Page 3 of The Strike Zone

“No, we’re booked until—” My eyes flicked to the clock across the stadium, and I realized that we’d spent so long messing around with projectors and staring at butts, that I’d lost track of the time.

Crap.

Tom walked in and dropped his stuff on the table, not even bothering to wait for the four of us to stand up. What’s more, he was followed by approximately fifteen members of the comms team, so it became a bustle trying to get out while everyone else was swarming in.

“Jeez, give us a second to get out of your way, why don’t you?” grumbled Alice as she finally pushed through the crowd. “There must be a dozen meeting rooms on this floor, how are they all booked?”

Instead of answering, I grabbed the boys before they attempted to take off and pulled them away from the thoroughfare of the corridor to finish the meeting.

“There were some good ideas in there, guys. Well done. Your first assignment is to create a social media posting schedule of ideas for the next two weeks, and we’ll see what we can take from it. Can you send to me by the end of the day?”

“Sure thing. Um, Scout, will we get to watch the game tomorrow?”

I nodded. “Yes. I need you helping the rest of the social team capturing the warm-ups. Also we have a bunch of the Lions shirts to give away, so for the game you’ll be out on the boardwalk, handing shirts out to anyone who catches a home run ball.”

“Awesome!” muttered Cyrus, hitting his fist against Joey’s, who looked equally as delighted at their roles for the Lions Opening Day game, before taking off down the corridor.

“Come and find me if you need anything or have questions,” I called after them, and turned to Alice. “Could they have left any quicker?”

“Yeah, probably. Bet they’ve gone to find the boys on the field, pump them for information on their workouts,” she replied, rolling her shoulders back and letting out a wide yawn. “They have a point, you know.”

“About what?”

“Those butts are noteworthy.”

“Only when I don’t have to concentrate on other things. Come on, let’s drop our stuff and run out for a coffee before we get back to work. Or in your case,startworking.” I nudged her shoulder with a laugh.

“Hey, it’s called efficiency, and delegation. Two things I happen to excel at.”

In the short time we’d been in the meeting, the hustle and bustle of the New York Lions communication department—located on the fifth floor of the stadium—had kicked into full throttle.

I’d only been with the Lions for little over a year, but we’d already doubled in size, thanks to the combination of a healthy operating budget and the challenge of turning around the reputation of a club, which, as I told the guys earlier, had been less than stellar. Recruitment for the best and brightest in the industry had gone into overdrive, and there were now more than a hundred people on this floor alone.

It hadn’t always been like that.

The New York Lions had historically been seen as the worst team in baseball. For decades it was found at the bottom of both the National League East and the National League, as well as bottom of the entire points table.

All this changed, however, when Penn Shepherd bought the club a few years ago and injected both some much-needed cash and an infectious love for America’s favorite game, which seemed to have been forgotten.

Overnight, the club transformed from a graveyard where players were unofficially retired before retirement, to being seen as a serious contender in the postseason. Not only did the starting rosters get overhauled, but so did the stadium, the club grounds, and the front offices. It was no secret that Penn Shepherd wanted the Commissioner’s Trophy, and he was fully prepared to pour as much money into the club as needed in order to make that happen.

And happen soon.

In case we forgot our goal, the Lions’ mantra was painted across the back wall of the comms department in giant font above the intertwined letters of the Lions logo.

king of the jungle, king of the field.

we’re not here to play ball. we’re here to win.

Last season saw us win our division and lose in the NLCS. Each season since Penn Shepherd took ownership, we’d progress a little further.

This year the guys were expected to make it to the World Series. And while the starting nine might be there to hit the balls and sprint around the bases, the responsibility of winning that trophy fell on every single one of our shoulders.

Whether that was the crew who kept the locker rooms clean and tidy, along with the shelves and fridges stocked full of the players’ favorite drinks and snacks; the groundskeepers who kept the grass cut at the perfect length for optimal ball rolling—between one and two-and-a-half inches tall—or my social media team, keeping the fans entertained in between games, and the players relevant.

We were all integral.

We were one team.

---