Brand spank inter-league play

It would be impossible to financially do away with inter-league play. Earnings as Americans and Nationals visit each other is a chunk of capital. Attendance is larger, taking the thought to the seventh sense. That we register as one element the capitalist Joe won’t change. So, as to sling a what if–what if playoffs be crisscrossed in inter-league?

Scenario #1, as if postseason began in 28 August:

A simulated playoff may have the American Rangers (73 wins) with home advantage over the National Rockies (60 wins). In turn the Cubs (80 wins) would host the Royals (66 wins), while the Indians (72 wins) will play two games at Cleveland’s Progressive Field against the Mets (63 wins).

Fabric of Baseball

fabric of baseball A 5,5x8,5I bet the positioning of Major League Baseball gets better in the first quarter of the 21st Century. Like cards on the table or blowing the game open in the first inning, it may depend on evolving a different grand strategy revisiting historical legacy. The leading sports outfit is a defender in the path of wealth. MLB runs operations in healthy and stable markets. Engages in strong organizational monitoring and it’s cautious when it comes to growth functioning only on its area of expertise, although perception points to versatility while it exploits the competitive environments of play and profit.

It may be necessary to delimit how historical legacy is the single most crucial background to the truth of standardization and cost efficiency, any time one ponders about unification of competing philosophies to decide if indeed, the markets and availability of assets permit an enhanced signature. Because decision-making due to the diversified  interests in the dynamics in the structure and functions, yet exists no sensible proof that a joint decision will be met. The fly, as lofty it seems, could test the limits of decision making. In the joint environment baseball is, operators play the center field where everything on the periphery seems exiting the bat like objects at speeds never seen in the reality edge of treacherous play and profit. Reaching the summit of the challenge in hill-like analogy, the perspective of operations always have a plan. Performing well differentiating service offerings and revenue forecasting places the vision on the front spear tip of time. With stupendous technology and administration savvy, confidence empowers a view of the defensive traits of MLB, gained from national values to withstand change and use change as advantage.

From the perspective of a formidable capacity to deploy the assets were they do more with calculated effort, the Fabric of Baseball is another name to identify the ten-fold capabilities the pioneers of the tradition stored in mastering entertainment for the masses and generations. However the shape the future has in the back burner that allows advancement, is highly safe the trends in prosperity, married to well-thought out strategies bring a single truth: baseball keeps harping on mastering the paths organizations with long-range projections can’t put off another day.

In the historic landmark carved by freedom, democracy and opportunity, MLB’s characteristic of defining purpose in a set of interests, sometimes the nature of competitiveness blur the notion that across the next terrain landmark waits a valley of milk and honey. There also Even under the relentless lack of transparency and the mystery of detractors, a matrimony of interests and operational plans can bear only the child of a perfect plot that considers all bumps on the road. Assuming future systems continue looming over, the ground-breaking initiative to adjust the geographic form to conform a scaled expansion, along an investigation of how positive current trends hint operators leading the charge to enhanced and optimal signature. Someone has to tackle the opportunities an economy still not fully recovered from a global financial crisis. But is from the gut instinct the results in the behaviors of the markets that the proven capacity geared by successful integration as entity, despite ever increasing difficulty to craft a leap-frog major plan–still sits at the hump of chance.

Simply, then,  the Baseball Fabric is the concentration of knowledge of how MLB’s actions, experience, laws, policies and approaches to positioning product must consider extensive reform. So the challenge for baseball is this: in continual defensive mode while maintaining competitive balance in quest for fairness of winning in the diamond and in the bank, how inward focus can turn the table on the implementation of a strategy that blends in freedom, opportunity, security, equal prosperity and enhanced contribution to society?

 

Back to the future in the 50s

Say heyGreetings from the World Series slot. An earlier reference said that as Willie Mays broke in with the Giants a journalist asked him if he came to remake Jackie Robinson’s history.

“No…, they told me to go to center field and catch anything coming into the vicinity.” So he did come if not to showcase tools on a long term.

Arnold Hano sat in the bleachers in deep left center field, able to witness Willie Mays making the most famous catch in postseason history. Arnold Philip Hano spent his pre-school years in northern Manhattan and Washington Heights. A Yankee fan at 4, he responded to the 1926 World Series loss by switching his allegiance from the Yankees to the Giants. In a first-person account of the first game of the 1954 World Series a remarkable narrative. If we may quick jump on history’s impact and impact of people to guarantee baseball strings along worthwhile scholarly and self-undertaking in creative goals like contributing to brand taste for a franchise, knowing the characteristics of bureaucracy are out there to derail your subway.

