James Teagle, shaved and dressed in his best suit with the red tie and gold cuff links, was sitting with his eight year old son at the kitchen table, reading his morning newspaper. While his wife prepared their toasted bagels in the background, he read through the sports pages and his son, in his baseball cap, kept peppering him with questions.

"Do you think the Yankees have the pitching this year, dad?" the hopeful boy asked.

"If everyone stays healthy," Teagle answered, deliberately vague.

"It's going to come down to the Red Sox and the Yankees, right dad?" the little boy asked again, his face illuminated by an innocent emotion.

Teagle turned a page. "It might at that." He said. He fidgeted a bit as the boy kept looking at him. He picked up his hazelnut coffee and took a sip. "Then again, Detroit and Toronto are threats too." He looked back at the boy over his newspaper with a wry smile.

"When can we go to a game?" the boy inquired, brimming over with excitement.

His mother turned to them from the toaster. "It can't be on a school night," she said, insisting on making sure her priorities were considered. "It'll have to be on a weekend."

Teagle cleared his throat and shrugged. "I could see about some tickets on a Sunday afternoon. What about that? I'll have to check when the Red Sox are in town."

The boy practically leapt out of his chair. "Yes! The Red Sox! Get Red Sox tickets, dad!"

Teagle folded up his newspaper, glancing at the clock. "Yes. But you keep up your grades, young man." He gave his wife a conciliatory look as he said this.

Mrs. Teagle placed a brown paper bag on the table in front of her son. "Alright, alright. You can talk about baseball later. You've got to get ready for school. The bus leaves in fifteen minutes. Get going, Adam." She stared at her husband as she said that.

Adam jumped up and grabbed his books. But before he left, he sidled up to his father. "Get the box seats, dad," he said enthusiastically, "On the third base line. I'll get all A's, I promise."

Teagle looked sheepishly up at his wife for a moment. "Yes; well, I'll try, Adam." Then, he stood up in turn, looking at the clock and picking up his briefcase. "I've got to get going too, hon." He gave his wife a peck on the cheek.

"Don't forget to see about the new entertainment system. You promised you'd stop buy Best Buy on the way home. And then we wanted to go down to the dealership after dinner. I want the new Mercedes by spring."

"Sure dear, sure," Teagle said absent mindedly as he made his way to the door. He gave Adam a last hair tousle on his way out. He did have a lot on his mind that morning. The big meeting was to be held at the office at nine o'clock sharp. He was, after all, a member of the company that managed the major league baseball television contract and not only would many details of the upcoming season anticipated by the fans be decided that morning, but details of his own compensation as well, on which hinged his abilities to meet his family's expectations. Outside, his spirits rose in the light, spring air, and he couldn't help cocking an interested ear at the fans in the street buzzing about the upcoming season as he bought another cup of coffee at the local deli.

Crowds of commuters in their coats and jackets, carrying their briefcases and cups of coffee began making their tedious way through the maze of New York streets; stockbrokers in their business suits, construction workers in their blue jeans with their lunch boxes and hard hats, women reading magazines, and kids on their way to school shouldering their backpacks. On his way to Madison Avenue, Teagle was pleased to note that almost everyone seemed to talking about the prospects of the two local teams, the Mets and the Yankees, who were contenders for the championship. Two lawyers were discussing the box seats they would share, right off first base. Some members of a construction crew debated the recent free agent signings, and whether or not they would pay off in success. One of them grumbled that the subscription rate of the TV service had gone up, but he had renewed it anyway. Some kids were arguing over which team was better, and both sides had some valid points. Teagle had to agree on that.

He passed by them with an amused smile but said nothing, content to walk in the background, as it were; eavesdropping. Since he had taken this job, he had become aware of the machinations of the sport's inner workings and it always amazed him how much money people were willing to spend on it, to satisfy the emotional attachment they had to this pastime. Richer or poorer, intense or merely involved for the entertainment of their time, these fans from all walks of life in their jerseys and baseball caps seemed caught up in the drama and struggles of the season, rising and falling with the wins and losses, immersed in the actions of a childhood game. Even if they had to pass up on a PTA meeting or a dinner and movie out with their wives, if there was a real big game on, they would open a beer, plop down on the couch and stare at the TV until they had risen in victory or fallen in defeat.

