I'm no baseball player, but like baseball players, I'm told I require management. And, having followed the San Francisco Giants in 2002 as a "well-wisher" (in that I did not wish them any specific harm), when Human Resources announced that Dusty Baker was leaving his post as manager of the Cincinnati Reds to become a sales manager at my small San Francisco company, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The First Day
When I walked in the office the following Monday and saw Dusty in my former supervisor's office, I suddenly knew which.
I imagined he would be dressed in full baseball manager regalia, complete with button-bursting gut and cleats, but in retrospect, I suppose that was a silly thing to expect.
He did, however, maintain his trademark toothpick and sun-blocking sports shades. A grey and white pinstriped suit, white handkerchief, and jet-black wing-tipped shoes formed the rest of his ensemble.
His sunglasses were so dark; I couldn't even tell if he was looking at me. I sensed he was, though, so I hurried to my desk and sat down. I booted up the computer and went about my early morning ritual: checking email, reading the top news stories, and listening to my voicemails.
I was about done when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Son, let me see what you've got, today," he said. Amazing how his toothpick never budged from his lower lip, even as he was looking down and talking. Years of practice.
"Yes, Mr. Baker." I turned back towards my computer, but I noticed that he was still there. I picked up my phone and pretended to call someone. I finally heard him 'mmhmm' and stroll back to his desk.
A few moments later, I nervously glanced over my shoulder to see if he was still looking at me. He was standing, one foot on his chair, leaning on his bent knee, arms folded, staring through pitch-black glasses. Classic managerial pose.
The Second Day
Things didn't get any weirder for the rest of the day, or the majority of the next day. Dusty stayed behind his desk, rarely venturing out of his office. He called over a co-worker of mine once, and, from the looks of it, seemed to go over batting stances with him in his office.
I must admit, I appreciated the lack of attention. I managed to get a healthy amount of work done without the constant supervision, despite the bizarre circumstances. Things were going well until about four o'clock, when Dusty came back over to my desk for the first time since Monday.
"How do you feel, junior?"
I exclaimed that I was doing great, and that I was more productive than usual. I made a mental note to kick myself when I got home—Dusty may have been a good manager after all. And then he opened his mouth, again.
"You've been having a great day, start to finish," he said. I nodded. "I want to see you finish this thing." I stared blankly. "You've got to reach deep down inside, and finish this thing."
I was as confused as you are, reading this. I swear.
"Sure, I'll wrap this up by five, like normal." I was almost nervous, trying to think of what would come next.
"No, son, you've got to have heart. You want this. Finish it
1 comments Last one added 10 months ago — Leave a Comment
O D Wyatt 10 months ago
Ha-f*#&ing-larious!
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