The Cleveland Indians at the Polo Grounds against the New York Giants, Mays in centerfield and Hano describing the play in a “Say Hey” account mixed with his agile chat with fans and vendors in the vicinity. Arnold must have been one of those aficionados writer David Quentin Voight situated “in the growing tribe of baseball historians who may still agree.” All boils down to simplicity of organization such from the moment Willie Mays heard the crack and began pivot to the warning track. Such a difficult decision to make sure the Indians didn’t score. Two men were on first and second base.

Willie made the catch facing the wall, swiveled a quick pivot and fired towards home plate. Agility and commitment is the name of the game.

No doubt, Mays played inspired by his own heroes and conscious his creative play and attitude commanded much attention to the prospect of inspiration to others in the trail and dropped his grain of salt to ensure no misjudge of his data and game attitude. He was very lucky to own his background, but luckier were the people around him. Baseball people, today, do not need a crystal ball. Inside the hot commodities conjure fresh thinking thirsty of unexpected answers.

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Service to the line

EFMBRemembrances of Schofield Barracks, E-Quad to hone on the grid square of a tough leader. Colonel Anderson borrowed one of our M16 rifles. My company was sponsoring the 12-mile ruck march in Hawaii’s annual competition to earn the medic’s EFMB. The Battalion Commander sent me the message with his sergeant major, my other boss at battalion. It all started one morning too early and forgettable. Our arrival to Honolulu had a twist, rather two; the surprise to have Colonel Anderson and his family: spouse, son and daughter in place past the Customs check. In fact, Casssi, the little girl pinned the lei for aloha around our boys. Mrs. Anderson said aloha to my wife. The sweet scent of the aloha lei.

We split in separate vehicles. Getting ready to trek the hill past Pearl City, Pearl Harbor and Mililani ISG Edward, the guy who in ten days I would replace, grabbed my ear onto the battalion commander’s empowerment.

“Hey Top,   better remember the names of the spouses and the kids while you lead our 130 boys and girls. Colonel Anderson remembers all his 780. He’ll come around and talk to all your soldiers. He loves the motor pool. This is one of his pep pees on empowerment. He won’t play mind tricks on the troops, I’ve watched him, he’s concentrated on one thing: readiness. Moreover, while at it, he is quite bent on dumping the 2nd lieutenants on your door so you teach them, he’s no fool. Don’t force it. The DISCOM sergeant major despises the idea. He thinks junior officers arrive well trained from college. You and I know that is bullshit, the SGM has his own heritage, don’t deviate from yours. You just attract Anderson with a major project, if you propose it—show something for it.

Good Edwards calmed the task. While I had begun to cook the “only” order from Anderson. He deeply felt the buoyance of encroaching on sergeants’ business. The special feeling welcome you don’t see outside Hawaii seemed engulfing my presence’s attitude to face the employment I had volunteered for. Away from the luggage and auricles that may portray the colonel is running things that belong to the pure breed of experience off the campus, he rephrased the divisions between enlisted and officers. In addition, how the show in the 25th Infantry has appeal of following a project from the wee hours of the morning to the second you brief the order of battle. On that case, I told Edwards, the boss has suggested I pick the top company weakness I could solve.

What is the company physical fitness average? I asked from the back sit. 228 were awful low, the Mendoza Line of infantry talk. Right there, heading direction to Waihua, to reside a few days at the guesthouse was no easier project. In the next ten days, the stage of reception and integration, my previous experience must of unwrap the tools of advice.

On your case, play him your own wits. That was last I had heard, as our family was sitting on the guesthouse cafeteria. As usual for the charm received at the entire tour while in the Pacific, no mid-career officer had the charm of Melvin Sinoben, my first company commander. Nicknamed Sunshine by Charlie soldiers, Mel was aggressive and too smart. He flew Blackhawk medevac choppers, and the story of a trip we took while behind the bird’s wheel, deserves a revisit deep in the consideration of similarities.

