Chapter 5: The Confrontation
After tracking down Soler’s address through an unsavory source, the obsessed manager found himself drawn to the Marlins slugger’s residence like a drifting ship beckoned by the irresistible pull of a black hole. This privileged prima donna would finally be confronted with the devastating real-world consequences of his underachievement.
Henry killed the engine and stepped out into the humid South Florida evening, beads of sweat already pebbling on his brow. He stormed up the long driveway shrouded by swaying palms, hands trembling as he clutched a crumpled stat printout like a bayonet.
An elaborate bronze-cast dolphin fountain burbled outside the mansion’s imposing front door. Henry brushed past the cascading water feature and jabbed the doorbell with his index finger.
No response. He tried again, holding the button down demandingly. Still nothing.
“Open up, you overpaid bum!” Henry hollered, pounding his fist on the reinforced door. “You think I don’t know you’re in there?”
At last, the door cracked open a few inches, a flood of air conditioning wafting through the gap. A beefy man in a tight black t-shirt glared at Henry through narrowed eyes.
“This is private property, psycho. Get lost before I call the cops.”
Henry glared back, refusing to be cowed. “Not until I have a few choice words with your pathetic excuse for a client, Jorge Soler.”
The muscle laughed derisively. “Yeah? And what makes you think a big shot like Jorge gives a crap about jock strap cases like y–”
“Yo Ricardo, it’s cool man.” The unmistakable lilt of Jorge Soler’s Dominican accent cut through the tense standoff. “Let him in, I’ll handle this.”
The bodyguard stepped aside grudgingly, allowing Henry to push past into the opulent marble-floored foyer. Soler stood against the far wall, decked out in athletic shorts and a sleeveless shirt. His muscular arms were crossed as he regarded Henry with seething contempt.
“So,” the slugger spat out, “to what do I owe this…visit from my biggest fan?”
Henry jutted his chin defiantly as he advanced toward the hulking millionaire. “Don’t play dumb with me, pretty boy! You know exactly why I’m here – your pathetic final at-bat that cost me a playoff spot!”
Soler’s chiseled features twisted in bewilderment. “My final…? You’re the idiot that cost me the title in my fantasy office league!”
It was Henry’s turn to be taken aback. He opened his mouth to unload another fuming diatribe, but Soler cut him off with an incredulous sneer.
“Oh don’t give me that dumb look, Rutherford! Ringing any bells now? You and your computer analytics couldn’t get the break room a new toaster oven, let alone a competent social media strategist!”
Henry froze as flashes of memory pierced the white-hot fog of his fantasy baseball rage. Board meetings…budgets…Zoom calls about declining engagement metrics…
“Your negativity and lack of focus tanked our employee engagement numbers in Q4, costing us an entire tier of the sales bonuses,” Soler continued, baring his teeth in disgust. “Thanks to your incompetence, I missed the payout that would’ve finally let me win the league!”
Everything clicked into place in Henry’s frazzled mind. Of course – the fantasy baseball escapism had become so all-consuming over the past year that he had entirely neglected his actual daily job responsibilities.
What little savings he’d accrued from his meager Sears marketing associate salary were tied to performance incentives that Jorge Soler’s workplace fantasy team coveted just as ferociously as Henry craved the Ship of Fouls’ virtual glory.
Two obsessive competitors, dueling in multiple fantasy realm simultaneously, each as unhinged and driven as the other.
The realization smacked Henry squarely across the face, washing over him in a wave of humiliating clarity. His maniacal quest for fantasy baseball supremacy had cost Jorge Soler dearly – just as Soler’s lack of bat had undone Henry’s elaborate baseball machinations.
For the first time in years, Henry felt fragile threads of actual human connection tugging at his grounding in reality. The two men regarded each other with newfound respect, a silent understanding passing between them.
“Get off my property, weirdo.” Soler’s jaw muscles tensed as he stared his coworker down. “And don’t think about trying to snake another point-per-view media request past me again next quarter.”
Henry met Soler’s gaze and held it, a weak chuckle escaping his lips as the unbearable weight of his deranged obsession finally loosened its grip on his psyche.
With a slow nod, he turned and headed for the exit. Perhaps it was time to decompress this offseason and reconnect with those facets of reality he had willfully abandoned long ago.
After all, ships weren’t meant to stay harbored perpetually – something he and Jorge Soler had both temporarily forgotten in their manic quests for simulated supremacy.
certifiable 
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