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Back in high school, Byron took philosophy. He’d needed social studies credits to graduate, and that teacher didn’t assign homework, just gave you an A for participation. For some reason, it’s the only class from high school he remembers anything from.
Since the trade deadline, he can’t stop thinking about the Ship of Theseus. It was about this ancient Greek guy who had a ship that his people kept sailing even after he died, slowly replacing each piece over the years as it broke. His teacher had asked: when all the individual parts of a ship have been replaced and none of the original remains, is it the same ship? When does it stop being the same ship?
Byron remembers thinking how much that sounded like pro ball teams—players always coming and going, coaches and managers and front office getting hired, fired, retired. Ownership changing hands between old rich guys. Stadiums being built, falling into disrepair, then torn down to make way for new stadiums. Logos and uniforms getting revamped and retooled and rebranded, even fans raising the next generation of supporters before passing on.
So when does a ball club stop being the same club?
Byron was completely sidetracked thinking about this comparison at the time, doesn’t remember shit about any class discussion; he’d just thought about how teams were like that ship.
He’s thinking about it again now.
Because he decided back then that a ship, a team, a thing made up of parts was still the same if at least one piece stays; one that was part of the working whole with older pieces, and you can trace it back to the original. So long as you don’t throw it all away and start from scratch, Byron thinks, you can still call it that thing.
He never expected he’d be that piece of old connective tissue on a team someday. He’s trying to square how he feels about it.
Obviously, he misses the guys who are gone. Carlos’ absence, especially, feels like pressing on a bruise every time he looks over on instinct, only to see an empty cubby.
But bruises heal over time. And there’s a part of Byron that’s excited to be surrounded by fresh, untested pieces. It feels like potential, and he’s always liked playing underdog.
He meant what he said to the media back at the All Star Game, still stands by it—he’s gonna be a Minnesota Twin for the rest of his career, no matter what. Even if he never gets a ring for his trouble. Even if they trade away his friends. As long as he can make money playing ball and doesn’t have to uproot his family, he’ll make it work.
So if the Twins need him to be the familiar mast, sailing out front for fans and media to recognize, Byron can do that. He can be that guy.
He just hopes this boat will stay afloat. If it doesn’t… well.
He can learn to bail water.