You picture grinding the attitude. I was 39 going on 60. Mel was 31, already commanding and flying to the big island once a month to maintain aviator’s flow. Most commanders brought along others who knew her crap. Pock the best, at best for the argument. I had completed 20 years of service, owned a set of advantages and a major flaw. I had trained many medical and line units anchored in the doctrine that by magic lands on your desk to delay your duty roster and barracks remodeling. Within my doctrine of exiting breakfast to visit the housing division, task, conditions and standard kept thundering my head. I mean babysitting the barracks rats as a First Sergeant.

I dropped off the wife and kids in the Schofield “K-Mart.” Straightened my freshly rank of three-up-three-down and a diamond in the center. The uniform had to be crispy. Walked the three quads that separate shopping from the DISCOM area. You can enter E Quad from the corner where you see the Division headquarters, or you can zip through the dome and the gymnasium.

Colonel Anderson has put the battalion on ground defense examination. “Service to the line” was the 725th Main Support Battalion motto. Always out in the boonies supporting a fighting brigade down range. The minute we landed in our defense perimeter I ordered the sergeant who conducted the area recon; to proceed digging the foxholes. He’d plotted the positions and additionally, if I had not reckoned the site, he had to suggest me how to assign sectors by platoons. I’d figured to get a feel from the guy who first hit the field and his gut about sectors of attacks if that would matter. Knowing Anderson would bring an unknown grader, more likely from division, I told my CPT will skip brigade, his friend is the Division General. Anderson and the Major General were like Alexander and his father. Both bold and they were hoping you liked their thinking: “you are in a brigade always on maneuvers; you should be in the field with her.

Colonel Anderson had an easier battalion. Our brigade stood with an array of devices; NBC capability, we hauled our beans, fuel and bullets in an outstanding truck company. A crazy Cuban captain and I led the medics, as the Guam pilot Sinoben was moving away to fly Hawks permanently.

For his test this cycle, Colonel Anderson, in my mind, he would talk with the division commander, the ex-Ranger. I had expected a scenario similar to the one the morning I was about to move the company to the field across the street. Private First Class Humpter stopped me from calling attention.

“Top, there’s a new soldier in here in 3rd squad, ain’t we gonna introduce ‘em?

I looked at my captain Ed Zarzabal in the eye, a low enough whisper. Sir, General Campbell is in Ambulance Platoon; shall we drive on to the PT field or allow the master physical trainer shake up an intro? Eduardo replied we’ll introduce Private Campbell or whatever be his name after we do physical fitness by FM 21-20.

I had already emanating from my head possible outcomes and a question: what any other first sergeant would have done? One who has to have a platoon sergeants’ meeting one hour before your salute to the flag? Or one that borrows, begs or steals to fulfill all tasks? Once you’ve been put on the position you become a survivalist. Not that I wish to scare the wits out of ‘ya, it’s all nature. People start to automate, often driven on the objective, even if baby-sitting becomes the norm.

Colonel Anderson and his set of friends escalating the thing that ought to scare you if you are the enemy. He played the Prisoners Dilemma in training. One time he brought General Scott, in charge of maneuvers for the 25th Infantry. He was an African American 1-star. A staff officer who lived permanently in the field with the three walking-infantry brigades. They approached the hole proximal to the front gate. The Headquarters Platoon took own pride to compete. We sent out Cookie and Salty from the Preventive Medicine department, both in a hobby of bench-pressing 450. Brigadier Scott ordered cookie to bounce on the overhead cover. The foxhole didn’t budge. Salty jumped, about six times, as crazy old Ed Zarzabal grinned over my shoulder. The general, looking like Bo Jackson bounced once, twice, then looking like a running back. The hole was a fortress.

“What would be the reward,” one day earlier Eduardo and the seven company lieutenants brainstormed. I said the Colonel in the morning would drive to Garrison, take a shower with his beautiful wife; daughter of another general. He would stop at Burger King and bring whoppers for duty above and beyond. He did as I predicted. He had the first sergeants assemble the five companies among berms. Called out the names of 15 soldiers he had in memory.

Days earlier I had assigned reason to empowerment judging from impetus in aloha surprise. On what appeared a cool, soggy morning that was still dark, holding my java on my left and another on my right hand, I gazed to the road where an Expert Field Medical Badge candidate emerged off the shadows. It was impossible, they departed just an hour and 51 minutes ago. Nah. Good old Anderson was a horse. Twelve miles under 2 hours; 1:52 to be exact.

