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Authors: Pamela Aares
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week.
Dick Fisher, the GM, sat next to her. He had smooth manners. Maybe too smooth. He was impeccably dressed, as if there were a store where you could walk in and tell them to make you look rich, powerful and polished. He probably didn’t have a humble bone in his body. But as he gave her another toothy, gleaming smile, she realized sports teams didn’t need humble. They needed leaders with chops.
The guy probably had chops, certainly more than she did. But he’d only been with the Sabers for six months. She knew little about him. Her dad had rarely talked about Fisher, but as she sat next to him, she began to vibrate with a creeping unease. Maybe it was the way some of the staff held their bodies as they spoke to him, or maybe it was the strange tension she felt coming from Charley. Wherever it came from, it was palpable.
She forced herself to sit back, unclench her fist.
She wrote her unease off to jitters and her fear that she was in over her head. She wished George Ellis, the former general manager, was still with the team. He’d been with the Sabers since day one, since the day her dad had thrown out the first pitch as owner. But George had a right to retire—he was pushing seventy.
The meeting ended and several of the staff offered condolences. Reliving her sadness with each statement, each glance turned away, was exhausting. Who knew that grief required so much effort? When her mother died she’d been young. Maybe it’d been exhausting, but she couldn’t remember.
And she still wasn’t done for the day. Next was a grilling by the press. She suspected they wouldn’t push too hard this close to her father’s death, but that didn’t necessarily mean they’d hold back either. She gulped down a last sip of water, popped a mint into her dry mouth, flexed and massaged her hands a couple of times, and stepped into the hall.
Mike Thomas and Dick Fisher flanked her as she walked into the press conference. The lights were blinding and the room was hot. Forty reporters crowded close to the raised dais. There’d been only a few women baseball owners in the history of baseball, and Chloe’s heart went out to all of them in belated support as she stepped onto the dais and stood in front of the cameras and microphones.
“What about the trade for Scotty Donovan?” A grizzled reporter in the front row called out in a voice that boomed above the others. “How’d you get the Giants to give up a star pitcher?”
Chloe looked over to Fisher and waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, the silence grew awkward and all eyes turned to her.
She willed her blush to recede, but it didn’t obey. She didn’t know the details of the deal, and she didn’t want to talk about the team, about her , owning Scotty. Nabbing Scotty from the Giants had been a coup, but she had no idea what had lured the Giants into giving him up. The minor league players traded in the deal had been first-round draft choices and the cash the team had laid out must’ve been very enticing.
“The details of that trade are confidential,” Fisher finally replied.
“Since when are trade details a secret?” the grizzled reporter shouted out.
“Ignore him,” Mike whispered to her.
A woman stepped forward. She was Chloe’s age and impeccably dressed. She had the bright eyes of someone on the track of something important.
“Amy Peroni from KRGX,” the woman said, politely identifying herself. “Miss McNalley, the city council has yet to approve the three-hundred-million-dollar loan and the zoning for the build-out of the Sabers’ new stadium. Any thoughts about how your father’s death might affect their vote this summer?”
Chloe wanted to say it wasn’t any of the woman’s business, but it was. The Sabers were a major employer in San Jose, and the World Series win had put the city on the map as more than just a high-tech enclave. She knew the real question was whether the city had any confidence in her. She looked over to Dick Fisher, but
Dick Fisher, the GM, sat next to her. He had smooth manners. Maybe too smooth. He was impeccably dressed, as if there were a store where you could walk in and tell them to make you look rich, powerful and polished. He probably didn’t have a humble bone in his body. But as he gave her another toothy, gleaming smile, she realized sports teams didn’t need humble. They needed leaders with chops.
The guy probably had chops, certainly more than she did. But he’d only been with the Sabers for six months. She knew little about him. Her dad had rarely talked about Fisher, but as she sat next to him, she began to vibrate with a creeping unease. Maybe it was the way some of the staff held their bodies as they spoke to him, or maybe it was the strange tension she felt coming from Charley. Wherever it came from, it was palpable.
She forced herself to sit back, unclench her fist.
She wrote her unease off to jitters and her fear that she was in over her head. She wished George Ellis, the former general manager, was still with the team. He’d been with the Sabers since day one, since the day her dad had thrown out the first pitch as owner. But George had a right to retire—he was pushing seventy.
The meeting ended and several of the staff offered condolences. Reliving her sadness with each statement, each glance turned away, was exhausting. Who knew that grief required so much effort? When her mother died she’d been young. Maybe it’d been exhausting, but she couldn’t remember.
And she still wasn’t done for the day. Next was a grilling by the press. She suspected they wouldn’t push too hard this close to her father’s death, but that didn’t necessarily mean they’d hold back either. She gulped down a last sip of water, popped a mint into her dry mouth, flexed and massaged her hands a couple of times, and stepped into the hall.
Mike Thomas and Dick Fisher flanked her as she walked into the press conference. The lights were blinding and the room was hot. Forty reporters crowded close to the raised dais. There’d been only a few women baseball owners in the history of baseball, and Chloe’s heart went out to all of them in belated support as she stepped onto the dais and stood in front of the cameras and microphones.
“What about the trade for Scotty Donovan?” A grizzled reporter in the front row called out in a voice that boomed above the others. “How’d you get the Giants to give up a star pitcher?”
Chloe looked over to Fisher and waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, the silence grew awkward and all eyes turned to her.
She willed her blush to recede, but it didn’t obey. She didn’t know the details of the deal, and she didn’t want to talk about the team, about her , owning Scotty. Nabbing Scotty from the Giants had been a coup, but she had no idea what had lured the Giants into giving him up. The minor league players traded in the deal had been first-round draft choices and the cash the team had laid out must’ve been very enticing.
“The details of that trade are confidential,” Fisher finally replied.
“Since when are trade details a secret?” the grizzled reporter shouted out.
“Ignore him,” Mike whispered to her.
A woman stepped forward. She was Chloe’s age and impeccably dressed. She had the bright eyes of someone on the track of something important.
“Amy Peroni from KRGX,” the woman said, politely identifying herself. “Miss McNalley, the city council has yet to approve the three-hundred-million-dollar loan and the zoning for the build-out of the Sabers’ new stadium. Any thoughts about how your father’s death might affect their vote this summer?”
Chloe wanted to say it wasn’t any of the woman’s business, but it was. The Sabers were a major employer in San Jose, and the World Series win had put the city on the map as more than just a high-tech enclave. She knew the real question was whether the city had any confidence in her. She looked over to Dick Fisher, but
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