January 19, 2022
THE INCESSANT TAPPING would have been annoying if Steve Spillane wasn’t in his element. The room was dark save the glow of the blue light that came from the computer screen in front of him. He let out a short chuckle as he typed, firing codes that would look like gibberish to the casual computer user, but for him, they were his ticket to glory.
“Almost finished,” he said, entering in a few more lines before emphatically slamming down on the ENTER key. Within seconds, the screen flashed and he knew he was in.
As easy as playing the Gamblers at the end of the season, Steve thought to himself.
He continued to tap and click away, deleting lines of code from the website he had hacked. Within minutes, the entire roster of The Stantonians was empty. He deleted all but one of the players from the server, and placed the outlier on his team.
“Welcome home,” he said. “Finally got you back.”
Hacking Fantrax was rather easy. It took less than three minutes to breach the firewall, and even less time to access the files needed to complete his fantasy heist.
Steve knew deep down this would have taken much longer had Fantrax focused its attention on security instead of wasting the world’s time on building a better Android app.
“Who the hell even uses an Android phone anyway?” he asked.
Steve poured a celebratory beer, took of picture of it and sent it to his friends. He then sat back and savored — or savoured, for you Canadians out there — the sweet taste of hops. It was always refreshing to have a great beer after a successful mission, but Steve yearned for his vodka.
Yes, vodka.
Steve’s real name was Stiv Chookovsky, and he was a Russian spy working toward destroying America’s past-time.
He had many years left in his mission, so he couldn’t give any sign. He had to remain in character, and that meant, avoiding the vodka. Steve knew once the clear liquid started flowing, there was no stopping what he could say.
Once his beer was empty, he went back to his computer. There was more work to be done, important work, at that.
Steve wasn’t living the dull life of a fantasy baseball wacko because he wanted to; he was doing it because he had to. Once he completed his real mission, he could pack up and go home.
He thought about how far he had come; how long he had been working to get to this point. He remembered his days in college at Kutztown University, faking it to all the students, living his double-life. He had everyone fooled. Even Alex Sorochinski.
Come on. Sorochinski? How the hell did he not know?
As it turned out, Alex was the reason Steve found himself destroying the Stantonians roster in the first place. Steve had just stumbled into a friend of Alex’s at the bar and after a few baseball stories, it was settled: Steve was joining a fantasy baseball league.
It was all about playing the part.
But strangely, he enjoyed it. He got good at it and continued to trade.
That’s right, he was a trader.
Oh, the irony, Steve thought.
Upon graduation, he went off to take online computer courses, secretly under the name of Shin-Soo Choo. He told everyone he was selling content to high schools and would brag about his big sales, but in reality, he was working diligently toward his master’s.
Again, it was all part of the plan.
Within two years, he was hacking servers and companies all over the place, just for fun, and, well, also for practice.
The first serious hack came in 2016 when the MLBPA and MLB were at odds and working to renew an expired CBA. The MLBPA wound up accepting a deal that the players were extremely mad about, and still mad about today.
“This isn’t what we wanted!” they shouted.
But union reps were perplexed.
“What do you mean? It’s what you sent us?”
“No we didn’t!”
And so the fighting went, and all Steve — let’s call him by his hacker name, Choo — could do was laugh. His fake emails led to the confusion, and thus allowed the owners to win big in the new CBA.
That’s right. Choo, a Russian spy, used fake emails to completely foil an outcome in 2016. Unbelievable.
Mission accomplished, though?
No, Choo didn't put that banner on his aircraft carrier—a stock photo he uses for a virtual background in Zoom meetings. He still had plenty of work to do. Little did anyone know that all the lies and fake messages planted in 2016 were meant to set up 2022.
The Lockout. MLB had to lock out. There could not be a 2022 season. President Putin, a very good friend of Choo's (they go way back), wouldn’t allow it.