After I took the rucksack and the rifle from him, we were talking about the competition. He asked me what is the hardest I have seen since leading the company. I told him, the three Air Force aluminum pallets we take down range to fortify the foxholes’ overhead protection. Then he was on notice…

Baseball in a stream of time

BAseballAcademyYesterday I sat on a table at a restaurant in El Dorado. I had the writing muse on high gear. There was a man and two women behind me, discussing something similar. I was tinkering with some methodological organizing principles for a book on establishing a baseball academy in Panama. On a narrative running the gamut like the land where the institution will be built. Like the right strategies to keep politicians far away from the cookie jar. Brainstorming on the economics, about the specialized facilities to maintain the recruits occupied, and who else in the community would benefit. In mind had the old parachute Venado Drop Zone behind Howard Air Force Base as the perfect place to subscribe in a different minor-league affiliate. Different in a sophisticated new way to sell an idea, which in the annals of history, baseball’s got plenty in the line of time.

If the table of contents of Academy-building calls for a sensible flow chart lining up a chronological form of project development, then we would continue to employ roving coaches to advance the potential of the product. The essential product that levels the game maintains us off-butt on the bleachers, day on-day-off. Approaching new methods one can place herself in a set of stages, stand oneself shrouded in transparency not behind a podium, but out in the open conjecturing seeing time as stream of opportunity.

Some notes on my agenda required the parent clubs in the Major Leagues would keep an incisive eye on every aspect, to include the formal education always in need to be successful in the heat of the farm; in the journey to the top. The scouts back home packing dog and bird bags, and lots of intuition to move-in for long periods. Recently, MLB had presented a showcase featuring the best in Nicaragua, Colombia, Curazao and Panama. While the future stars performed before the talent hunters, like a field gardener, on my pony, I sat scribbling on a pad, sitting strategically where the young-rising scouts could see me and wonder if I belong to the MLB Scouting Bureau. One of the individuals approached my bleacher. He apologized, introduced himself as Raibo, and frowning pointed at my hand-drawn flow chart. He was Dominican, didn’t play professional for too long before passing scouting school. This guy was now poking me behind my neck at the food court.

“Our blueprint has been missing your insights.”

“What blueprint, what insights,” I responded. Then I stood up in utmost respect, extended a hand-shake to the man.  The first thing that came to my head was they are hunting for additional ground for more academies. Wrong. He didn’t care anymore to continue discussing my secret, no longer a secret. His own seemed more permeable to the coincidence.

“We were sent to meet you,” said the woman from the farther chair.

Startled I became member in another Blue Panel. I couldn’t help but to cross gaze with the lady who appeared in charge of the project. In a flash, Zoulia Carpenter stood by extending her hand to me, told me to sit on their table and the vision appeared in the horizon.

People figure the mission starts upon receipt of the order. No exception. The smoking-gun on my bridges rocketed my library intuition to verify the characteristics of people forming blue ribbon panels. They are often independent, shunting constraints on their actions; reliant in group decisions, and judicious enough to assess recent situations that may influence a perfectly running operation. Suddenly, found myself not in the tunnel where the river birds sing out collaboration must go on. I had been shunted deeply and harmonious into the project like a vital and supporting tune enhanced with notes in the background. Ahead of figuring the objective, I possessed lick in sales pitch. The enriching sound this thing gave continuity to the hard to shift a new look at the game of bat and balls. The music of standing chance to sift opinion from people wouldn’t be easy. One thing singled-out the project: it had to be initially sold to the men and women that run baseball. To the ones running in and out of the dugout.

A day ago, burning my bridges too long, shaping from ground-up the Academy had found itself at the tail-end of some sort of broader conclusive feat. I stood with the eyeballs jumping amidst three other sets of pupils. Raibo and Zoulia had sold in me a possibility. Usually the seven first concepts that come to mind upon receipt of a mission rule a perspective of strategy. Respect, admiration, cooperation, contribution, joy, shaping and balance my favorite seven; in my best judgement the first seven chapters on a book about baseball need to feel deep respect for those in charge of the game. It doesn’t take additional imagination to realize the sure way baseball can get bigger and better.

