The Dawn of a New Era
In New York, people believed they had invented baseball. But at Serget Cotton, baseball had become a matter of pride.
Back when they were still slaves, it was one of the few forms of entertainment they could enjoy. Their masters had provided the best possible conditions for them to play the game. Even compared to the primitive baseball of the nineteenth century, Serget-style baseball strictly followed the modern rules that had been perfected through data analysis.
It was a sport where everything could be converted into numbers—who was good, who was bad, and exactly how much someone had improved. The Black players of Serget Cotton marveled at the depth of modern baseball and poured endless research into getting even a little better at the game.
“Peter, didn’t you say you were thinking about going on a blind date? Want to meet Alice? She’s our team’s ace pitcher, so she already knows who you are. Says she’s a fan.”
“R-really? I’d love that!”
If you were good at baseball, dating became easy.
“The winning team will get to taste the master’s finest wine during the company dinner. Drink it with respect. It’s top-grade Bordeaux—the kind even European high society can’t get their hands on.”
If you were good at baseball, you could drink excellent liquor.
“Peter! Peter! Are you crazy? I told you to take it easy. You need to protect that shoulder. If we win the company baseball tournament, every employee in the branch gets a bonus!”
If you were good at baseball, your workload got lighter.
This had been an absolute truth both during their days as slaves and after emancipation. That was why this charity tournament had set the blood of every baseball player at Serget Cotton on fire.
Rumors were even spreading, openly and secretly, that a professional league might be established after this event.
Which meant they had to leave a deep impression here.
The only rule Serget had established was that southern teams must include at least two white players for the sake of public opinion.
By now Serget Cotton already employed several white workers who genuinely enjoyed baseball, so selecting the two best among them wasn’t much of a problem. Of course their skill was far below that of the Black aces, but leaving two holes in the lineup helped balance things against the northern teams.
If they had filled all nine positions with nothing but true elites, it might have turned into another massacre. So it was a reasonable handicap.
“All right, it looks like the team rosters are mostly finalized. Mississippi headquarters Team 1, Team 2, the Texas branch, and finally the new business division team that will soon be dispatched north. Four teams in total.”
Ben tapped the list written on the blackboard, preparing to wrap up the meeting. The lineup perfectly reflected the pitching rotation, batting order, and even the white quota the chairman had ordered.
The technical review was complete.
At least, that was what the Serget Cotton executives gathered in the room believed.
All except one man—Nick.
“Wait. We’re missing the most important thing.”
“The most important thing? You mean pitching depth? Jonathan already picked out the white employees with the best arms.”
“No, not that. Something more fundamental.”
Just when had Serget Cotton become like this?
Nick stood up, pounding his chest in frustration. His eyes burned with the solemn determination of a batter stepping up to the plate with two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the bases loaded.
“The team names. Team names! What are we going to call our teams?”
“Names? Well… Mississippi Warriors should be fine, right? I heard Texas is going with Cowboys. Simple and easy to remember.”
When Ben answered as if it were no big deal, Nick’s face filled with horror.
Just as he thought. These fools didn’t understand the chairman’s true intentions at all.
“Terrible! Good heavens, brother—no, Director. Have you lost your mind? Warriors? Cowboys? What is this, some backwater village team?”
“What? Hey, as long as the name’s easy to understand, what’s the problem?”
“We are the face of Serget Cotton! We need to hammer the chairman’s greatness into the brains of those northern bastards. How can we do that with such bland names?”
Nick paced around the conference room, passionately arguing his point.
“Just think about it. The overwhelming charisma the chairman always displays! The shadowy, hidden influence that secretly moves the world! We need a name that captures that essence.”
“Then what do you suggest? You have something in mind?”
“At the very least… it should be something like ‘Mississippi Invisible Hatchling.’”
“You crazy bastard!”
Ben jumped up and clamped a hand over Nick’s mouth. “Invisible” anything was practically a forbidden word that must never be spoken in front of the chairman.
“Do you want to get fired? Don’t you know how much the chairman hates that title? If we use that, we’ll all get our asses beaten!”
“No, that was just an example! What I mean is the name has to be powerful at first glance, overwhelming, and grand enough to show the spirit of the South!”
Fortunately, the others in the conference room began nodding in agreement.
Right? The more you thought about it, the more sense it made.
After all, the chairman himself had always emphasized the importance of branding. You had to win the first impression from the name alone.
“Then… how about something that shows the indomitable spirit of the workers?”
Will, who had been listening with his arms crossed, spoke up.
“Our hands are as hard as iron, and our will burns as hot as blood. Bloody Iron Fist.”
“Ooh… a steel fist stained with blood…”
This guy actually knows what he’s talking about.
Nick’s eyes sparkled.
“Good. Very good. But it feels a little weak for headquarters Team 1. Maybe for Team 2.”
“Then what about Team 1?”
All eyes turned to him, silently demanding that if it was so important, he should offer his own idea.
Nick closed his eyes for a moment, sinking deep into thought.
What word could express darkness, overwhelming power, and the absolute authority the chairman represented?
After a long period of contemplation, he found the perfect term.
“Abyss…”
“Abyss?”
“The abyss. A deep darkness that once you fall into, you can never escape. We combine that with our company’s signature color, black, and the mythical beast dragon that symbolizes the chairman.”
Nick wrote their newly born team name in large letters.
“Abyss Black Dragons. The uniforms will be all black, with only the numbers and logo in white to add a touch of refined elegance. Like the glint of a dragon’s eyes shining through the darkness.”
“Oh…”
Jonathan let out a sigh of admiration.
It certainly looked far more powerful than something as plain as Warriors.
