I know I have Quicke’s number somewhere in my phone. We were at an All-Star Game together a few years ago. Feels like a lifetime ago now.
—Just landed in Bozeman. You wanna grab a drink?
—Sure. You at the Armory?
—Yeah.
—There’s a bar on the roof. Meet you in ten.
The response is instant. Like he was waiting for someone to reach out. Huh. Now that’s interesting. I wonder how many teams are actually going through with this dog-and-pony show Dan Wilson set up. Probably not that many. The market for starting pitchers is pretty light this season and none of the major contenders will likely make any moves until Nakamura is off the board.
So maybe we can get a deal done here.
I snag a little notepad and pen from the desk, jotting down a deal just a shade under the specs Sullivan laid out for me.
The view from the rooftop bar is marginally better than the one from the hotel room, but oddly familiar to me. Without the mountains in the distance, it could almost look like back home: wide expanses of flat land dotted with small cities laid in a grid pattern and small pockets of development popping up. One day they’d be populated by families that all look as vaguely the same as the houses themselves.
I don’t see Quicke anywhere, so I find a seat in the far corner and wait, ordering an Old Fashioned from the bartender. My expectations aren’t high, but the drink is strong, the tang of the orange sitting pleasantly on my tongue.
When Ethan Quicke appears, it takes him a little while tomake his way across the bar, stopping at every other table to shake hands and take selfies. Hometown boy makes good. I know the feeling. Montana isn’t exactly known for producing major league talent.
When he finally reaches me I’ve finished my drink and called the bartender over.
“Another Old Fashioned?” he asks, and I nod and then he looks to Quicke.
“Just a beer for me, whatever’s on tap.”
Once we have our drinks, I sit back with mine in hand and nod out toward the crowd where people are still buzzing about his entrance.
“Your adoring public.”
“Eh, the price I pay for coming home.” He takes a sip from his beer and then sets it in front of him, leaning in, elbows on his knees. “It was nice of you to make the trip. I didn’t expect it.”
“My team now. I want to have a say in who’s on it.”
“I was surprised when you took the gig. Always thought you’d ride off into the sunset and never be heard from again.”
“I have my reasons,” I say, but he waits me out and I give in. “A championship.”
Ethan considers that and nods. “And you think the Eagles can get you that?”
“With the right pieces in place, sure. I think that’s true of any organization.”
“And I’m one of those pieces?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“I was sorry to hear about Stew,” he says, changing the subject.
“He’ll be okay.”
“You and Frankie Sullivan are holding down the fort until he gets back?”
“That’s the idea. More Sullivan than me.”
“Then why are we sitting here?”
“I thought I’d see if we could work this out.” I lean forward in my seat and take a sip. “I’ve been in your shoes, on the down swing, one last contract before you hang ’em up. I get it.”