Pants, Mountain and a Tailor

Sick's Stadium SeattleIt was a Sunday of 1946; precisely at 10:19 a.m. Clarence “Pants” Rowland leaned against the wall in front of a mirror marveling at his new suit. The boisterous baseball executive, owner of the Pacific Coast League came to his favorite tailor in Peoria, Illinois. He placed himself with purpose, used to being labeled Pants since childhood. The man had a proposal but the scheduler of the fitting added his accustomed action of play sides in politics. The tailor invited Judge Landis to try on a Mackinaw, the ultra-fashionable in sports decisions. Pants owned PCL with names that make us future clubs have to grab in favor of tradition. A nifty old western league of eight in the likes of San Francisco Seals (111-68) affiliated to the New Your Giants. The Oakland Oaks (111-72) were not affiliated to no one. The Los Angeles Angels (94-89) were property of the Chicago Cubs. The ideal place to watch the Hollywood Stars or the Sacramento Solons as the Portland Beavers or the Seattle Rainiers came down from Sick Stadium which in the vicinity of centerfield one can sense the marketing extravaganza of moving in the baseball mazes.

Congress had inquired onto the sport-business. The major leagues were restricted. Soon after, Judge Landis jumped in his overcoat, took up to the office and made the decision. The rest of the diamond knows Pants had trajectory. Scout, umpire, MLB manager, Cubs executive and minor league owner.

Other matter is, on such bright morning, his tailor was an “irregular” financed by Landis himself, whom the attendees over the left field bullpen recognized as the soldier freshly returned in 1944 from war and entered the front office of the Los Angeles Angels. Maybe Pants thought the judge; in his dressmaker recon was going to include PCL in the big show. Kennesaw Mountain Landis was no second base half-moon gardener. He had been informed legal sense; first, since 1886 in the Indiana Civil Service, opening an unsuccessful law practice in Marion. He had no formal education. Imagining how an outlaw, obtained the law degree at Union Law School 1n 1891. Owning membership in the Illinois Bar, cofounded the Chicago Civic Centre Club; municipal reform then begun in the windy City.

In Illinois, next to Kennesaw, Pants had served as a reserve catcher in the minors. Never a great player, his love of the game drove him to work around the ones running on a hot foul line. Pants had been scout in the Illinois-Indiana-Iowa League; the Three-I League. As a scout he belonged to the Dubuque Miners. He worked his way into his first job in the dugout writing lineups and roughing the umpires’ shoe polish if he felt the call should have been his way.

The tailor approached, his face drawn in stern. He exclaimed his suit would be delayed. The anatomy of Rowland required more than arrowhead pockets. A stitch in the fly of Pants didn’t indicate the rolling may brought a bad hop. The bottom line it wasn’t until the afternoon Pants Rowland heard about the goat with a valid bleachers ticket stunk. Truly a man of baseball, schooled in a custom tailoring that within the politics to execute a brilliant idea includes persuasive extra-innings in a neutral corridor of the stadium. Another thing is, allegedly, Clarence Pants Rowland had been involved in the Chicago Black Sox scandal. More than 20 years past, and lots of wild pitches and pass balls ago.

The following work day Mountain Landis did his deed in the perfectly sawn judge’s suit. The Pacific Coast League would never join the American and National leagues.

 

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Lead off Catalyst

stickball-cubaDavid Quentin Voigt marked the 1950 timeline as watching sports in television became the national pastime. As if on payday on a given Saturday morning in a Chicago factory, while acid dipping may had a tailor of smile from the foreman handing the check. The union guy in house; joining the union may had brought benefits and decisions for spreading the wealth. With the advent of technology, the look of sports was the real picture of a clearer world the grievances addressed. Players hoped to create secret and no so secret societies to protect themselves from being bought, sold, reserved, lent or kept on low wage. Club founders brought quite wizardry in the GE-type blender with label of entertainment and utilities. Playing baseball would always look easy; the local citizens now could escalate their heroes up the national stage. Families displaced longer as expansion and realignment didn’t care for the schedule. Somewhere in the limitations of the electronics in that era, variety of competitive strategies flourished.

In American Baseball, Quentin put it in his own: Americans in the 1950s allowed such problems to grow and fester, and later to threaten the stability of the affluent society. The national audience demanded you field the line drive in the best of ability as the prospect of keeping people busy watching diamond glory requires harnessing the fundamentals of the use of resorces. Television was one that with the expanding school in the minors, painted players the sluggers and hurlers in a new model.

