Off Topic
A Discussion On the Atoll
July 11, 2057: Marshall Islands – Bikini Krill General Manager Ron Collins is sitting, glassy eyed, in his front office hut, and staring out at the undulating waves. He’s just been staring at the results of the last two weeks of Bikini baseball, and it’s been enough to put him into a trance. A scritch comes at the door, jut loud enough to wind its way into his thoughts and break him out of his … um … reverie.
It's Amit Hahn, the kid recently promoted to head the club’s stats department. A dark cloud is over his face.
“What is it, Amit?”
The kid comes in and shuts the bamboo doorway, holding a small data cube in his hand. “It’s Lee Stone, sir.”
Collins grimaces. “Ingrate,” he says. Stone is a guy Collins fished out of obscurity a couple years back in Sacramento, gave him a chance to right his career, then even traded for him again this year. He’s also the guy who first said he wouldn’t sign long-term for anything less than $9M a pop, then broke off negotiations and said he’d just as soon try free agency. “What about Lee Stone now?”
The kid finds his seat, then glances to the cube. “He’s five in a thousand.”
“Pardon me?”
Amit projects his display, and Collins’s eyes go glassy again. “Lee Stone is 1 for his last 24, sir. That’s a .083 rate.”
“Believe me, Amit, I know what Lee Stone is hitting.”
“But if you look at his past performance, he really shouldn’t be.”
“Duh.”
“No. I mean … here.” Amit does a little finagling of the data cube. “Before that stint, Lee Stone was hitting .267. Which isn’t horrible, but is low for his past could years.”
“Guy hit .300 for me in Sacramento.” Collins spat.
“But if we just take his .267, and do a little math, that says that if you had a thousand Lee Stones take 24 AB, you’d find that—”
“Only five of them would hit that poorly?” Collins said, coming around. “You’re telling me something is statistically squishy in Stone’s Stats.”
“Right.”
Sitting bolt upright, Collins digs through his system and comes up with a recently filed report from the team’s minor league correspondent. It’s a supposition about the club’s opponents developing some kind of tech that affected hitters. “I see,” he said, scanning the report. He’d ignored it earlier, but now he was wondering.
Could it be that Sacramento or Hawaii was cheating now?
Sacramento might, simply because by leaving the club, Collins opened to door for shoeless’s return. He could see why a fan base would be upset at that. And Hawaii could be motivated simply to get the hell out of the cellar. After the row of crap the Krill had laid this past two weeks, the Tropics were only a game away.
“Hmmm…” Collins said. He re-read the by-line on the report to refresh his memory., then looked at Amit. “Get Thom S. Hunter on the line. I mean, have him Door on in. I want to talk to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime, try doing another run on Wilson Andrade, will you? He’s gone from a .300 hitter to … (glancing at his system) .198. I’m beginning to think there might be a reason for that.”
“Will do, sir.” Hahn stood up with a rush. “Have a good day, sir.”
Collins nodded as he dug back into the data stream. “I’ll try, Amit. Believe you-me, I’ll try.”
July 11, 2057: Marshall Islands – Bikini Krill General Manager Ron Collins is sitting, glassy eyed, in his front office hut, and staring out at the undulating waves. He’s just been staring at the results of the last two weeks of Bikini baseball, and it’s been enough to put him into a trance. A scritch comes at the door, jut loud enough to wind its way into his thoughts and break him out of his … um … reverie.
It's Amit Hahn, the kid recently promoted to head the club’s stats department. A dark cloud is over his face.
“What is it, Amit?”
Collins grimaces. “Ingrate,” he says. Stone is a guy Collins fished out of obscurity a couple years back in Sacramento, gave him a chance to right his career, then even traded for him again this year. He’s also the guy who first said he wouldn’t sign long-term for anything less than $9M a pop, then broke off negotiations and said he’d just as soon try free agency. “What about Lee Stone now?”
The kid finds his seat, then glances to the cube. “He’s five in a thousand.”
“Pardon me?”
Amit projects his display, and Collins’s eyes go glassy again. “Lee Stone is 1 for his last 24, sir. That’s a .083 rate.”
“Believe me, Amit, I know what Lee Stone is hitting.”
“But if you look at his past performance, he really shouldn’t be.”
“Duh.”
“No. I mean … here.” Amit does a little finagling of the data cube. “Before that stint, Lee Stone was hitting .267. Which isn’t horrible, but is low for his past could years.”
“Guy hit .300 for me in Sacramento.” Collins spat.
“But if we just take his .267, and do a little math, that says that if you had a thousand Lee Stones take 24 AB, you’d find that—”
“Only five of them would hit that poorly?” Collins said, coming around. “You’re telling me something is statistically squishy in Stone’s Stats.”
“Right.”
Sitting bolt upright, Collins digs through his system and comes up with a recently filed report from the team’s minor league correspondent. It’s a supposition about the club’s opponents developing some kind of tech that affected hitters. “I see,” he said, scanning the report. He’d ignored it earlier, but now he was wondering.
Could it be that Sacramento or Hawaii was cheating now?
Sacramento might, simply because by leaving the club, Collins opened to door for shoeless’s return. He could see why a fan base would be upset at that. And Hawaii could be motivated simply to get the hell out of the cellar. After the row of crap the Krill had laid this past two weeks, the Tropics were only a game away.
“Hmmm…” Collins said. He re-read the by-line on the report to refresh his memory., then looked at Amit. “Get Thom S. Hunter on the line. I mean, have him Door on in. I want to talk to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime, try doing another run on Wilson Andrade, will you? He’s gone from a .300 hitter to … (glancing at his system) .198. I’m beginning to think there might be a reason for that.”
“Will do, sir.” Hahn stood up with a rush. “Have a good day, sir.”
Collins nodded as he dug back into the data stream. “I’ll try, Amit. Believe you-me, I’ll try.”