With that thought, Teagle continued on his way through the crowds along the sidewalk of Madison Avenue, on his way to the meeting. He made his living off of this animal, as he called it sometimes, and in the best interests of his wife and son, he needed to do his duty; whatever the innocent emotional involvement of his son. This morning was the biggest meeting of the year; they would be discussing the prospects of lining up advertisers and that was the grease that made the whole wheel turn, so to speak. Up ahead, the grey lines and windows of Madison Plaza rose above the crowds very much like a cathedral, and his gaze moved ever upwards to the lofty windows of the suite where he and his colleagues would be gathering. His sense of the people around him grew thin, and his purpose and resolve seemed to sharpen. Somewhere behind that glass, the fate of the season would be decided, in the presence of and under the direction of Teagle's boss.

Far up in the room behind the window there that served as a magnet for Teagle's attention, a tall man in a dark suit gazed quietly back out, watching the people moving like ants along the street with a channeled intensity. There wasn't much of an expression on his chiseled face; to him, the crowds were a source of money, and he welcomed any edge that he could gain in the accomplishment of that. They didn't call him the King of Madison Avenue for nothing, even though his real name was Lance Stone.

Mr. Stone turned from the window and walked back into the recesses of his office with his arms folded. Today, he would be presiding over a meeting meant to reconcile the expectations of the advertisers with the financial demands of the holders of the rights of the season's baseball games: namely, the league, and its teams and players. As the chief arbitrator between these two sides, there was quite a lot of pressure on Mr. Stone to come up with a plan that would produce equitable results. His modus operendi was to leave nothing to chance. His own success hung in the balance and even though he had achieved a measure of it, he was not the type who entertained the thought of letting any of it slip away.

Mr. Stone sat down at the end of a large, polished oak table and glanced at the clock. His subordinates were due to report to him soon. He grimaced at the prospect. With his hands tightly clenched in each other, elbows firmly on the table, he seemed prepared to wring as much in the way of results out of them as he could.

The door opened and Teagle walked in, carrying his briefcase. He glanced nervously at Mr. Stone and Mr. Stone stared back at him. Teagle was well aware that Mr. Stone was the King of Madison Avenue, and that any path upwards in the firm would depend on his blessing. Mr. Stone, his hands still clenched together on the table, seemed equally aware of this, and his ability to use it as leverage over his somewhat intimidated subordinates.

"Morning, Mr. Stone," Teagle said as he set his briefcase on the table and drew up a chair. He tried to sound as cheerful as he could.

"Are you prepared, Teagle?" was Mr. Stone rather terse and business like reply.

Teagle opened his briefcase. "Of course, sir," he said, "and I think we're going to have a great meeting. The people down there are all talking baseball. They're buying tickets, hats, and TV coverage. We should have great ratings to work with."

"You think so, Teagle?" Mr. Stone said, sarcastically. "I'm glad you are my expert on this kind of stuff. I just hope we don't find any wrinkles in our plans."

Teagle was taking out his papers and leafing through them. "Wrinkles?" he asked.

Mr. Stone grimaced again. "Every season dies, doesn't it?" he said.

Teagle was saved from further needling when the door opened and two more young gentlemen in suits entered, carrying their briefcases. They nodded in greeting, and took their seats at the long table, opposite Teagle. Mr. Stone looked them over with the air of a seasoned poker player. They were soon followed by a woman in a business suit with her briefcase. They could have been any of the people out there on the street just a moment before. When she sat down and arranged her papers, Mr. Stone called the meeting to order. He didn't welcome them or exchange pleasantries with them; in his long career he had seen enough of them come and go, and by this time, he dispensed with the trivialities and got right down to the business at hand.

"Johnson," Mr. Stone said, nodding to the man in the brown suit opposite Teagle, "I believe you have something rather important to report."

Johnson cleared his throat nervously, leaned forward, and glanced at the faces of those who had come here to orchestrate this preoccupation so many called 'the national pastime.'

"Well," he said, "The final numbers are in, and the ratings for last year's world series were down 5 to 6%, depending on gender and age bracket, and what region of the country you lived in. We lost more women viewers than men, and more youth than seniors. The world series was between Cincinnati and Minnesota, so we had pretty good numbers from the Midwest, but we were down in the big eastern markets, especially Boston, New York and Florida. It was a five game series, so we didn't get the ratings of a game seven. There wasn't a lot of drama to the season, no big hitting streaks or home run records were set, and the races were not that close. There's definitely a sense that enthusiasm could be down this year."

Mr. Stone leaned back in his chair as Johnson imparted this knowledge, looking around at the faces of his staff, reading the tea leaves there, it seemed. Like the great poker players though, his hands didn't move, his face never flinched. His eyes now turned to the young woman sitting next to Teagle.

"Which tells us what, Ms. Smith?" he said flatly.

