Managerial Power: The Struggles of a Rookie GM

PART II

We left his office, the large glass door shutting behind us. The entry-way was empty as a Minnesota Warbirds logo danced on his secretary’s desktop computer. He looked at it and shook his head, displeased that she left it on over the weekend. We headed to the elevator and he pressed the down arrow and we stood in silence.

Being with him can be sort of intimidating as he doesn’t has much to say anymore. The loud, boisterous player has seemed to fade into a quieter, jaded general manager, hell-bent on building one of the best teams the BHL has ever witnessed. His eyes seem darker, his hair a little grayer and his tone a little more harsh and instructional. No longer were his complaints about practice time and formations, but more about trades and other BHL general managers.

We walked into the elevator and he pressed the B button. It’s actually a short ride from his 10^th floor office to the basement where the locker rooms and practice facilities are held. As the elevator began to descent, we struck up a conversation out the outlooks of the teams this year, however it was nothing substantial.

The Minnesota Warbirds locker room is exactly what you would expect it to look like. Walking in, you’re met with a massive logo painted on the wall, however, this one is only half done. The bird is finished, but the words Minnesota are not.

“Fucking logo change.” He murmured, walking past it. Once past the wall, you are met with two trophy cases on either side of the logo. One has some pictures of opening night, the S4 Wilen Conference Championship trophy, and other memorabilia from past seasons, and the other one is vacant. He stopped, staring at the vacant one for a minute.

“This will be full by the time I’m finished here.” He said and continued to walk to the locker room. He stopped at the door that read “Authorized Personnel Only” and pushed the door open to an array of lockers and brown and white practice jerseys.

Each locker was neat and hadn’t been touched yet by the players. The lockers were wooden with a golden name plate screwed into the top. You could walk by each one and read the neatly printed names, D. Withers, Albert, Coogan, Hooker…Each locker had the same thing inside of it. A brown practice jersey with white numbers, a white practice jersey with brown numbers, a blue jersey with white numbers, a red practice jersey with no numbers, and a pink practice jersey with white numbers, each one hanging on individual clothes hangers.

“What’s with the different colors?” I asked as we stopped in front of his locker.

“Each one symbolizes something. The brown jersey is for the first line wingers and first defensive pairing. The white jersey is for second line wingers and second defensive pairing. The blue is for the third, the pink is for the fourth and the red is for the guys who get injured and are coming back from injury. I think Pris will enjoy the pink.” He said with a smile, his first one of the day.

Below each jersey was the players custom equipment. Ezell has white, black and red Puma skates to go along with his white Prkle! stick. He took a seat by his locker and removed his shoes. He picked up his cell phone and made a call.

“Hey man, you can come by if you want. Yeah, I’m at the arena. No, I had the staff equip everyone, so you’re stuff should be here. Skates and stick, yeah. Ok, I’ll see you when you get here.”

He looked up at me as I stood there with a quizzical look on my face.

“Go grab some skates.”