Sophomore Campaign by Frank Nappi

Author:Frank Nappi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2012-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Murph was to be at a meeting with Dennison that next morning. It was that time of year already—midseason report. Time to face the music. This ritual of Dennison’s was always an onerous experience, one replete with the self absorbed owner’s haughty posturing and banal observations. Then there were the questions—a proliferation of calculated inquires designed to humiliate him on some level while reaffirming that smug bastard’s own dominance. It was torture. And this year, there was an additional angst attached to the appointment, for the status of Murph’s job was now twisting in the wind.

On the way to the ballpark, Murph stopped off at the sheriff’s station in order to follow up on the report that Lester and the others had filed in the early morning hours.

“I’m sorry, Murph,” Rosco said. “You know I am. But those boys of yours can’t give me much. I got nothing to go on here. Hell, throw a white sheet over anyone in this town and you got a possible suspect. My hands are tied.”

Things did not improve much one Murph arrived at the park. Dennison was standing behind his desk, holding a gray portfolio filled with attendance charts and game reports, when Murph arrived at his office. Wordless, the peevish owner crossed the floor to greet his manager, fanning the air with the stack of papers while nodding his head in cryptic fashion.

“Just been crunching the numbers, Murph,” he said. “Interesting. Very Interesting.” The two took their usual places—Murph on the bleached wood chair whose varnished seat and curious incline kept him sliding obsequiously toward the owner’s desk and Dennison, safely ensconced in his preposterously enormous burgundy leather chair, the spot from which he always preferred to espouse his inner workings.

“I have several things I want to discuss with you, Murph,” he said, his voice laced with what sounded like tragic exactitude. “But, before we do that, I’d like to hear from you.”

Murph was a little crestfallen and noticeably phlegmatic in his response to Dennison. He sat, his hands folded neatly on his lap in subtle defiance, saying nothing while staring at the ripple of lines that Father Time and the unforgiving sun had seared into the old man’s forehead.

“Well, Mr. Murphy. I’m waiting. What have you got to say for yourself?”

Murph laughed somewhat grimly, then spoke. “What I think, Warren,” he began, folding his arms and leaning his head to one side in thoughtful deliberation, “is that the play on the field speaks for itself.”

Dennison smiled, his thoughts rising precipitously and overflowing like the swell of papers challenging the thin cardboard binding of his portfolio.

“I have all of that, Murph, right here,” he said. “Numbers. Statistics. Projections. Charts and graphs. It’s all here. I can see the value there. Believe me. But, I also know that those things only tell part of the story.”

Dennison walked backed to his desk, sighed purposefully, and pulled from the top drawer a stack of letters addressed to Lester in care of the team. “Do you know what these are, Mr.

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