morales, Ching-Hsien Ko, and Jackson Ferris is incredibly enticing. The Mariners’ offer of Michael Arroyo, Jonny Farmelo, Felnin Celesten, and Mason Peters is just as superb.”

“But each of these deals is lacking something,” Greenberg added, leaning against the side of the lane. “For our organization to be okay with dealing away the best pitcher in the majors, we need to fill the massive void left in our own rotation. You both have a plethora of young pitching prospects who can sweeten the pot.”

Ilitch took a step closer to the two executives. “So, it’s simple, gentlemen. Whoever adds the best sweetener will get an advantage in this final game. While the other… let’s say… he will have a bit of a disadvantage.”

Gomes didn’t hesitate. “Alright. The best I’ll do is add Christian Zazueta to the deal. That’s it!”

Hollander bit his lip, looking frantically at his phone. “Can I make a quick call to Mr. Dipoto?”

Ilitch checked his watch. “You have sixty seconds.”

Hollander rushed out into the hallway, his fingers flying across his screen as he dialed Jerry Dipoto. The phone picked up on the first ring.

“Give them Sloan!” Dipoto barked through the receiver before Hollander could even speak.

“We can’t do that, sir!” Hollander hissed, keeping his voice down. “We are already giving up a ton of talent!”

“Justin,” Dipoto’s voice turned deadly serious. “Do you know the last time the Mariners won the World Series?”

Hollander paused. “We… haven’t?”

“Exactly!”

“But still, sir, it’s too much leverage to give up for a rental!”

“Justin, do you know why Boras calls Skubal, Redhawk?”

“I just assumed it was some sort of inside joke,” Hollander mumbled, glancing back at the playroom door.

“You need to do better research, kid,” Dipoto retorted. “Redhawk is the mascot of Skubal’s alma mater.”

“Oh. Okay… what does that have to do with us?”

“Skubal went to Seattle University.”

The line went quiet. Hollander stared at the wall. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Dipoto said. “Bring him home, kid. We’ll get him to sign an extension. Add Yorger Bautista to the deal too, and secure that advantage!”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollander hung up, took a deep breath, and burst back into the playroom.

“We offer Ryan Sloan,” Hollander declared, puffing out his chest. “As well as Yorger Bautista.”

Both Greenberg and Harris raised their eyebrows in unison, looking thoroughly impressed.

Ilitch smiled warmly. “Mr. Hollander, I knew you’d come through with exactly what we wanted at the wire. You get the advantage.”

Hollander clapped his hands together, letting out a loud, ecstatic yell. Gomes threw his arms up in total frustration, turning on Ilitch. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I thought we had a deal in place?”

Ilitch completely ignored Gomes’s protests, reaching into his pocket. “This is a vintage Little Caesars fun token. The heads side features Lil’ Caesar in an airplane with the word Caesarland across the top. The tails side is Lil’ Caesar holding an ice cream cone. I’ll flip it. Since you won the advantage, Mr. Hollander, you get to call it.”

Ilitch flicked the token high into the air. It glinted under the neon lights before tumbling downward.

“Heads!” Hollander shouted.

The coin landed with a dull thud on the sticky purple carpet. Everyone leaned over, waiting in breathless anticipation as Ilitch inspected the floor.

“Heads,” Ilitch confirmed.

“I will go first,” Hollander said instantly.

“Alright, Mr. Hollander. Step up to the machine on the left and throw your ball.”

Hollander took his position, grabbing the heavy wooden ball. “What’s my advantage?”

“You’ll see.”

Hollander stared down the lane. He eyed the two high-risk 500-point cylinders tucked into the top corners, then glanced at the 100-point ring dead center. He took a deep breath, whispering to himself, “What would Mr. Dipoto do?”

He wound up and hurled the ball with a heavy dose of backspin, aiming straight for the right corner with massive gusto. The ball rocketed up the ramp, glided gracefully into the air, kissed the protective netting, and dropped cleanly into the 500-point hole.

“YES!” Hollander screamed, pumping his fist.

The room fell into stunned silence.

“You’ve got balls, kid,” Greenberg said, nodding in approval.

Boras let out a loud, wheezing laugh from the corner. “Sku-BALLS!” He chuckled hysterically at his own joke while a few others let out a reluctant smirk.

“Mr. Gomes, your turn,” Ilitch said, gesturing to the right lane. “You get one roll. Step up and grab your ball. Are you ready?”

Gomes stepped up to the wood, locking his eyes onto the 500-point pockets. He gripped the ball, settling his stance.

“Mr. Gomes, get ready,” Ilitch said smoothly. He snapped his fingers.

The room plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

“What the hell?!” Gomes yelled into the void. “Really? I have to throw this with the lights off?”

“Should have offered James Tibbs too!” Greenberg yelled back from the dark.

“You can do anything you set your mind to, Gomes!” Boras called out. 

“Fine!” Gomes growled.

Visualizing the layout in his mind, Gomes calculated the distance. He swung his arm across his body, aiming high toward the top-left corner. He released the ball, and the instant the heavy wood smacked against the lane, the lights flashed back on.

Everyone watched as the ball skimmed the upper netting and rattled straight into the 500-point cup.

“Holy shit! Yes!” Gomes shouted, turning around with a triumphant grin.

Hollander’s face completely dropped. The rest of the room couldn’t help but applaud the impossible shot.

“I don’t believe what I just saw,” Greenberg muttered.

Gomes wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and smirks. “Guess we will have to run it again?”

“Well, you are half right,” Ilitch replied, a devious smile playing on his lips. “Mr. Hollander, you asked earlier what your advantage was? Your advantage is that you get to throw one more ball.”

Gomes’s jaw dropped. “You have got to be kidding me! You made me go through all this bullshit for nothing?!”

“Sorry, Mr. Gomes,” Ilitch said, completely untroubled as he patted the Dodgers GM on the shoulder and whispered. “And please do me a favor… tell your Board of Directors in La-La Land, with my absolute sincerest apologies, that this was for stealing Kirk Gibson from my Tigers back in 1988. Pizza, pizza.” 

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