There’s silence in the locker room. The ones seated rest their forearms against their knees, heads bent low, staring at the floor. Those standing brace flat palms on the wall, leaning in. One lone man picks at the food on the table—a once sumptuous feast, now just remnants containing stale bread, wilted lettuce, shiny cheese, and soggy meats. Someone scratches their crotch, fingernails loud against his cup in the all-encompassing depths of stillness.
The Rookie stirs. “At least we were the most consistent team this year.”
Growls from a dozen throats cuts off any further comment. They wait.
Without warning, their manager appears in the middle of the room. Fresh from a shower and dressed in a skin-tight, short black sheath of a dress and four-inch heels, long curly hair framing an angel’s face, she turned slowly to give a long look to each of her players. Her dark, sultry voice echoed through her final speech.
“Twelfth place, men. We started at the bottom and stayed there the entire season. I’m not saying you didn’t try, but you just didn’t have the balls to climb out, did you? I waited for you to come around, kept trades to a minimum. Gave you every chance. I believed in you. Say what you will, the best thing you did this year was make all the other teams look good. Our work is done.
“Most of you will be heading to other teams next year. I’ll give you one piece of advice: lay off the booze and the women. And Jose, please stop eating that meat. It’s been sitting there for hours and that’s what got you on the DL in the first place. Jeez. We’ve got consolation games starting next week.”
She took one last look at her players. “See you on the field, men.”
A quick turn, a puff of smoke, and she was gone.
“Who the hell was that?” the Rookie whispered.
Jose turned from the table, still munching on limp lettuce. “I don’t know, Rookie. But I’m calling the Boss, see if he’ll take me in a trade. I’d advise the rest of you to do the same.”
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