The dream of playing in the Big circuit was no easy duty. Unless, problems amidst plenty were passed, a better platform shaped the connection of baseball with leisure pursuits entering by the hand of capitalism. And then others began to write on the divisions. Labor grievances, they versus us in the scouting compartment, the significant business of minor league franchise, while back in 1946, the Cleveland Indians received 2.6 million paying fans in Stadium. The Union and owners chose their battle theaters. Strikes came and went. Free agency rules; ground seemed logically lost, at times for both bands. Such fuzz on the designated hitter, and in the long run, the event would change, losing little traditionalism.

It was back in the 1950s when the minor leagues expanded. Assuming television complemented the visit of the adversary announcing the power of player development and team-building ought to end chief among the game played by boys of summer for money. The experience of people who run baseball and make baseball in the field or past the bleachers tapped invention onto innovative kinds of fundamentals. Down in the yard the orders given to the troop to play a perfect game remain free of mental blocks. No balls pass the catcher’s box, no overstepping base, and a constant prelude for the double play. The game is slow; technology is making it faster, and is the traditional game of the fathers and sons. Opinions vary, the fans are hecklers. It may be the perception. However, people were bothered with so many new avenues for entertainment to insist on encroachment on the business of baseball. Voigt noted that technology the catalyst in the abundant American soil pushed spending while sports competing on screens for audience and ratings were reason the tradition of the game was losing identity. Inside the clubs and its components acquired popularity. A hunger for expanding, growing, making more, enhancing the sound of wood over cowhide ought to show baseball has the tools for winning the west.

As any major sport, tradition will be enhanced once we run the drift in the capacity of technology. We could take up on a trip examining the booth of utilities and pinning a decoration on a dream to become larger in showmanship. Not disarming the thought of minor league reorganization may be the new frontier as a stepping stone to spread on to three leagues and six divisions. Its champions can go head to head against six wildcards situated merely on wins hoping for playoffs.

2017-2021 is the timely frame to start modification of the farms. In six years baseball can invest and save for four new stadiums and remodel two. Except if it’s alright for the public to part-fund the projects, there’s a complex fuse of challenges to start the chatter in a flash. City majors are powerful. The public wants a say so. Baseball is operating big programs at the local level. Technology is yet to communicate so significant achievements. There’s even an assumption the game does not appeal to the young generations. Nonsense.

 

 

On notice.

Remind me of bold Colonel Anderson at Schofield Barracks, E-Quad to hone on the grid square of a great leader. Anderson borrowed one of our M16 rifles. My company was sponsoring the 12-mile ruck march in the annual competition, in which more than 100 hoped to earn the medic’s EFMB. The Colonel sent me the message with his sergeant major, my other boss at battalion. He wanted to do the march.

It all started one morning too early not to forget. Our arrival to Honolulu had a twist, rather two; the surprise to have Colonel Anderson and his family, wife, boy and girl in place past the Customs check. In fact, Casssi, the little girl pinned the lei for aloha around our boys. Mrs. Anderson said aloha to my wife.

Past the first worry, the guy who in 10 days I would replace, 1SG Edwards grabbed my ear making my next hour and hour of high blood pressure.

“Hey Top, better remember the names of the spouses and the kids while you lead our 130 boys and girls. Colonel Anderson remembers all his 780. He’ll come around and talk to all your soldiers. This is one of his pep pees to build leadership. While at it, he is quite bent on dumping the 2nd lieutenants on your door so you teach them, he’s no fool. Don’t force it. The DISCOM sergeant major despises the idea. He thinks junior officers arrive well trained from college. You and I know that is bullshit. You just don’t say no to Anderson about the rookies. If he wants to break your routine and wants to go for a long run, allow him once. Next time you send the Company Commander your regards. He won’t bother you.  Play him your own wits.

Picture grinding the attitude? Most leaders brought along other who knew her crap. Poll the best, at best of an argument.

Colonel Anderson has put the battalion on ground defense examination. “Service to the line” was the 725th Main Support Battalion motto. Always out in the boonies supporting a fighting brigade down range. The minute we landed in our defense perimeter I ordered the sergeant who conducted the area recon; to proceed digging the foxholes. He’d plotted the positions and additionally, if I had not reckoned the site, he had to suggest me how to assign sectors by platoons. I’d figured to get a feel from the guy who first hit the field and his gut about sectors of attacks if that would matter. Knowing Anderson would bring an unknown grader, more likely from division, I told my CPT will skip brigade, his friend is the Division General. Anderson and the Major General were like Alexander and his father. Both bold and they were hoping you liked their thinking: “you are in a brigade always on maneuvers; you should be in the field with her.

