The Next Best Thing

Chapter 3

Maybe Mitch should've known better. Maybe somewhere, when it came to his career, he'd crossed the line from confident to cocky, but hell, this wasn't his first rodeo. Networks got swapped and swallowed by telecom giants all the time, and he'd been expecting the customary getting-to-know-the-new-honchos meet and greet. The this is our brand, this is how we're going to ruin everything that's worked so far, scheduled ass-kissing that always followed a takeover. Only, as 'the talent', he was generally used to being the kissee.

He had, after all, been calling the Jays games for the Sports Network for seventeen years. Well, he and Rod Baker and five analysts, including his current buddy Kirk Derry. And not that he felt he had to bring it up all the time, but Maclean's magazine had recently declared his voice more recognizable than the Prime Minister's. He took pride in his work and felt a connection to the fans who lived and breathed MLB as he did. With his contract up for renewal, was it arrogance that kept him from doubting it would be, or just a great record and a lack of foresight? All he knew was that when he entered the new vice president's top floor office, and was not only introduced to the new director of programming but a house lawyer and Calvin something-or-other from HR, he felt like he'd walked into an old episode of Columbo where the murderer thinks he's going to get away with it until the pirate-eyed detective says, "Just one more thing."

Just one more thing, Mitch Garner. You're screwed.

Son of a bitch.

"You're firing me?" he asked, glaring up at Mark Henson who'd assumed the power position of leaning back on his desk after asking Mitch to take a seat.

Mitch was dumfounded. He couldn't believe the words that had just come out of this V-Suite suit's mouth.

"Mitch, you're not listening to me. We're just shuffling the deck. You're still one of our aces," Henson said, doing his best impression, Mitch had to assume, of someone who gave a shit.

"Pickleball is the fastest growing sport in the country," the director insisted.

"Ah, so you only told me to go fuck myself. That's different. My mistake."

The company men both sighed and shook their heads, but with Henson it seemed less about frustration than impatience. The shamelessly patronizing way he'd told Mitch he was being replaced in the first place made it obvious that even as he moved on to apologies and promises, he was just ready to move on, period.

"Why?" Mitch demanded. "Because one day some focus group decided that all the weather girls should be men and all the sports reporters should be women? Who is she? Is her voice more recognizable than the Prime Minister's because according to Maclean's mine is?"

Okay, so he brought it up when it was appropriate.

"That doesn't mean squat to Americans," Henson said, lifting his hip to perch.

"Bullshit."

"We're the only Canadian team in the Majors."

"You can't do this to me."

"Actually," HR Calvin chimed in, "you're being offered the same salary plus a renewal bonus for performing the same duties, albeit with another sport, so if you're trying to build a case for constructive dismissal think again."

"I'm going to dismiss you through one of these windows if you talk to me like that again," Mitch warned matter-of-factly.

Henson held up a hand and then a finger, effectively silencing the Little Pencil-Neck Who Could.

"Tamara has over a million followers on TikTok alone."

"You're booting me from the press box after nearly twenty years for TikTok followers? Are you shitting me?"