Ms. Smith, who might have been called beautiful in another setting, frowned. "I've tried to play all the angles, Mr. Stone," she said, somewhat apologetically, "But I'm having a hard time getting some of these big companies to line up at the plate. First of all, the league's figures, in terms of what they want for the rights, are astronomical. Everyone knows it translates into huge dollars per minute for TV ads, and there is a lot of concern about getting the bang for the buck. Coca Cola is talking about cutting back on time. Kraft foods is cutting back. Bud looks like it will fill the usual slots, but Maybelline and Coach are dropping sponsorships. Ford and GM are cutting back. Nintendo isn't sure they will match what they did last year, and they had a great ad with one of the biggest stars. The ratings just aren't there, especially for some of these demographics. What can I say? Without the ratings, it's going to be tough."

With that, Ms. Smith let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. Mr. Stone, his hands still clasped, his elbows on the table, leaned forward. "Sounds like it won't be as easy as you think, Teagle," he said, looking his optimistic charge in the eye.

Teagle cleared his throat. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "It seems to me that we just need to ratchet up the excitement a little bit, that's all. The hard core fans out there are interested, believe me, and they are going to watch, especially if we can get something going among some of these old rivals. We need to generate a bit of a buzz to get some of these marginal demographic groups in front of their sets more often."

Mr. Stone flashed him a wry smile. "That's interesting. Drum up some more excitement. What do you think of that, Kimball?" He turned to look at the fourth member of their group, who so far, had been silent.

Kimball looked at Teagle. Then, he looked at Mr. Stone. "It sounds easy. But what are we talking about here? A hitting streak? A record number of home runs? A horse race to the pennant? I mean, is that really going to help us pull in some more of these women, and these kids? I mean, those are the ones who are sitting on the sidelines, right?"

Mr. Stone looked at each of them in turn, then, he unclasped his hands and stood up. "That's right, Kimball. And that's why we have to think out of the box this year."

They all stared at him, wondering what the great King was thinking. What rabbit would he pull out his hat this time? Teagle expressed the thought for all of them. "What do you mean, Mr. Stone?"

Mr. Stone walked over to one of the great windows that offered a wide, sweeping view of the crowds on the street below. Clasping his hands behind him and turning his back on them, his voice rose as he espoused his unique vision to them. "We need to create some extraneous angles this year. Hang some hooks out there that will reel in some of these groups of viewers by appealing to their particular interests. What would you say interests women, Ms. Smith?"

Ms. Smith straightened up in her chair as she was addressed. Her eyes darted from face to face around the table as she gathered her thoughts and prepared to articulate them. "Well, women are interested in clothes, refining their looks, men..."

Mr. Stone turned and raised an eyebrow when he heard that. "Men," he said, "yes, and romance, perhaps, Ms. Smith?"

She had to nod in agreement. "Sure," she said sheepishly.

"So can we create a relationship between a couple of these star baseball players and a couple of beautiful, young actresses? Maybe even a triangle of sorts; two women who find themselves fighting over the same star, and in a competition for his affection, perhaps? Something mysterious, something controversial, that we can unfold over the course of the season in installments, of sorts, leading to a confrontation or a climax near the end of the year. That way, we can hook them early and keep them interested. What do you think of that, Ms. Smith?"

Ms. Smith was writing notes now, jotting down the outline of a something like a soap opera plot. "I think it would be a good idea to orchestrate something like this in a couple of cities that might not make the pennant race this year, Ms. Smith," Stone said, "That way we can spread the ratings out across the spectrum. Make a note of that as well, will you?"

Ms. Smith nodded in agreement. "It sounds good, Mr. Stone. I'll make a few phone calls to some Hollywood contacts I have, and I'm sure if we're willing to drop some bucks, we can find a couple of high profile divas who would be interested. As for the ballplayers, I've never known them to turn down fringe benefits."

The guys around the table chuckled, and even Ms. Smith couldn't resist a sarcastic smile. "Just don't spend too much, will you, Ms. Smith?" Mr. Stone intoned. Of course, he had to keep the bottom line in mind.

Teagle raised his hand. He was ready to his part. "Speaking of which teams are to be considered for pennant races, am I right in assuming you want the bigger, east coast markets in it this year?"

Mr. Stone stuck his hands in his pockets and began to pace back and forth across the room. Some of his biggest decisions, they all knew from experience, were decided this way. "You would be right in assuming that. But I want more teams involved this year. Let's suggest we get several teams up there, and keep them close. Let's have a heck of a pennant race this year, Teagle. Tell them up at the league we need a couple of old rivals, Boston and New York, decided on the last week of the season, Detroit and Chicago changing the lead a couple of times, Los Angeles beating out San Francisco on the last day of the season. Stuff like that. Tell them if they want their money, that's what we've got to have."