Colonel Anderson had an easier battalion. Our brigade stood with an array of devices; NBC capability, we hauled our beans, fuel and bullets in an outstanding truck company. A crazy Cuban captain and I led the medics.

For his test this cycle, Colonel Anderson, in my mind, he would talk with the division commander, the ex-ranger. I had expected a scenario similar to the one the morning I was about to move the company to the field across the street. Private First Class Humpter stopped me from calling attention.

“Top, there’s a new soldier in here in 3rd squad, ain’t we gonna introduce ‘em?

I looked at my captain Ed Zarzabal in the eye, a low enough whisper. Sir is General Campbell; shall we drive on to the PT field or allow the master physical trainer shake up the company? I told the company we’d introduce Private Campbell or whatever be his name after we do physical fitness by FM 21-20.

I had already emanating from my head a load of endorphins. Have you been a first sergeant? One who has to have a platoon sergeants’ meeting one hour before your salute to the flag? Or one that borrows, begs or steals to fulfill all tasks? Once you’ve been put on the position you become a survivalist. Not that I wish to scare the wits out of ‘ya, it’s all nature. People start to automate, often driven on the objective.

Colonel Anderson and his set of friends escalating the thing that ought to scare you if you are the enemy element. He played the Prisoners Dilemma in training. He brought General Scott, in charge of maneuvers. He was an African American 1-star. A staff officer who lived permanently in the field with the three walking-infantry brigades. They approached the hole proximal to the front gate. The Headquarters Platoon took own pride to compete. She sent out Cookie and Salty, both in a hobby of bench-pressing 450. Both were Preventive Medicines specialists. Scott ordered cookie to bounce on the overhead cover. The foxhole didn’t budge. Salty jumped, about six times, as Ed Zarzabal grinned over my shoulder. The general, looking like Bo Jackson bounced once. The hole was a fortress.

“What would be the reward,” one day earlier we brainstormed. I said the Colonel will go to garrison, take a shower with his beautiful wife, daughter of another general. He would stop at Burger King and bring whoppers for about 9 soldiers. He did as I predicted.

I had assigned reason judging from his impetus towards excellence from the aloha surprise. On what appeared a cool, soggy morning that was still dark, holding my java on my left and another on my right hand, I gazed to the road where an Expert Field Medical Badge candidate emerged off the shadows. It was impossible, they departed just an hour and 51 minutes ago. Nah. Good old Anderson was a horse. Twelve miles under 2 hours.

After I took the rucksack and the rifle from him, we were talking about the competition. He asked me what is the hardest I have seen since leading the company. I told him, the three Air Force aluminum pallets we take down range to fortify the foxholes’ overhead protection. He was on notice.

She has landed in Timbuktu

BaseballPinup

A typical day of 2021

A hypothetical scenario would not be as hot and hellish. The afternoon feels like if the global powers unleashed the secret machines masters of cuckooing the weather. With the June temperature hovering on 105F, any front office member could hop on her flight to Timbuktu; the land of power. She must belong part of the Blue Ribbon Panel about to roll victory over a well-organized Zero Circle.

The panel will seal its fate, thrill of victory or agony of defeat in an unexplored territory. It had better check thoroughly the villains’ purpose of screwing with heat, rain and tornadoes, and the wrongful manhandling the citizen’s life resources. The hero lands well, the driver greets her, takes her through the maze of a highway. The cars speed by recklessly, everyone in a hurry. On the way, the driver tells the story of the villain. His plot up front presents the bad guys’ maneuver in capturing power.

Timbuktu is about power that requires strategy. The Panel perceives a double whammy. One—allow the Zero Circle run their chariots all over your anatomy, or play the foe with unique shields that shine on the regiment’s success engraved in historic tradition. Two—decide on what your effort will counter. Moreover, three—picture retaking the charge dissecting a few things at a time—after all this is like the inside plot the enemy has initiated in her thirst for power. As heroes we benefit from figuring why in the hell reorganization of two major circuits are easier than ensuring the Zero Circle does not skip the slammer where she belongs.

