steviemaxwell and I bring you a story. Enjoy. :)

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Thursday, January 24th

Samuel Gwosdz (Red Fox, GM, WIL) sat at the small desk in the hotel suite, only the glow of his laptop, oPhone and the curtain-obscured Tallahassee city lights providing the illumination of the room. Dressed in just a white undershirt and his favorite pair of Atlanta Braves-themed tomahawk boxer shorts, the fox slumped back in his chair, a lot on his mind. He stared back over to the digital clock on the beside table.

12:30 A.M.

At least it wasn’t too late, though the opened bottle of Pepto-Bismol sitting on the table reminded him of the situation. How many of those had he gone through in the past few days? Four? Five? He couldn’t remember. The fox looked over wistfully at his wife Marron on the bed, sound asleep. He figured she was definitely tired, finally getting the chance to play again.

At least something made him smile, despite how late it was. And it has come from someone that had all but disappeared from the media spotlight for the majority of the season so far, with the exception of a rather questionable marketing campaign over the holiday season. The surprise phone call had even come from a number he didn’t recognize immediately, but the purring voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable.

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, Mr. Gwosdz.”

“I forgot to put my phone on ‘silent mode’ and nearly woke up my wife,” Sam deadpanned with the truth. “Good thing she’s a heavy sleeper for the most part. What’s up, Stefan?” he asked, not trying to sound weary.

“Just wanted to see how you’re holding up, Sam,” replied Stefan Calico (Tabby Cat, Owner, HNT). “Haven’t really checked in with you, I’ve been mostly busy with other projects this year.”

“Yeah, I gathered you were busy. How am I holding up? I’m fine,” he said, using his free paw to close an Internet window that displayed a box score of the night’s game between the Minutemen and Typhoons. He could barely stand to watch it live, but he wasn’t about to let Stefan know that then.

“Sure about that? Not worried about your seven-game slide? It is the longest losing streak since you’ve been hired.”

Sam rubbed a paw over his face and resisted taking another swig of antacid, making an odd growling-murring noise signaling frustration. “Don’t remind me. I’m on my fourth bottle of Pepto this week.”

“Mmmhmm, that’s what I thought,” noted the feline. “Has Jack said anything to you about it?”

Stefan, of course, was referring to Jack Tarman (Tiger), the Minutemen owner. He was present in the Minutemen staff box that day, feeling well enough to travel to Tallahassee. “He usually says the same thing to me: ‘Patience, Sam, it’ll all even out,’” the fox replied, paraphrasing what his employer, nearly fifty years his senior, always told him. The tiger never lacked for words of encouragement and usually only saved true criticism for when he meant it. However, that was clearly escaping the fox at the moment.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on, Stefan. I thought we were prepared. For heaven’s sake, we got booed during the game when we lost to Bangor,” he said, referring to the team’s fourth loss in a row at home, something that was also foreign to his pro experience.

“Well you have to remember that you are the defending champions. Nobody’s gonna give you any slack for that: not the other teams, not the media who’s mostly biased against you, and especially not the fans who can be as fickle as they come.” The feline drew in a short breath before adding, “Look at my team, for instance; we were booed at Thanksgiving, and a week later against our neighbors from Nashville, and even when we started the game against Pittsburgh with Healey Davis in the crowd. But I’ve reminded Coach Schnitthund to keep plugging away, and not to give up, especially on our vision.

“The tiger’s right, though. The mid-point of the season is coming up. I can see Williamsburg coming up with another 20-20 record at the halfway mark, and I just hope Huntsville can join you up there,” purred the tabby over the phone, with the sound of papers being shuffled about coming across as well.

“Defending champs... we’re playing more like the losers we were before I got here...” Sam groaned. There wasn’t a hint of irony in his voice. He meant that at the moment.

“Are you seriously comparing Vera La Tierra (Red Vixen, G) to Deborah Walker (Alpaca, G, retired)?” asked Stefan incredulously.

“No, I’m not doing that, don’t be stupid!” Sam hissed, offended that the tabby would even try to assume that.

Stefan continued, “But that’s what it sounds like to me, Sam. I mean, consider the Thrust who were champs before you: they didn’t change much in their lineups until around the mid-point of the season, and they started off sucky too, but still finished the season strong. There’s still plenty of time before the trading deadline you know.” Then the cat gasped and said, “Wait, you’re still stressing over Urayak Monogoyak (Wolverine, F, SJT). I know it.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Sam felt like he completely bungled the draft, it was true. There were so many other things he could have done, so many other options he could have taken. But no, he had to have a forward, and one he didn’t want to particularly take to boot. What else could explain why he mysteriously flipped the wolverine to the Thrust for veteran Tyron Stricker (Porcupine, F) a week before Christmas? The porcupine, who was friendly and affable enough, was inserted into the lineup for defensive purposes, but the team seemed to stagnate a little.

Without much prompting, Stefan said in a slightly quieter tone, “Look, I’m sorry, I forget your wife is sleeping. But I hope that you’re also not trying to lay any blame or responsibility on her for the team’s poor performance; remember, she knew what she was getting into by signing that contract to play. You have to trust in her, just like in all of your players and coaches, that they’re doing the best that they can under the circumstances. And don’t think that she’s trying to pin the blame or responsibility solely on you either.”

Sam spent the whole time listening to that conversation looking at Marron (Arctic Vixen, G), covered up with the tan blanket and white sheets. His ears flattened to his head in shame; he basically just called his wife a loser a few moments ago, and that was the last thing she ever was to him. And it had to take a rival GM, despite him being a friend, to tell him that. He felt like a jerk.

“Stefan... it feels like a step backward, like we really haven’t made progress. We’re at the same situation we were back in 2011, spinning our wheels and looking to be lucky to get a 20-20 record at the break. It’s... it’s just... stagnating,” he grumbled, struggling for words that weren’t of the four-letter variety.

“Sam, you won it all last year,” reminded the tabby. “Anything less than the top is going to be a step backward. You’re just feeling it more because of the situation you inherited when you joined the organization. You don’t see me fretting about being at the bottom of the conference, do you? Same with Jack, and most likely Coach Roosevelt. They’ve seen a lot over the years, so relax and stop blaming yourself too.”

Sam nodded. He knew the tabby was right. It was undeniable. Morgan Roosevelt (Raccoon, HC, WIL) and Tarman had been with the organization since the beginning, as had Jake Masters (Orange Tabby Cat, G, retired) who worked in management, and they had been through more trials and tribulations than he had ever faced in his short life. “I know. Look, Stefan, I need to get to sleep. It’s almost one,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “Thanks for the talk, though, I think I needed it,” he admitted.

A chuckle on the other end of the line preceded the feline’s words. “All right, Sam. Hopefully it won’t be such a long gap until our next conversation. Make sure you give my regards to your wife, too.”

“Heh, yeah, I will. Good night, Stefan.”

Sam pressed the “Call End” button on the screen, plugged in the phone to its battery charger for the night and folded the laptop closed. Quietly walking over to bed and climbing in, he leaned over to his wife, gently stroked her red hair and kissed her on the cheek.

“I love you, Marron, and I’m sorry,” he whispered. Pulling the blanket over his shoulders, the fox soon went to sleep, that small weight briefly off his shoulders. The fox wasn’t just apologizing to her.

He was apologizing to everybody.

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Samuel Gwosdz, Marron Gwosdz c  Sam Gwosdz
Stefan Calico c  steviemaxwell
FBA c  BuckHopper