“Good. Headquarters Team 1 will be the Abyss Black Dragons. Team 2 will be Will’s Bloody Iron Fist.”
The news that the headquarters teams had been named spread like lightning to the Texas branch.
HEADQUARTERS TEAM NAMES CONFIRMED:
ABYSS BLACK DRAGONS
BLOODY IRON FIST
The faces of the Texas branch manager and the player representatives turned deathly pale the moment they read the telegram.
“…What is this? Does the chairman actually want names with this kind of concept?”
“Manager, what should we do? If we go with Texas Cowboys, we’ll be laughed at.”
“Then what are we supposed to use? Think of something, quick!”
The Texas branch, which had only been established a few years ago, had far less experience serving the chairman and therefore didn’t fully understand his tastes.
If the chairman preferred grandiose and powerful-sounding names, then Cowboys was indeed too ordinary. After a long, heated debate that lasted through the night—while still trying to preserve the identity of riding something—the Texas branch finally created a name worthy of standing beside headquarters.
In order to honor the chairman’s prestige, they had now completed perfect preparations not only in skill but also in branding.
“The chairman will surely look upon us with satisfaction.”
“Of course, of course. We just need to prepare ourselves to receive his praise.”
Nick had declared with certainty that while the chairman would pretend to hate it, he would secretly enjoy it. No one at Serget Cotton doubted him.
They say ten years can change the course of mountains and rivers. Looking back, the North had indeed changed tremendously.
It was a little funny that I was experiencing this change through baseball, but I couldn’t help comparing the present reality with the past.
“Chairman, they’ll be arriving soon.”
“All right. Let’s go greet them.”
On my way to the train station platform to welcome the warriors coming up from the South, the area around the station was already packed shoulder to shoulder.
Reporters from New York—no, from across the entire North—were busily setting up equipment to take photographs. New York city council members and even congressmen stood in neat rows.
Suddenly, the memory of when we first came here eight years ago flashed through my mind.
Most of the gazes back then had been full of mockery, treating us as a curious spectacle or a bunch of southern bumpkins. The majority had come simply to watch the ignorant southerners get crushed by New York’s advanced baseball.
But the atmosphere now was completely different.
“Ooh! The train’s coming in!”
“Serget! Serget!”
Cheering squads who had traveled from the South, along with my supporters in New York who shouted that Serget Cotton was printing money for them, let out roars so loud the platform seemed ready to collapse.
Then, the elite players of Serget Cotton, dressed sharply in black suits, stepped off the train through the billowing smoke.
Among them were veterans who had first set foot on northern soil with me eight years ago. I could see their eyes growing moist.
There had been a time when they were grateful just to not be transported in the cargo car. Now they were stepping on a red carpet and being treated like proper athletes. It was enough to make anyone feel the passage of time.
I naturally walked over and patted their shoulders.
“You’ve worked hard to get here.”
“Yes, Chairman. We never imagined you would prepare a place like this… Thank you so much…”
“Come on, stop crying. Why are you acting so country?”
“Still… the atmosphere is completely different from last time… Are all these people really here to see us?”
“That’s right. What did I tell you back then? If you’re good at baseball, if you have skill, I’ll make sure you’re treated properly.”
They sniffled and nodded.
“I kept my promise. So all you have to do is go out there and show them. Show them just how great you are.”
“Yes! We will keep that in mind!”
Well, even at best it would only reach the level of minor league popularity and couldn’t compare to modern Major League Baseball. But even that was something.
Since we had buttoned the first button so perfectly, all that remained was to fill in the rest neatly.
With the players’ morale now at its peak, the schedule called for moving them to the hotel we had prepared in advance so they could rest from their journey. It should have been perfect—
“W-what? They’re telling us to move aside?”
“What the…”
Suddenly, a strange commotion began to rise from behind the crowd. It wasn’t simple cheering. It felt like some massive current was pressing toward us.
“What’s going on?”
“Clear the way! United States Secret Service!”
Secret Service?
The moment that most incongruous phrase was heard, the dense crowd parted like the miracle of Moses.
Through the newly formed corridor, a man wearing a black hat strode forward, flanked by bodyguards.
Wait, I only asked him to throw the ceremonial first pitch. Why is he coming all the way here?
“I-it’s the President!”
“The President came himself!”
“Does this mean the President is giving Serget Cotton his full support?”
“But Serget Cotton is a southern company, isn’t it?”
The appearance of the current President of the United States instantly turned the station into pandemonium. Reporters scribbled furiously while the congressmen flocked to Lincoln’s side like loyal lapdogs.
Yet the man himself, Lincoln, approached me with a relaxed smile as if he were merely out for a neighborhood stroll.
“It hasn’t been long since we last met, Advisor Serget. I heard you were coming to greet your guests, so I thought I’d lend a hand.”
“Your Excellency… I mean, how did you…”
“Why are you so surprised? Eight years ago, didn’t I also come out to welcome you?”
Now that he mentioned it, that was true. I remembered being unable to hide my bewilderment back then, wondering why he was even there.
“Compared to then, both of us have come quite far, haven’t we?”
“That’s… true.”
Come on, man. What are you doing showing up as the President?
Still, thanks to him we had drawn an unbelievable amount of attention, so perhaps I should be grateful.
Together with Lincoln, I looked out over the crowd filling the station and shook my head.
An afternoon in 1865 that was both similar to and different from that day in March 1857.
The world was certainly moving forward.
Oh, right—I should have asked what they named their teams. But with President Lincoln here, I got distracted and didn’t hear… It should be fine, right?
They probably handled it well on their own.