In the quest, the government had been bad; the driver cannot shut up warning this land is not the old paradise. A fiscal paradise rather? Timbuktu’s bullies organized an internal ring that in the end would deprecate the international image of Timbuktu. I have said it. The thugs brainstormed with the local resources forming a political party, a supreme court, 500 donkeys ruling on laws, a mini S&P 500 to bankrupt it, and planting key collaborators in the heart of the banking sector. Tools settled for manipulation, although the man sitting behind the wheel failed to articulate the Prince of the Circle planned his dictatorship in the same manner. Sitting on the drawing board and assigning mutual responsibility to the assets, even if trust along the line had to be sacrificed; even if Sun Tzu professed another manner to make war.

The bullies were mean, yet free to ponder on how to save the day. Money laundering had being king in Timbuktu, said the one above four wheels and a highway laser coupon stuck to the front windshield for recharge. They really cherished being on base at the .400 plus clip on the affair. Scoring runs whenever preventing them the equalizer, trying to settle the comparison when the agenda is too darn wide. Just deal with it. Research the lessons-learned chest, the after-action-report and if need be—the Harvard scorecard.

Hoping the man kept the chatter with no accidents, they reached the hotel destination, and they inquired to others, as to the heat of the climate. Flanked by the scorching of no particular day, truly with the cool calmness of conviction, the concept of re engineering always is an option when the heat is on.

Among the crimes of trafficking, harnessing hacks and selling judicial archives and decisions in exchange for kickbacks, assembling the idea is as hard as finding Omerta was batting fourth and is about to strike out. As hard, as is for a driver to spill the whole chit bang. All drivers are notorious for getting our ruffles feathered onto the local environment.

In fact, when institutions avoid risks, we must serve onto the wisdom our foes have the capacity to sell us radars that know zilch from river speedboat to aircraft carrier. Attribute to research the special skills you want to build in your squad—it will work well. Put cooperation in the center of the formation. Find out which door leads to the lavatory. Easy job, I hope no low blow. No journey takes your mind elsewhere except under danger.

For curiosity of the process, forsaking the obstacles the heroes met, they too decided to lay out their tactical-decision making prowess. As effect from cause, they opted for another Blue Ribbon Commission and the way about to solve super-unpopular goals. Except this time, the challenge was broad. It happens that when the driver starts rattling she may not to be kidding while driving. We start paying attention. The dance is on.

Shall we turn around and wimp out?

The passenger has reunited a bunch of allies. Remembering the mission surfaced from a survival system, with proven record, more likely all depends on the success that emanates up to the age. Our version of McGiver takes shape. Night has fallen. Circle Zero has met her match.

The Blue Ribbon shows a new face to realize we have landed in Timbuktu.

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Tweaking the Game

20150608_222528[1]Baseball has never been as big or as profitable. Charge it to property rights. She has risen beyond the words of the poet, Donald Hall: […continuous, like nothing else among American things, an endless game of repeated summers, joining the long generations of all fathers and all the sons.]

There is no doubt the mutual relation of property and the amount of satisfaction by wealth is of profound impact. Now all the ingredients are in place to grade the New York Yankees at $3.2 billion, tied with the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys as the most valuable U.S. sports team. In 2014, only five MLB clubs were worth over $1 billion. In 2015, we have 15 teams in that range. The Yankees have been the most valuable baseball team each of the past 18 years. Who remembers back in 2011 Bank of America’s loan of $40 million to the New York Mets? The franchise almost folded, as she did not have enough money to make their $43.8 million debt payment on the $547 million of tax-exempt PILOT bonds used to finance Citi Field. Furthering the evidence of volatility, in 2014, the Mets gained $238 million in revenues; not a shabby position placing in the middle of the pack. The Yankees led with $461 million while the Miami Marlins made the lowest with $159 million. In fact, the Yankees generated a record $508 million of revenue after deducting PILOT bond payments of $78 million and the $90 million the team contributed to baseball’s revenue-sharing system. Television rights payments topped over $100 million.

Just about everyone has an economic opinion derived from individual perspective of harnessing the meaning of hardball markets. The bottom line is baseball has established a precise route to keep the game functioning the way is being structured. Certain parts need tweaking. The rest of the story.

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