just for the hell of it
One of the deleted scenes from Front Offices. I liked the scene OK, but it ended up starting a storyline that didn't make the final cut in the story, so out it went.
Of course I'm terrible about throwing things away....
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
This is the song that never ends yes it goes on and on my friends some people started singing it not knowing what it was
Although Theo knows they’re not waiting on him-- Henry has stepped out and isn’t there when Theo gets into the conference room-- Lucchino manages to make it seem like it’s Theo who’s holding them up. He doesn’t come out and say it, of course, but he manages to convey the same idea through a series of sighs and eye rollings. Theo grits his teeth, takes his seat, spreads his papers out in front of him. He’s not going to let Lucchino prod him. Werner looks nervously back and forth between them.
Lucchino doesn’t stop with the looks until Henry comes back in and takes up his place at the end of the table. He clears his throat softly, because Henry is a soft-spoken man, but the entire room settles down at that anyways.
“This shouldn’t be too bad,” Henry says in his quiet, even voice. “They’ve dealt with Americans before, so they’re not expecting us to be perfect on all the etiquette, but we should still make an effort. Consider it policon but not policorr.”
These are Red Sox front office terms that take the phrases from which they’re derived-politically conscious and politically correct-to a different connotative level. Policorr indicates a level of fanatically uber-inoffensive political correctness that is generally only familiar to public relations people. Policon is a lesser version; moderate political correctness without the sense that a misspoken word will set off a war. Henry’s use of the words is a sign that only top front office people are at this meeting, only the top of the top and their most trusted assistants.
The words were introduced by Lucchino when he first came to the Red Sox, but Theo uses them as much as anyone. Just because he doesn’t personally like the man much these days doesn’t mean that he thinks of him as anything less than a genius. In some senses, Lucchino taught him everything he knows about running a baseball team.
Usually, Theo knows, the people they’re having a meeting with are the sort of people who require policorr, a real uptight cultural thing and all that. He’s relieved to hear otherwise. Of course he knew that they weren’t sheltered people, but if they’ve dealt with a lot of Americans before he doesn’t have to worry quite so much about making an irrevocable ass of himself. The translator will smooth over some of his more obvious gaffes too, which is a nice little fail-safe.
A tech comes in and sets about fiddling with some mysterious but presumably audio-visual equipment in the middle of the conference table. A big screen descends from the ceiling and the tech places small black microphones in front of everyone. Theo sits up straighter, carefully adjusting his tie, running a hand back through his hair.
The screen comes to life, dancing lines quickly solidifying into a high-resolution set of two images, one large and one small. The small one shows a young man wearing the distinctively oversized headphones that identify him as a translator. The large image shows another hemisphere of conference table, a slightly off-key mirror of their own, its surface glassy instead of wood-grained, the walls matted with something pale and somehow foreign, Henry and Lucchino and Werner and Theo and Peter and Jed and everyone else switched out for dark-suited Asian men, their hair all somewhere on the gradient between black and gray.
The one in the middle stands and bends from the waist, his suit jacket creasing precisely. In very careful English he says, “The Saitama Seibu Lions send our most earnest greetings to the Boston Red Sox.” Theo wonders if ‘earnest’ is what he really meant to say, if maybe the word in Japanese fit slightly better.
Henry stands up and says something in halting Japanese, presumably the counterpart greeting. They both sit down and the translator looks attentive. Henry looks towards Theo. This is his cue, his show to fuck up now. He risks a quick glance at Lucchino, who looks calculatedly bored.
“We were very impressed by the performance of the Japanese national team in this past year’s Olympics,” Theo says, directing his words to the suits, although he can hear the translator rapidly working over his statement, turning it into another language. “We saw many very good players and were impressed by the state of Japanese baseball. There was a player we saw there who interests us. We learned that he is under contract to your team.”
The middle suit leans forward a tiny amount. “You must understand,” he says through the translator, “we are not the Yomiuri Giants, who have so many fans that players can leave and nobody takes notice. The system, it calls for a posting, and most regrettably we must remind you that the posting involves certain exchanges.”
“We understand. It is something to talk about in the future, but you do not need to worry about it. We are willing to be fair and make sure that any player who leaves your team does not do so without you getting equivalent value back,” Lucchino says, and sometimes, for all his asshole behavior, Theo could just hug him. Lucchino’s got his back, here, handling the money talk smoothly and (Theo assumes) in a more-or-less oblique way that won’t offend these Japanese suits. Properly policon. The Lions are a poor team, relatively speaking. The money they would get from posting a big player to the Red Sox could run well into the multi-million dollar range, could set them up financially for years.
Theo takes a moment to incline his head very slightly to Lucchino. It’s a tiny gesture, but Lucchino will pick up on it and be pleased, even more so because he and Theo both know that the Japanese guys will see it clear as day and will interpret it correctly, thankful respect from one of the Boston front office guys to the other.