Choo’s diligent work in the months leading up to December was what started the Lockout. He had sent more fake messages to each side until eventually the deadline hit and both sides shut down. His work wasn’t finished there. At the moment the deadline hit, Choo hacked into MLB’s website and deleted all of the players’ headshots to cause angst between the two groups.
It worked somewhat until MLB buried the truth, made it look like they did it themselves and gave a perfectly legal reason for why they did it.
Dammit, Manfred, Choo thought at the time.
Choo has always been wary of Manfred. He was fairly certain the commissioner was on to him. Then again, maybe Choo was just paranoid, and the reality of the situation was that if Manfred truly knew him, he’d think he’s just some weird punk who takes beer pics daily.
That had to be it.
Shocked away from his moment of thought, his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. Choo swiped and answered the call.
“We’re starting on time,” the voice said.
“Manfred?” Choo asked, puzzled.
“You’re goddamn right it is,” he said, firmly. “I telling you, you’re not going to succeed here.”
“How can you even think that you can stop me?” Choo asked with confidence.
“I have Acuna.”
Choo sunk into his chair.
“Pardon me?” Choo responded, realizing that the playing field had changed.
“I have Ronald Acuna here, along with Gerrit Cole and Manny Machado,” Manfred said. “And if you don’t follow my instructions, we’re going to start to perform some ... let’s just call them offseason surgeries.”
Choo paused. He showed weakness for the first time. He was strangely at odds with himself. Should he uphold his love for Mother Russia, or should he try to keep his chances alive at reaching yet another World Series which he would eventually lose.
“Screw you, Jimmy,” Choo said, breaking the fourth wall and looking directly into the camera. He turned back to the scene at hand and shouted into the phone. “Now why on Earth would I listen to you? Over a fantasy baseball team?”
“Choo, choo, choo, choo,” Manfred said, sounding like a disappointed train slowing down. “We know you love your fantasy team. And we know deep down you love it more than your country. So what will it be? Sudden Tommy John surgery for Cole or your cooperation.”
Choo was silent. He couldn’t answer. He was ready to hang up when Manfred shouted.
“Do it!”
The sound of a drill echoed and Choo couldn’t hold out any longer.
“Okay, okay! Stop! I’ll do whatever you want! I'll give you my first-round pick! Just tell me!”
Manfred signaled for the doctor to stop.
“First-round pick? We don't want your first-round pick.”
“Sorry, creature of habit in pressure negotiations.”
“Understandable. ... Okay, Choo, get a pen,” Manfred said. “We need you to get the players to agree to the following:
“We want expanded playoffs. ... We want to keep the arbitration system as is. ... We want to own players until they’re 29.5 years old ... We want to keep the CBT. ... We want a pitch clock and shift—.”
“Let me cut you off there, Manny boy,” Choo said, getting cocky. “You want me to deliver all of that? I’m a hacker, not a miracle worker.”
That’s true. If he was a miracle worker, he wouldn’t suck so bad in the World Series.
This time, Choo just looked at the camera. His eyes did all the talking to Jimmy.
“Okay, last chance, Choo,” Manfred said, regaining Choo's attention.
“Okay, I’ll do it, but you better do me a favor,” he demanded.
“Name it.”
“Make sure Seiya Suzuki lands in New York.”
“Deal,” Manfred said. “Now make it happen.”
Choo got to work moments after another beer picture and was back where he started, firing away false messaging to the players and forcing them to come together.
Within hours, Choo heard the news on the radio.
“The MLBPA is expected to hand in its counter proposal in the next day or two,” the pundit said. “The deal is expected to be easily shot down by the owners.”
It worked. Everyone was in agreement that this latest proposal would be too good for the players, but little did they know that Choo had done it again. The proposal had everything the owners wanted for another five years.
It will be signed within the week, the players will gripe again and Choo will be on his way to having the next Mike Trout on his roster. Well, at least for a short time.
Because at the end of the day, Choo is, of course, a trader — or as they say it back home, torgovets.
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