Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,1
rest of his extended family, to clean up the pieces of his horrible choices? I haven’t spoken to him since the sentencing concluded a month ago, but my guess would be no. If there is anything this scandal has taught me, it’s that my father is the cruel bastard I always hoped he wasn’t.
Since the news about his dirty dealings and underhanded trading broke, our family have become the pariahs of the sports world. My great-grandfather had worked to build this ball club into a successful organization and then passed it down to my grandfather. Grandpa was one of the shrewdest baseball minds I’d ever met, and he taught me everything I know and love about the game. He molded the Pistons into the team and front office they were today, and made this family-run team a dynasty, as people in the industry liked to call it. When he decided to retire, he passed it down to his sons. Jimmy, my father, ran the team as general manager, while his brother, Daniel, ran the business end of things as the majority owner.
And now, all my family worked for was essentially gone. The house of cards had come toppling down on our heads.
It was a miracle we’d been able to salvage our ownership, much less remain a functioning team in the league. At first, there had been rumors of banning every Callahan from baseball, or disbanding the team because of how many players had been illegally obtained from my father’s dealings. But six months after the initial findings, followed by a trial and sentencing, and we were hanging on by the skin of our teeth.
The sports news program turns to me. I know this because my picture from the Pistons website, the one that was taken by the professional photographer we hired to take photos of the administrative staff last year, flashes on the screen.
What do I know about baseball?
That’s the question they’re all asking. No doubt, the anchors on the most watched sports program are debating my qualifications, the nepotism of my promotion, and my ability to do this job.
So far, there has been no mention, in any article or news show I’ve seen, that I have been training my entire life for this job. Not that it was guaranteed, I had to work for every ounce of my credibility at this organization. If my family name pre-qualified me to work for the Pistons, it also has worked against me at every turn.
When I was a college freshman, I participated in our team internship program for the summer. Not only was the instructor of the program completely biased against me, making me jump through hoops the other kids never had to, but all the other interns ostracized me. They thought if they messed up, I’d go running back to my daddy or something.
Aside from the internship program, I have attended most of the Pistons home games since I was seven years old. I’ve studied the teams, the players, the strategy. I’ve been in the offices for every draft since I could understand the written language and have spent hours with the statistics guys later in my high school and college years.
After college, I came home to work for the family business. I started as an assistant in the marketing department and worked my way around the Pistons’ organization for the last six years. I’ve tried to learn something from every branch of the ball club.
This doesn’t include the hundreds of hours I spent under Dad’s tutelage. He was adamant that I, his only child, take over as general manager when he could no longer fulfill the obligations of the position. Late nights, early mornings, week-long road trips, scouting visits … you name it, and he dragged me to it since I was a little girl.
Being the general manager of the Packton Pistons has been ingrained in me since I could talk, and my time to shine came way earlier than I thought it would. But that in no way means I am not prepared, that I don’t have the skills and tools to do this job effectively.
No, this office is not mine. Yet. Over time, I can redecorate. I can make it my own. Soon enough, with a good overhaul and some feminine touches, no one will even know that my own father occupied this seat for close to fifteen years.
But that ballpark? The one just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows? That is my ballpark.