“We would like to talk,” Theo says, “about a pitcher named Daisuke Matsuzaka.”
Of course I'm terrible about throwing things away....
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
This is the song that never ends yes it goes on and on my friends some people started singing it not knowing what it was
Although Theo knows they’re not waiting on him-- Henry has stepped out and isn’t there when Theo gets into the conference room-- Lucchino manages to make it seem like it’s Theo who’s holding them up. He doesn’t come out and say it, of course, but he manages to convey the same idea through a series of sighs and eye rollings. Theo grits his teeth, takes his seat, spreads his papers out in front of him. He’s not going to let Lucchino prod him. Werner looks nervously back and forth between them.
Lucchino doesn’t stop with the looks until Henry comes back in and takes up his place at the end of the table. He clears his throat softly, because Henry is a soft-spoken man, but the entire room settles down at that anyways.
“This shouldn’t be too bad,” Henry says in his quiet, even voice. “They’ve dealt with Americans before, so they’re not expecting us to be perfect on all the etiquette, but we should still make an effort. Consider it policon but not policorr.”
These are Red Sox front office terms that take the phrases from which they’re derived-politically conscious and politically correct-to a different connotative level. Policorr indicates a level of fanatically uber-inoffensive political correctness that is generally only familiar to public relations people. Policon is a lesser version; moderate political correctness without the sense that a misspoken word will set off a war. Henry’s use of the words is a sign that only top front office people are at this meeting, only the top of the top and their most trusted assistants.
The words were introduced by Lucchino when he first came to the Red Sox, but Theo uses them as much as anyone. Just because he doesn’t personally like the man much these days doesn’t mean that he thinks of him as anything less than a genius. In some senses, Lucchino taught him everything he knows about running a baseball team.
Usually, Theo knows, the people they’re having a meeting with are the sort of people who require policorr, a real uptight cultural thing and all that. He’s relieved to hear otherwise. Of course he knew that they weren’t sheltered people, but if they’ve dealt with a lot of Americans before he doesn’t have to worry quite so much about making an irrevocable ass of himself. The translator will smooth over some of his more obvious gaffes too, which is a nice little fail-safe.
A tech comes in and sets about fiddling with some mysterious but presumably audio-visual equipment in the middle of the conference table. A big screen descends from the ceiling and the tech places small black microphones in front of everyone. Theo sits up straighter, carefully adjusting his tie, running a hand back through his hair.
The screen comes to life, dancing lines quickly solidifying into a high-resolution set of two images, one large and one small. The small one shows a young man wearing the distinctively oversized headphones that identify him as a translator. The large image shows another hemisphere of conference table, a slightly off-key mirror of their own, its surface glassy instead of wood-grained, the walls matted with something pale and somehow foreign, Henry and Lucchino and Werner and Theo and Peter and Jed and everyone else switched out for dark-suited Asian men, their hair all somewhere on the gradient between black and gray.
The one in the middle stands and bends from the waist, his suit jacket creasing precisely. In very careful English he says, “The Saitama Seibu Lions send our most earnest greetings to the Boston Red Sox.” Theo wonders if ‘earnest’ is what he really meant to say, if maybe the word in Japanese fit slightly better.
Henry stands up and says something in halting Japanese, presumably the counterpart greeting. They both sit down and the translator looks attentive. Henry looks towards Theo. This is his cue, his show to fuck up now. He risks a quick glance at Lucchino, who looks calculatedly bored.
“We were very impressed by the performance of the Japanese national team in this past year’s Olympics,” Theo says, directing his words to the suits, although he can hear the translator rapidly working over his statement, turning it into another language. “We saw many very good players and were impressed by the state of Japanese baseball. There was a player we saw there who interests us. We learned that he is under contract to your team.”
The middle suit leans forward a tiny amount. “You must understand,” he says through the translator, “we are not the Yomiuri Giants, who have so many fans that players can leave and nobody takes notice. The system, it calls for a posting, and most regrettably we must remind you that the posting involves certain exchanges.”
“We understand. It is something to talk about in the future, but you do not need to worry about it. We are willing to be fair and make sure that any player who leaves your team does not do so without you getting equivalent value back,” Lucchino says, and sometimes, for all his asshole behavior, Theo could just hug him. Lucchino’s got his back, here, handling the money talk smoothly and (Theo assumes) in a more-or-less oblique way that won’t offend these Japanese suits. Properly policon. The Lions are a poor team, relatively speaking. The money they would get from posting a big player to the Red Sox could run well into the multi-million dollar range, could set them up financially for years.
Theo takes a moment to incline his head very slightly to Lucchino. It’s a tiny gesture, but Lucchino will pick up on it and be pleased, even more so because he and Theo both know that the Japanese guys will see it clear as day and will interpret it correctly, thankful respect from one of the Boston front office guys to the other.
“We would like to talk,” Theo says, “about a pitcher named Daisuke Matsuzaka.”