"I still think we could use a hitting streak," Johnson chimed in, "Somebody maybe threatening the home run record."

"I don't see why that wouldn't help," Mr. Stone agreed. "Work on it. Let's call Spalding and tell them to juice up the ball this year. Get the umpires to close up on the strike zone. More offense. Runs."

Johnson jotted it all down.

"But we need some other angles," Mr. Stone added, "A human interest angle, something that will appeal to people's heart strings. Get people interested who have no interest in baseball at all. I propose that we script in a health issue. A career threatening injury to a player these kids idolize, early in the season, who struggles to regain his form. something that can have ups and downs, something we can play for drama through the year. Teagle, work on that, will you? Find someone popular, some name everyone knows, and make it dramatic. Make it really look like his career, his livelihood, might be over. Bring his wife and kids into it. Then, he can start coming back, as the season progresses. The pennant race shapes up. He can make a return in a big game against a division rival, with the season on the line."

Teagle looked up from his notes, which he had been writing diligently. "This sounds like something for a pitcher, a crucial player. Someone critical to a team's world series hopes, and someone likeable."

Mr. Stone sat back down in his chair, leaned back, and smiled. Things were shaping up. "Exactly, Teagle. And I think we should script another story somewhere else, some family turmoil, a divorce, or trouble with the kids, surrounding a big star in one of these smaller markets. A son diagnosed with cancer. A daughter arrested for shoplifting. Something that will get in the news and maybe hook some of these marginal viewers into watching a few games and following the story."

"I'll work on it," Teagle said.

Kimball raised his hand. "So what do you want me to tell them for the World Series?"

"In the end," Mr. Stone said, "After a long fight, where we keep some of the smaller markets in the hunt for most of the way, we end up with say, New York versus Boston, and Detroit versus California, a couple of seven game series, with New York facing California for the pennant. New York wins it in seven. We need the draw of a deciding game seven in a couple of big markets to sell it to the networks. And have them win it with a home run in the bottom of the ninth, something dramatic. Make them watch all night, a close game, with four hours of advertising we can sell. In the other league, the same thing. New York versus Florida. That will get people thinking there might be another subway series. St. Louis versus Chicago. Have it end up Florida against Chicago. That way we can get the northeast, the west coast, the south and the Midwest interested. Anywhere in the country, you'll have someone to root for. Something for everybody to watch. Keep them on the edge of their seats."

Ms. Smith nodded in agreement. "Now that's something I can go back to the networks with, and they can sell it to the advertisers. The advertisers get the ratings, the networks get the ad revenue, and the league and the players get the fees they need to keep them happy."

"Good, Ms. Smith," Mr. Stone said, turning to Johnson. "I'm sure the league and the ballplayers will be happy with what we've come up with. Well, we've got some stuff for you people to work on. I suggest you get busy."

He turned and walked over to his window view of Madison Avenue and his subjects, as it were, while his subordinated gathered their notes and packed up their briefcases. They exchanged simple good byes, and left the room, one by one. The dark outline of the silhouette of the King of Madison Avenue made an impression on Teagle as he left.

He made his way down the hall to the elevator, and then down to street level. As he left the building, he felt defined by a sense of purpose and driven by ambition, but when he stepped out through the revolving door into the sunlight his heart misgave him. As a couple of fans wearing baseball caps walked passed him, he was reminded of his son, and the innocent anticipation the child possessed. Like the looming structure of Madison Plaza, blotting out the sunlight on the street, the meeting he had just taken part in betrayed their trust.

All the way home, whenever he heard someone talk about the season, he couldn't help feeling that the strings he held in his hands, that none of these people knew about, manipulated their very innocent emotions. Their simple faith in this pure struggle of sport at once filled him with disdain, and sympathy. Couldn't some of them at least, guess that it was all really just a business? It was the thoughts of his son that troubled him the most. What would the world of kids like him be like, without faith in this season, their teams, their heros? He tried to take his mind off of it by reading a magazine on the train, but the articles in the sports section at the end pulled his mind into all kinds of directions. The promises of the predictions of the pundits had been compromised, but the hopes and dreams of these kids were still there, and Teagle felt at once head and shoulders above the faithful as the orchestrator of these events, and guilty for having betrayed their trust.

Still, as he remembered the entertainment system his wife wanted, and the Mercedes Benz that they wanted to drive around in, he had to admit that his ultimate loyalty was to his himself, and his own family. He would get those Red Sox tickets for him and his son, and he could watch his son's excitement, feel secure in the happiness they would share in the end, since he knew how it all was going to turn out.